Title: The Life of Friedrich Schiller - Comprehending an Examination of His Works
Author: Carlyle, Thomas, 1795-1881
Language: English
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                           THOMAS CARLYLE'S

                           COLLECTED WORKS.


                           LIBRARY EDITION.

                         _IN THIRTY VOLUMES._


                                VOL. V.

                      LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER.


                  LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL (LIMITED),
                  11 HENRIETTA STREET, COVENT GARDEN.


[Illustration:

From a Miniature in the Possession of the Hofdame Fräulein von Kalb,
in Berlin, taken while Schiller lived with the Körners in Dresden.

London. Chapman & Hall.]



                                  THE

                      LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER

                             COMPREHENDING

                     AN EXAMINATION OF HIS WORKS.

                                  BY

                            THOMAS CARLYLE.


          Quique pii vates et Phœbo digna locuti. VIRGIL.

                                [1825.]


                      _WITH SUPPLEMENT OF 1872._


                  LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL (LIMITED).



                               CONTENTS.


                                                              PAGE

PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION                                      vii

PART I.
SCHILLER'S YOUTH. (1759-1784)                                    1

PART II.
FROM HIS SETTLEMENT AT MANNHEIM TO HIS SETTLEMENT AT
JENA. (1784-1790.)                                              49

PART III.
FROM HIS SETTLEMENT AT JENA TO HIS DEATH. (1790-1805.)         117

SUPPLEMENT OF 1872.
SCHILLER'S PARENTAGE, BOYHOOD, AND YOUTH                       241

APPENDIX I.
NO. 1. DANIEL SCHUBART                                         341
    2. LETTERS OF SCHILLER                                     354
    3. FRIENDSHIP WITH GOETHE                                  371
    4. DEATH OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS                              375

APPENDIX II.
GOETHE'S INTRODUCTION TO GERMAN TRANSLATION OF THIS LIFE
OF SCHILLER                                                    379

SUMMARY AND INDEX                                              417



                      PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION.

                                [1845.]


The excuse for reprinting this somewhat insignificant Book is, that
certain parties, of the pirate species, were preparing to reprint it
for me. There are books, as there are horses, which a judicious owner,
on fair survey of them, might prefer to adjust by at once shooting
through the head: but in the case of books, owing to the pirate
species, that is not possible. Remains therefore that at least dirty
paper and errors of the press be guarded against; that a poor Book,
which has still to walk this world, do walk in clean linen, so to
speak, and pass its few and evil days with no blotches but its own
adhering to it.

There have been various new _Lives_ of Schiller since this one first
saw the light;—great changes in our notions, informations, in our
relations to the Life of Schiller, and to other things connected
therewith, during that long time! Into which I could not in the least
enter on the present occasion. Such errors, one or two, as lay
corrigible on the surface, I have pointed out by here and there a Note
as I read; but of errors that lay deeper there could no charge be
taken: to break the surface, to tear-up the old substance, and model
_it_ anew, was a task that lay far from me,—that would have been
frightful to me. What was written remains written; and the Reader, by
way of constant commentary, when needed, has to say to himself, "It
was written Twenty years ago." For newer instruction on Schiller's
Biography he can consult the _Schillers Leben_ of Madame von Wolzogen,
which Goethe once called a _Schiller Redivivus_; the _Briefwechsel
zwischen Schiller und Goethe_;—or, as a summary of the whole, and the
readiest inlet to the general subject for an English reader, Sir
Edward Bulwer's _Sketch of Schiller's Life_, a vigorous and lively
piece of writing, prefixed to his _Translations from Schiller_.

The present little Book is very imperfect:—but it pretends also to be
very harmless; it can innocently instruct those who are more ignorant
than itself! To which ingenuous class, according to their wants and
tastes, let it, with all good wishes, and hopes to meet afterwards in
fruitfuler provinces, be heartily commended.

T. CARLYLE.

_London, 7th May 1845._



                                PART I.

                     SCHILLER'S YOUTH (1759-1784).



                              PART FIRST.

                             [1759-1784.]


Among the writers of the concluding part of the last century there is
none more deserving of our notice than Friedrich Schiller.
Distinguished alike for the splendour of his intellectual faculties,
and the elevation of his tastes and feelings, he has left behind him
in his works a noble emblem of these great qualities: and the
reputation which he thus enjoys, and has merited, excites our
attention the more, on considering the circumstances under which it
was acquired. Schiller had peculiar difficulties to strive with, and
his success has likewise been peculiar. Much of his life was deformed
by inquietude and disease, and it terminated at middle age; he
composed in a language then scarcely settled into form, or admitted to
a rank among the cultivated languages of Europe: yet his writings are
remarkable for their extent and variety as well as their intrinsic
excellence; and his own countrymen are not his only, or perhaps his
principal admirers. It is difficult to collect or interpret the
general voice; but the World, no less than Germany, seems already to
have dignified him with the reputation of a classic; to have enrolled
him among that select number whose works belong not wholly to any age
or nation, but who, having instructed their own contemporaries, are
claimed as instructors by the great family of mankind, and set apart
for many centuries from the common oblivion which soon overtakes the
mass of authors, as it does the mass of other men.

Such has been the high destiny of Schiller. His history and character
deserve our study for more than one reason. A natural and harmless
feeling attracts us towards such a subject; we are anxious to know how
so great a man passed through the world, how he lived, and moved, and
had his being; and the question, if properly investigated, might yield
advantage as well as pleasure. It would be interesting to discover by
what gifts and what employment of them he reached the eminence on
which we now see him; to follow the steps of his intellectual and
moral culture; to gather from his life and works some picture of
himself. It is worth inquiring, whether he, who could represent noble
actions so well, did himself act nobly; how those powers of intellect,
which in philosophy and art achieved so much, applied themselves to
the every-day emergencies of life; how the generous ardour, which
delights us in his poetry, displayed itself in the common intercourse
between man and man. It would at once instruct and gratify us if we
could understand him thoroughly, could transport ourselves into his
circumstances outward and inward, could see as he saw, and feel as he
felt.

But if the various utility of such a task is palpable enough, its
difficulties are not less so. We should not lightly think of
comprehending the very simplest character, in all its bearings; and it
might argue vanity to boast of even a common acquaintance with one
like Schiller's. Such men as he are misunderstood by their daily
companions, much more by the distant observer, who gleans his
information from scanty records, and casual notices of characteristic
events, which biographers are often too indolent or injudicious to
collect, and which the peaceful life of a man of letters usually
supplies in little abundance. The published details of Schiller's
history are meagre and insufficient; and his writings, like those of
every author, can afford but a dim and dubious copy of his mind. Nor
is it easy to decipher even this, with moderate accuracy. The haze of
a foreign language, of foreign manners, and modes of thinking strange
to us, confuses and obscures the sight, often magnifying what is
trivial, softening what is rude, and sometimes hiding or distorting
what is beautiful. To take the dimensions of Schiller's mind were a
hard enterprise, in any case; harder still with these impediments.

Accordingly we do not, in this place, pretend to attempt it: we have
no finished portrait of his character to offer, no formal estimate of
his works. It will be enough for us if, in glancing over his life, we
can satisfy a simple curiosity, about the fortunes and chief
peculiarities of a man connected with us by a bond so kindly as that
of the teacher to the taught, the giver to the receiver of mental
delight; if, in wandering through his intellectual creation, we can
enjoy once more the magnificent and fragrant beauty of that fairy
land, and express our feelings, where we do not aim at judging and
deciding.


Johann Christoph Friedrich Schiller was a native of Marbach, a small
town of Würtemberg, situated on the banks of the Neckar. He was born
on the 10th of November 1759,—a few months later than our own Robert
Burns. Schiller's early culture was favoured by the dispositions, but
obstructed by the outward circumstances of his parents. Though removed
above the pressure of poverty, their station was dependent and
fluctuating; it involved a frequent change of place and plan. Johann
Caspar Schiller, the father, had been a surgeon in the Bavarian army;
he served in the Netherlands during the Succession War. After his
return home to Würtemberg, he laid aside the medical profession,
having obtained a commission of ensign and adjutant under his native
Prince. This post he held successively in two regiments; he had
changed into the second, and was absent on active duty when Friedrich
was born. The Peace of Paris put an end to his military employment;
but Caspar had shown himself an intelligent, unassuming and useful
man, and the Duke of Würtemberg was willing to retain him in his
service. The laying-out of various nurseries and plantations in the
pleasure-grounds of Ludwigsburg and Solitude was intrusted to the
retired soldier, now advanced to the rank of captain: he removed from
one establishment to another, from time to time; and continued in the
Duke's pay till death. In his latter years he resided chiefly at
Ludwigsburg.

This mode of life was not the most propitious for educating such a boy
as Friedrich; but the native worth of his parents did more than
compensate for the disadvantages of their worldly condition and their
limited acquirements in knowledge. The benevolence, the modest and
prudent integrity, the true devoutness of these good people shone
forth at an after period, expanded and beautified in the character of
their son; his heart was nourished by a constant exposure to such
influences, and thus the better part of his education prospered well.
The mother was a woman of many household virtues; to a warm affection
for her children and husband, she joined a degree of taste and
intelligence which is of much rarer occurrence. She is said to have
been a lover of poetry; in particular an admiring reader of Utz and
Gellert, writers whom it is creditable for one in her situation to
have relished.[1] Her kindness and tenderness of heart peculiarly
endeared her to Friedrich. Her husband appears to have been a person
of great probity and meekness of temper, sincerely desirous to approve
himself a useful member of society, and to do his duty conscientiously
to all men. The seeds of many valuable qualities had been sown in him
by nature; and though his early life had been unfavourable for their
cultivation, he at a late period laboured, not without success, to
remedy this disadvantage. Such branches of science and philosophy as
lay within his reach, he studied with diligence, whenever his
professional employments left him leisure; on a subject connected with
the latter he became an author.[2] But what chiefly distinguished him
was the practice of a sincere piety, which seems to have diffused
itself over all his feelings, and given to his clear and honest
character that calm elevation which, in such a case, is its natural
result. As his religion mingled itself with every motive and action of
his life, the wish which in all his wanderings lay nearest his heart,
the wish for the education of his son, was likely to be deeply
tinctured with it. There is yet preserved, in his handwriting, a
prayer composed in advanced age, wherein he mentions how, at the
child's birth, he had entreated the great Father of all, "to supply in
strength of spirit what must needs be wanting in outward instruction."
The gray-haired man, who had lived to see the maturity of his boy,
could now express his solemn thankfulness, that "God had heard the
prayer of a mortal."

    [Footnote 1: She was of humble descent and little education,
    the daughter of a baker in Kodweis.]

    [Footnote 2: His book is entitled _Die Baumzucht im Grossen_
    (the Cultivation of Trees on the Grand Scale): it came to a
    second edition in 1806.]

Friedrich followed the movements of his parents for some time; and had
to gather the elements of learning from various masters. Perhaps it
was in part owing to this circumstance, that his progress, though
respectable, or more, was so little commensurate with what he
afterwards became, or with the capacities of which even his earliest
years gave symptoms. Thoughtless and gay, as a boy is wont to be, he
would now and then dissipate his time in childish sports, forgetful
that the stolen charms of ball and leapfrog must be dearly bought by
reproaches: but occasionally he was overtaken with feelings of deeper
import, and used to express the agitations of his little mind in words
and actions, which were first rightly interpreted when they were
called to mind long afterwards. His schoolfellows can _now_ recollect
that even his freaks had sometimes a poetic character; that a certain
earnestness of temper, a frank integrity, an appetite for things grand
or moving, was discernible across all the caprices of his boyhood.
Once, it is said, during a tremendous thunderstorm, his father missed
him in the young group within doors; none of the sisters could tell
what was become of Fritz, and the old man grew at length so anxious
that he was forced to go out in quest of him. Fritz was scarcely past
the age of infancy, and knew not the dangers of a scene so awful. His
father found him at last, in a solitary place of the neighbourhood,
perched on the branch of a tree, gazing at the tempestuous face of the
sky, and watching the flashes as in succession they spread their lurid
gleam over it. To the reprimands of his parent, the whimpering truant
pleaded in extenuation, "that the lightning was very beautiful, and
that he wished to see where it was coming from!"—Such anecdotes, we
have long known, are in themselves of small value: the present one has
the additional defect of being somewhat dubious in respect of
authenticity. We have ventured to give it, as it came to us,
notwithstanding. The picture of the boy Schiller, contemplating the
thunder, is not without a certain interest, for such as know the man.

Schiller's first teacher was Moser, pastor and schoolmaster in the
village of Lorch, where the parents resided from the sixth to the
ninth year of their son. This person deserves mention for the
influence he exerted on the early history of his pupil: he seems to
have given his name to the Priest 'Moser' in the _Robbers_; his
spiritual calling, and the conversation of his son, himself afterwards
a preacher, are supposed to have suggested to Schiller the idea of
consecrating himself to the clerical profession. This idea, which laid
hold of and cherished some predominant though vague propensities of
the boy's disposition, suited well with the religious sentiments of
his parents, and was soon formed into a settled purpose. In the public
school at Ludwigsburg, whither the family had now removed, his studies
were regulated with this view; and he underwent, in four successive
years, the annual examination before the Stuttgard Commission, to
which young men destined for the Church are subjected in that country.
Schiller's temper was naturally devout; with a delicacy of feeling
which tended towards bashfulness and timidity, there was mingled in
him a fervid impetuosity, which was ever struggling through its
concealment, and indicating that he felt deeply and strongly, as well
as delicately. Such a turn of mind easily took the form of religion,
prescribed to it by early example and early affections, as well as
nature. Schiller looked forward to the sacred profession with
alacrity: it was the serious daydream of all his boyhood, and much of
his youth. As yet, however, the project hovered before him at a great
distance, and the path to its fulfilment offered him but little
entertainment. His studies did not seize his attention firmly; he
followed them from a sense of duty, not of pleasure. Virgil and
Horace he learned to construe accurately; but is said to have taken no
deep interest in their poetry. The tenderness and meek beauty of the
first, the humour and sagacity and capricious pathos of the last, the
matchless elegance of both, would of course escape his inexperienced
perception; while the matter of their writings must have appeared
frigid and shallow to a mind so susceptible. He loved rather to
meditate on the splendour of the Ludwigsburg theatre, which had
inflamed his imagination when he first saw it in his ninth year, and
given shape and materials to many of his subsequent reveries.[3] Under
these circumstances, his progress, with all his natural ability, could
not be very striking; the teachers did not fail now and then to visit
him with their severities; yet still there was a negligent success in
his attempts, which, joined to his honest and vivid temper, made men
augur well of him. The Stuttgard Examinators have marked him in their
records with the customary formula of approval, or, at worst, of
toleration. They usually designate him as 'a boy of good hope,' _puer
bonæ spei_.

    [Footnote 3: The first display of his poetic gifts occurred
    also in his ninth year, but took its rise in a much humbler
    and less common source than the inspiration of the stage. His
    biographers have recorded this small event with a
    conscientious accuracy, second only to that of Boswell and
    Hawkins in regard to the Lichfield _duck_. 'The little tale,'
    says one of them, 'is worth relating; the rather that, after
    an interval of more than twenty years, Schiller himself, on
    meeting with his early comrade (the late Dr. Elwert of
    Kantstadt) for the first time since their boyhood, reminded
    him of the adventure, recounting the circumstances with great
    minuteness and glee. It is as follows: Once in 1768, Elwert
    and he had to repeat their catechism together on a certain
    day publicly in the church. Their teacher, an
    ill-conditioned, narrow-minded pietist, had previously
    threatened them with a thorough flogging if they missed even
    a single word. To make the matter worse, this very teacher
    chanced to be the person whose turn it was to catechise on
    the appointed day. Both the boys began their answers with
    dismayed hearts and faltering tongues; yet they succeeded in
    accomplishing the task; and were in consequence rewarded by
    the mollified pedagogue with two kreutzers apiece. Four
    kreutzers of ready cash was a sum of no common magnitude; how
    it should be disposed of formed a serious question for the
    parties interested. Schiller moved that they should go to
    Harteneck, a hamlet in the neighbourhood, and have a dish of
    curds-and-cream: his partner assented; but alas! in Harteneck
    no particle of curds or cream was to be had. Schiller then
    made offer for a quarter-cake of cheese; but for this four
    entire kreutzers were demanded, leaving nothing whatever in
    reserve for bread! Twice baffled, the little gastronomes,
    unsatisfied in stomach, wandered on to Neckarweihingen;
    where, at length, though not till after much inquiry, they
    did obtain a comfortable mess of curds-and-cream, served up
    in a gay platter, and silver spoons to eat it with. For all
    this, moreover, they were charged but three kreutzers; so
    that there was still one left to provide them with a bunch of
    St. John grapes. Exhilarated by such liberal cheer, Schiller
    rose into a glow of inspiration: having left the village, he
    mounted with his comrade to the adjacent height, which
    overlooks both Harteneck and Neckarweihingen; and there in a
    truly poetic effusion he pronounced his malediction on the
    creamless region, bestowing with the same solemnity his
    blessing on the one which had afforded him that savoury
    refreshment.' _Friedrich von Schillers Leben_ (Heidelberg.
    1817), p. 11.]

This good hope was not, however, destined to be realised in the way
they expected: accidents occurred which changed the direction of
Schiller's exertions, and threatened for a time to prevent the success
of them altogether. The Duke of Würtemberg had lately founded a Free
Seminary for certain branches of professional education: it was first
set up at Solitude, one of his country residences; and had now been
transferred to Stuttgard, where, under an improved form, and with the
name of _Karls-schule_, we believe it still exists. The Duke proposed
to give the sons of his military officers a preferable claim to the
benefits of this institution; and having formed a good opinion both of
Schiller and his father, he invited the former to profit by this
opportunity. The offer occasioned great embarrassment: the young man
and his parents were alike determined in favour of the Church, a
project with which this new one was inconsistent. Their embarrassment
was but increased, when the Duke, on learning the nature of their
scruples, desired them to think well before they decided. It was out
of fear, and with reluctance that his proposal was accepted. Schiller
enrolled himself in 1773; and turned, with a heavy heart, from
freedom and cherished hopes, to Greek, and seclusion, and Law.

His anticipations proved to be but too just: the six years which he
spent in this establishment were the most harassing and comfortless of
his life. The Stuttgard system of education seems to have been formed
on the principle, not of cherishing and correcting nature, but of
rooting it out, and supplying its place with something better. The
process of teaching and living was conducted with the stiff formality
of military drilling; every thing went on by statute and ordinance,
there was no scope for the exercise of free-will, no allowance for the
varieties of original structure. A scholar might possess what
instincts or capacities he pleased; the 'regulations of the school'
took no account of this; he must fit himself into the common mould,
which, like the old Giant's bed, stood there, appointed by superior
authority, to be filled alike by the great and the little. The same
strict and narrow course of reading and composition was marked out for
each beforehand, and it was by stealth if he read or wrote any thing
beside. Their domestic economy was regulated in the same spirit as
their preceptorial: it consisted of the same sedulous exclusion of all
that could border on pleasure, or give any exercise to choice. The
pupils were kept apart from the conversation or sight of any person
but their teachers; none ever got beyond the precincts of despotism to
snatch even a fearful joy; their very amusements proceeded by the word
of command.

How grievous all this must have been, it is easy to conceive. To
Schiller it was more grievous than to any other. Of an ardent and
impetuous yet delicate nature, whilst his discontentment devoured him
internally, he was too modest and timid to give it the relief of
utterance by deeds or words. Locked up within himself, he suffered
deeply, but without complaining. Some of his letters written during
this period have been preserved: they exhibit the ineffectual
struggles of a fervid and busy mind veiling its many chagrins under a
certain dreary patience, which only shows them more painfully. He
pored over his lexicons and grammars, and insipid tasks, with an
artificial composure; but his spirit pined within him like a
captive's, when he looked forth into the cheerful world, or
recollected the affection of parents, the hopes and frolicsome
enjoyments of past years. The misery he endured in this severe and
lonely mode of existence strengthened or produced in him a habit of
constraint and shyness, which clung to his character through life.

The study of Law, for which he had never felt any predilection,
naturally grew in his mind to be the representative of all these
evils, and his distaste for it went on increasing. On this point he
made no secret of his feelings. One of the exercises, yearly
prescribed to every scholar, was a written delineation of his own
character, according to his own views of it, to be delivered publicly
at an appointed time: Schiller, on the first of these exhibitions,
ventured to state his persuasion, that he was not made to be a jurist,
but called rather by his inclinations and faculties to the clerical
profession. This statement, of course, produced no effect; he was
forced to continue the accustomed course, and his dislike for Law kept
fast approaching to absolute disgust. In 1775, he was fortunate enough
to get it relinquished, though at the expense of adopting another
employment, for which, in different circumstances, he would hardly
have declared himself. The study of Medicine, for which a new
institution was about this time added to the Stuttgard school, had no
attractions for Schiller: he accepted it only as a galling servitude
in exchange for one more galling. His mind was bent on higher
objects; and he still felt all his present vexations aggravated by the
thought, that his fairest expectations from the future had been
sacrificed to worldly convenience, and the humblest necessities of
life.

Meanwhile the youth was waxing into manhood, and the fetters of
discipline lay heavier on him, as his powers grew stronger, and his
eyes became open to the stirring and variegated interests of the
world, now unfolding itself to him under new and more glowing colours.
As yet he contemplated the scene only from afar, and it seemed but the
more gorgeous on that account. He longed to mingle in its busy
current, and delighted to view the image of its movements in his
favourite poets and historians. Plutarch and Shakspeare;[4] the
writings of Klopstock, Lessing, Garve, Herder, Gerstenberg, Goethe,
and a multitude of others, which marked the dawning literature of
Germany, he had studied with a secret avidity: they gave him vague
ideas of men and life, or awakened in him splendid visions of literary
glory. Klopstock's _Messias_, combined with his own religious
tendencies, had early turned him to sacred poetry: before the end of
his fourteenth year, he had finished what he called an 'epic poem,'
entitled _Moses_. The extraordinary popularity of Gerstenberg's
_Ugolino_, and Goethe's _Götz von Berlichingen_, next directed his
attention to the drama; and as admiration in a mind like his, full of
blind activity and nameless aspirings, naturally issues in imitation,
he plunged with equal ardour into this new subject, and produced his
first tragedy, _Cosmo von Medicis_, some fragments of which he
retained and inserted in his _Robbers_. A mass of minor performances,
preserved among his papers, or published in the Magazines of the time,
serve sufficiently to show that his mind had already dimly discovered
its destination, and was striving with a restless vehemence to reach
it, in spite of every obstacle.

    [Footnote 4: The feeling produced in him by Shakspeare he
    described long afterwards: it throws light on the general
    state of his temper and tastes. 'When I first, at a very
    early age,' he says, 'became acquainted with this poet, I
    felt indignant at his coldness, his hardness of heart, which
    permitted him in the most melting pathos to utter jests,—to
    mar, by the introduction of a fool, the soul-searching scenes
    of _Hamlet_, _Lear_, and other pieces; which now kept him
    still where my sensibilities hastened forward, now drove him
    carelessly, onward where I would so gladly have lingered * *
    He was the object of my reverence and zealous study for years
    before I could love himself. I was not yet capable of
    comprehending Nature at first-hand: I had but learned to
    admire her image, reflected in the understanding, and put in
    order by rules.' _Werke_, Bd. viii 2, p. 77.]

Such obstacles were in his case neither few nor small. Schiller felt
the mortifying truth, that to arrive at the ideal world, he must first
gain a footing in the real; that he might entertain high thoughts and
longings, might reverence the beauties of nature and grandeur of mind,
but was born to toil for his daily bread. Poetry he loved with the
passionateness of a first affection; but he could not live by it; he
honoured it too highly to wish to live by it. His prudence told him
that he must yield to stern necessity, must 'forsake the balmy climate
of Pindus for the Greenland of a barren and dreary science of terms;'
and he did not hesitate to obey. His professional studies were
followed with a rigid though reluctant fidelity; it was only in
leisure gained by superior diligence that he could yield himself to
more favourite pursuits. Genius was to serve as the ornament of his
inferior qualities, not as an excuse for the want of them.

But if, when such sacrifices were required, it was painful to comply
with the dictates of his own reason, it was still more so to endure
the harsh and superfluous restrictions of his teachers. He felt it
hard enough to be driven from the enchantments of poetry by the dull
realities of duty; but it was intolerable and degrading to be
hemmed-in still farther by the caprices of severe and formal
pedagogues. Schiller brooded gloomily over the constraints and
hardships of his situation. Many plans he formed for deliverance.
Sometimes he would escape in secret to catch a glimpse of the free and
busy world to him forbidden: sometimes he laid schemes for utterly
abandoning a place which he abhorred, and trusting to fortune for the
rest. Often the sight of his class-books and school-apparatus became
irksome beyond endurance; he would feign sickness, that he might be
left in his own chamber to write poetry and pursue his darling studies
without hindrance. Such artifices did not long avail him; the masters
noticed the regularity of his sickness, and sent him tasks to be done
while it lasted. Even Schiller's patience could not brook this; his
natural timidity gave place to indignation; he threw the paper of
exercises at the feet of the messenger, and said sternly that "_here_
he would choose his own studies."

Under such corroding and continual vexations an ordinary spirit would
have sunk at length, would have gradually given up its loftier
aspirations, and sought refuge in vicious indulgence, or at best have
sullenly harnessed itself into the yoke, and plodded through
existence, weary, discontented, and broken, ever casting back a
hankering look upon the dreams of youth, and ever without power to
realise them. But Schiller was no ordinary character, and did not act
like one. Beneath a cold and simple exterior, dignified with no
artificial attractions, and marred in its native amiableness by the
incessant obstruction, the isolation and painful destitutions under
which he lived, there was concealed a burning energy of soul, which no
obstruction could extinguish. The hard circumstances of his fortune
had prevented the natural development of his mind; his faculties had
been cramped and misdirected; but they had gathered strength by
opposition and the habit of self-dependence which it encouraged. His
thoughts, unguided by a teacher, had sounded into the depths of his
own nature and the mysteries of his own fate; his feelings and
passions, unshared by any other heart, had been driven back upon his
own, where, like the volcanic fire that smoulders and fuses in secret,
they accumulated till their force grew irresistible.

Hitherto Schiller had passed for an unprofitable, a discontented and a
disobedient Boy: but the time was now come when the gyves of
school-discipline could no longer cripple and distort the giant might
of his nature: he stood forth as a Man, and wrenched asunder his
fetters with a force that was felt at the extremities of Europe. The
publication of the _Robbers_ forms an era not only in Schiller's
history, but in the Literature of the World; and there seems no doubt
that, but for so mean a cause as the perverted discipline of the
Stuttgard school, we had never seen this tragedy. Schiller commenced
it in his nineteenth year; and the circumstances under which it was
composed are to be traced in all its parts. It is the production of a
strong untutored spirit, consumed by an activity for which there is no
outlet, indignant at the barriers which restrain it, and grappling
darkly with the phantoms to which its own energy thus painfully
imprisoned gives being. A rude simplicity, combined with a gloomy and
overpowering force, are its chief characteristics; they remind us of
the defective cultivation, as well as of the fervid and harassed
feelings of its author. Above all, the latter quality is visible; the
tragic interest of the _Robbers_ is deep throughout, so deep that
frequently it borders upon horror. A grim inexpiable Fate is made the
ruling principle: it envelops and overshadows the whole; and under
its louring influence, the fiercest efforts of human will appear but
like flashes that illuminate the wild scene with a brief and terrible
splendour, and are lost forever in the darkness. The unsearchable
abysses of man's destiny are laid open before us, black and profound
and appalling, as they seem to the young mind when it first attempts
to explore them: the obstacles that thwart our faculties and wishes,
the deceitfulness of hope, the nothingness of existence, are sketched
in the sable colours so natural to the enthusiast when he first
ventures upon life, and compares the world that is without him to the
anticipations that were within.

Karl von Moor is a character such as young poets always delight to
contemplate or delineate; to Schiller the analogy of their situations
must have peculiarly recommended him. Moor is animated into action by
feelings similar to those under which his author was then suffering
and longing to act. Gifted with every noble quality of manhood in
overflowing abundance, Moor's first expectations of life, and of the
part he was to play in it, had been glorious as a poet's dream. But
the minor dexterities of management were not among his endowments; in
his eagerness to reach the goal, he had forgotten that the course is a
labyrinthic maze, beset with difficulties, of which some may be
surmounted, some can only be evaded, many can be neither. Hurried on
by the headlong impetuosity of his temper, he entangles himself in
these perplexities; and thinks to penetrate them, not by skill and
patience, but by open force. He is baffled, deceived, and still more
deeply involved; but injury and disappointment exasperate rather than
instruct him. He had expected heroes, and he finds mean men; friends,
and he finds smiling traitors to tempt him aside, to profit by his
aberrations, and lead him onward to destruction: he had dreamed of
magnanimity and every generous principle, he finds that prudence is
the only virtue sure of its reward. Too fiery by nature, the intensity
of his sufferings has now maddened him still farther: he is himself
incapable of calm reflection, and there is no counsellor at hand to
assist him; none, whose sympathy might assuage his miseries, whose
wisdom might teach him to remedy or to endure them. He is stung by
fury into action, and his activity is at once blind and tremendous.
Since the world is not the abode of unmixed integrity, he looks upon
it as a den of thieves; since its institutions may obstruct the
advancement of worth, and screen delinquency from punishment, he
regards the social union as a pestilent nuisance, the mischiefs of
which it is fitting that he in his degree should do his best to
repair, by means however violent. Revenge is the mainspring of his
conduct; but he ennobles it in his own eyes, by giving it the colour
of a disinterested concern for the maintenance of justice,—the
abasement of vice from its high places, and the exaltation of
suffering virtue. Single against the universe, to appeal to the
primary law of the stronger, to 'grasp the scales of Providence in a
mortal's hand,' is frantic and wicked; but Moor has a force of soul
which makes it likewise awful. The interest lies in the conflict of
this gigantic soul against the fearful odds which at length overwhelm
it, and hurry it down to the darkest depths of ruin.

The original conception of such a work as this betrays the
inexperience no less than the vigour of youth: its execution gives a
similar testimony. The characters of the piece, though traced in
glowing colours, are outlines more than pictures: the few features we
discover in them are drawn with elaborate minuteness; but the rest are
wanting. Every thing indicates the condition of a keen and powerful
intellect, which had studied men in books only; had, by
self-examination and the perusal of history, detected and strongly
seized some of the leading peculiarities of human nature; but was yet
ignorant of all the minute and more complex principles which regulate
men's conduct in actual life, and which only a knowledge of living men
can unfold. If the hero of the play forms something like an exception
to this remark, he is the sole exception, and for reasons alluded to
above: his character resembles the author's own. Even with Karl, the
success is incomplete: with the other personages it is far more so.
Franz von Moor, the villain of the Piece, is an amplified copy of Iago
and Richard; but the copy is distorted as well as amplified. There is
no air of reality in Franz: he is a villain of theory, who studies to
accomplish his object by the most diabolical expedients, and soothes
his conscience by arguing with the priest in favour of atheism and
materialism; not the genuine villain of Shakspeare and Nature, who
employs his reasoning powers in creating new schemes and devising new
means, and conquers remorse by avoiding it,—by fixing his hopes and
fears on the more pressing emergencies of worldly business. So
reflective a miscreant as Franz could not exist: his calculations
would lead him to honesty, if merely because it was the best policy.

Amelia, the only female in the piece, is a beautiful creation; but as
imaginary as her persecutor Franz. Still and exalted in her warm
enthusiasm, devoted in her love to Moor, she moves before us as the
inhabitant of a higher and simpler world than ours. "_He_ sails on
troubled seas," she exclaims, with a confusion of metaphors, which it
is easy to pardon, "he sails on troubled seas, Amelia's love sails
with him; he wanders in pathless deserts, Amelia's love makes the
burning sand grow green beneath him, and the stunted shrubs to
blossom; the south scorches his bare head, his feet are pinched by the
northern snow, stormy hail beats round his temples—Amelia's love
rocks him to sleep in the storm. Seas, and hills, and horizons, are
between us; but souls escape from their clay prisons, and meet in the
paradise of love!" She is a fair vision, the _beau idéal_ of a poet's
first mistress; but has few mortal lineaments.

Similar defects are visible in almost all the other characters. Moor,
the father, is a weak and fond old man, who could have arrived at gray
hairs in such a state of ignorance nowhere but in a work of fiction.
The inferior banditti are painted with greater vigour, yet still in
rugged and ill-shapen forms; their individuality is kept up by an
extravagant exaggeration of their several peculiarities. Schiller
himself pronounced a severe but not unfounded censure, when he said of
this work, in a maturer age, that his _chief_ fault was in 'presuming
to delineate men two years before he had met one.'

His skill in the art of composition surpassed his knowledge of the
world; but that too was far from perfection. Schiller's style in the
_Robbers_ is partly of a kind with the incidents and feelings which it
represents; strong and astonishing, and sometimes wildly grand; but
likewise inartificial, coarse, and grotesque. His sentences, in their
rude emphasis, come down like the club of Hercules; the stroke is
often of a crushing force, but its sweep is irregular and awkward.
When Moor is involved in the deepest intricacies of the old question,
necessity and free will, and has convinced himself that he is but an
engine in the hands of some dark and irresistible power, he cries out:
"Why has my Perillus made of me a brazen bull to roast men in my
glowing belly?" The stage-direction says, 'shaken with horror:' no
wonder that he shook!

Schiller has admitted these faults, and explained their origin, in
strong and sincere language, in a passage of which we have already
quoted the conclusion. 'A singular miscalculation of nature,' he says,
'had combined my poetical tendencies with the place of my birth. Any
disposition to poetry did violence to the laws of the institution
where I was educated, and contradicted the plan of its founder. For
eight years my enthusiasm struggled with military discipline; but the
passion for poetry is vehement and fiery as a first love. What
discipline was meant to extinguish, it blew into a flame. To escape
from arrangements that tortured me, my heart sought refuge in the
world of ideas, when as yet I was unacquainted with the world of
realities, from which iron bars excluded me. I was unacquainted with
men; for the four hundred that lived with me were but repetitions of
the same creature, true casts of one single mould, and of that very
mould which plastic nature solemnly disclaimed. * * * Thus
circumstanced, a stranger to human characters and human fortunes, to
hit the medium line between angels and devils was an enterprise in
which I necessarily failed. In attempting it, my pencil necessarily
brought out a monster, for which by good fortune the world had no
original, and which I would not wish to be immortal, except to
perpetuate an example of the offspring which Genius in its unnatural
union with Thraldom may give to the world. I allude to the
_Robbers_.'[5]

    [Footnote 5: _Deutsches Museum v. Jahr_ 1784, cited by
    Doering.]

Yet with all these excrescences and defects, the unbounded popularity
of the _Robbers_ is not difficult to account for. To every reader, the
excitement of emotion must be a chief consideration; to the mass of
readers it is the sole one: and the grand secret of moving others is,
that the poet be himself moved. We have seen how well Schiller's
temper and circumstances qualified him to fulfil this condition:
treatment, not of his choosing, had raised his own mind into something
like a Pythian frenzy; and his genius, untrained as it was, sufficed
to communicate abundance of the feeling to others. Perhaps more than
abundance: to judge from our individual impression, the perusal of the
_Robbers_ produces an effect powerful even to pain; we are absolutely
wounded by the catastrophe; our minds are darkened and distressed, as
if we had witnessed the execution of a criminal. It is in vain that we
rebel against the inconsistencies and crudities of the work: its
faults are redeemed by the living energy that pervades it. We may
exclaim against the blind madness of the hero; but there is a towering
grandeur about him, a whirlwind force of passion and of will, which
catches our hearts, and puts the scruples of criticism to silence. The
most delirious of enterprises is that of Moor, but the vastness of his
mind renders even that interesting. We see him leagued with
desperadoes directing their savage strength to actions more and more
audacious; he is in arms against the conventions of men and the
everlasting laws of Fate: yet we follow him with anxiety through the
forests and desert places, where he wanders, encompassed with peril,
inspired with lofty daring, and torn by unceasing remorse; and we wait
with awe for the doom which he has merited and cannot avoid. Nor amid
all his frightful aberrations do we ever cease to love him: he is an
'archangel though in ruins;' and the strong agony with which he feels
the present, the certainty of that stern future which awaits him,
which his own eye never loses sight of, makes us lenient to his
crimes. When he pours forth his wild recollections, or still wilder
forebodings, there is a terrible vehemence in his expressions, which
overpowers us, in spite both of his and their extravagance. The scene
on the hills beside the Danube, where he looks at the setting sun,
and thinks of old hopes, and times 'when he could not sleep if his
evening prayer had been forgotten,' is one, with all its
improprieties, that ever clings to the memory. "See," he passionately
continues, "all things are gone forth to bask in the peaceful beam of
the spring: why must I alone inhale the torments of hell out of the
joys of heaven? That all should be so happy, all so married together
by the spirit of peace! The whole world one family, its Father above;
that Father not _mine_! I alone the castaway, I alone struck out from
the company of the just; not for me the sweet name of child, never for
me the languishing look of one whom I love; never, never, the
embracing of a bosom friend! Encircled with murderers; serpents
hissing around me; riveted to vice with iron bonds; leaning on the
bending reed of vice over the gulf of perdition; amid the flowers of
the glad world, a howling Abaddon! Oh, that I might return into my
mother's womb;—that I might be born a beggar! I would never more—O
Heaven, that I could be as one of these day-labourers! Oh, I would
toil till the blood ran down from my temples, to buy myself the
pleasure of one noontide sleep, the blessing of a single tear. There
_was_ a time too, when I could weep—O ye days of peace, thou castle
of my father, ye green lovely valleys!—O all ye Elysian scenes of my
childhood! will ye never come again, never with your balmy sighing
cool my burning bosom? Mourn with me, Nature! They will never come
again, never cool my burning bosom with their balmy sighing. They are
gone! gone! and may not return!"

No less strange is the soliloquy where Moor, with the instrument of
self-destruction in his hands, the 'dread key that is to shut behind
him the prison of life, and to unbolt before him the dwelling of
eternal night,'—meditates on the gloomy enigmas of his future
destiny. Soliloquies on this subject are numerous,—from the time of
Hamlet, of Cato, and downwards. Perhaps the worst of them has more
ingenuity, perhaps the best of them has less awfulness than the
present. St. Dominick himself might shudder at such a question, with
such an answer as this: "What if thou shouldst send me companionless
to some burnt and blasted circle of the universe; which thou hast
banished from thy sight; where the lone darkness and the motionless
desert were my prospects—forever? I would people the silent
wilderness with my fantasies; I should have Eternity for leisure to
examine the perplexed image of the universal woe."

Strength, wild impassioned strength, is the distinguishing quality of
Moor. All his history shows it; and his death is of a piece with the
fierce splendour of his life. Having finished the bloody work of
crime, and magnanimity, and horror, he thinks that, for himself,
suicide would be too easy an exit. He has noticed a poor man toiling
by the wayside, for eleven children; a great reward has been promised
for the head of the Robber; the gold will nourish that poor drudge and
his boys, and Moor goes forth to give it them. We part with him in
pity and sorrow; looking less at his misdeeds than at their frightful
expiation.

The subordinate personages, though diminished in extent and varied in
their forms, are of a similar quality with the hero; a strange mixture
of extravagance and true energy. In perusing the work which represents
their characters and fates, we are alternately shocked and inspired;
there is a perpetual conflict between our understanding and our
feelings. Yet the latter on the whole come off victorious. The
_Robbers_ is a tragedy that will long find readers to astonish, and,
with all its faults, to move. It stands, in our imagination, like
some ancient rugged pile of a barbarous age; irregular, fantastic,
useless; but grand in its height and massiveness and black frowning
strength. It will long remain a singular monument of the early genius
and early fortune of its author.

The publication of such a work as this naturally produced an
extraordinary feeling in the literary world. Translations of the
_Robbers_ soon appeared in almost all the languages of Europe, and
were read in all of them with a deep interest, compounded of
admiration and aversion, according to the relative proportions of
sensibility and judgment in the various minds which contemplated the
subject. In Germany, the enthusiasm which the _Robbers_ excited was
extreme. The young author had burst upon the world like a meteor; and
surprise, for a time, suspended the power of cool and rational
criticism. In the ferment produced by the universal discussion of this
single topic, the poet was magnified above his natural dimensions,
great as they were: and though the general sentence was loudly in his
favour, yet he found detractors as well as praisers, and both equally
beyond the limits of moderation.

One charge brought against him must have damped the joy of literary
glory, and stung Schiller's pure and virtuous mind more deeply than
any other. He was accused of having injured the cause of morality by
his work; of having set up to the impetuous and fiery temperament of
youth a model of imitation which the young were too likely to pursue
with eagerness, and which could only lead them from the safe and
beaten tracks of duty into error and destruction. It has even been
stated, and often been repeated since, that a practical
exemplification of this doctrine occurred, about this time, in
Germany. A young nobleman, it was said, of the fairest gifts and
prospects, had cast away all these advantages; betaken himself to the
forests, and, copying Moor, had begun a course of active
operations,—which, also copying Moor, but less willingly, he had
ended by a shameful death.

It can now be hardly necessary to contradict these theories; or to
show that none but a candidate for Bedlam as well as Tyburn could be
seduced from the substantial comforts of existence, to seek
destruction and disgrace, for the sake of such imaginary grandeur. The
German nobleman of the fairest gifts and prospects turns out, on
investigation, to have been a German blackguard, whom debauchery and
riotous extravagance had reduced to want; who took to the highway,
when he could take to nothing else,—not allured by an ebullient
enthusiasm, or any heroical and misdirected appetite for sublime
actions, but driven by the more palpable stimulus of importunate duns,
an empty purse, and five craving senses. Perhaps in his later days,
this philosopher _may_ have referred to Schiller's tragedy, as the
source from which he drew his theory of life: but if so, we believe he
was mistaken. For characters like him, the great attraction was the
charms of revelry, and the great restraint, the gallows,—before the
period of Karl von Moor, just as they have been since, and will be to
the end of time. Among motives like these, the influence of even the
most malignant book could scarcely be discernible, and would be little
detrimental, if it were.

Nothing, at any rate, could be farther from Schiller's intention than
such a consummation. In his preface, he speaks of the moral effects of
the _Robbers_ in terms which do honour to his heart, while they show
the inexperience of his head. Ridicule, he signifies, has long been
tried against the wickedness of the times, whole cargoes of hellebore
have been expended,—in vain; and now, he thinks, recourse must be
had to more pungent medicines. We may smile at the simplicity of this
idea; and safely conclude that, like other specifics, the present one
would fail to produce a perceptible effect: but Schiller's vindication
rests on higher grounds than these. His work has on the whole
furnished nourishment to the more exalted powers of our nature; the
sentiments and images which he has shaped and uttered, tend, in spite
of their alloy, to elevate the soul to a nobler pitch: and this is a
sufficient defence. As to the danger of misapplying the inspiration he
communicates, of forgetting the dictates of prudence in our zeal for
the dictates of poetry, we have no great cause to fear it. Hitherto,
at least, there has always been enough of dull reality, on every side
of us, to abate such fervours in good time, and bring us back to the
most sober level of prose, if not to sink us below it. We should thank
the poet who performs such a service; and forbear to inquire too
rigidly whether there is any 'moral' in his piece or not. The writer
of a work, which interests and excites the spiritual feelings of men,
has as little need to justify himself by showing how it exemplifies
some wise saw or modern instance, as the doer of a generous action has
to demonstrate its merit, by deducing it from the system of
Shaftesbury, or Smith, or Paley, or whichever happens to be the
favourite system for the age and place. The instructiveness of the
one, and the virtue of the other, exist independently of all systems
or saws, and in spite of all.


But the tragedy of the _Robbers_ produced some inconveniences of a
kind much more sensible than these its theoretical mischiefs. We have
called it the signal of Schiller's deliverance from school tyranny and
military constraint; but its operation in this respect was not
immediate; at first it seemed to involve him more deeply and
dangerously than before. He had finished the original sketch of it in
1778; but for fear of offence, he kept it secret till his medical
studies were completed.[6] These, in the mean time, he had pursued
with sufficient assiduity to merit the usual honours;[7] in 1780, he
had, in consequence, obtained the post of surgeon to the regiment
_Augé_, in the Würtemberg army. This advancement enabled him to
complete his project, to print the _Robbers_ at his own expense, not
being able to find any bookseller that would undertake it. The nature
of the work, and the universal interest it awakened, drew attention to
the private circumstances of the author, whom the _Robbers_, as well
as other pieces of his writing, that had found their way into the
periodical publications of the time, sufficiently showed to be no
common man. Many grave persons were offended at the vehement
sentiments expressed in the _Robbers_; and the unquestioned ability
with which these extravagances were expressed, but made the matter
worse. To Schiller's superiors, above all, such things were
inconceivable: he might perhaps be a very great genius, but was
certainly a dangerous servant for his Highness the Grand Duke of
Würtemberg. Officious people mingled themselves in the affair: nay,
the graziers of the Alps were brought to bear upon it. The Grisons
magistrates, it appeared, had seen the book: and were mortally huffed
at being there spoken of, according to a Swabian adage, as _common
highwaymen_.[8] They complained in the _Hamburg Correspondent_; and a
sort of Jackal, at Ludwigsburg, one Walter, whose name deserves to be
thus kept in mind, volunteered to plead their cause before the Grand
Duke.

    [Footnote 6: On this subject Doering gives an anecdote, which
    may perhaps be worth translating. 'One of Schiller's teachers
    surprised him on one occasion reciting a scene from the
    _Robbers_, before some of his intimate companions. At the
    words, which Franz von Moor addresses to Moser: _Ha, what!
    thou knowest none greater? Think again! Death, heaven,
    eternity, damnation, hovers in the sound of thy voice! Not
    one greater?_—the door opened, and the master saw Schiller
    stamping in desperation up and down the room. "For shame,"
    said he, "for shame to get into such a passion, and curse
    so!" The other scholars tittered covertly at the worthy
    inspector; and Schiller called after him with a bitter smile,
    "A noodle" (ein confiscirter Kerl)!']

    [Footnote 7: His Latin Essay on the _Philosophy of
    Physiology_ was written in 1778, and never printed. His
    concluding _thesis_ was published according to custom: the
    subject is arduous enough, "the connection between the animal
    and spiritual nature of man,"—which Dr. Cabanis has since
    treated in so offensive a fashion. Schiller's tract we have
    never seen. Doering says it was long 'out of print,' till
    Nasse reproduced it in his Medical Journal (Leipzig, 1820):
    he is silent respecting its merits.]

    [Footnote 8: The obnoxious passage has been carefully
    expunged from subsequent editions. It was in the third scene
    of the second act; Spiegelberg discoursing with Razmann,
    observes, "An honest man you may form of windle-straws; but
    to make a rascal you must have grist: besides, there is a
    national genius in it, a certain rascal-climate, so to
    speak." In the first edition, there was added: "_Go to the
    Grisons, for instance: that is what I call the thief's
    Athens._" The patriot who stood forth on this occasion for
    the honour of the Grisons, to deny this weighty charge, and
    denounce the crime of making it, was not Dogberry or Verges,
    but 'one of the noble family of Salis.']

Informed of all these circumstances, the Grand Duke expressed his
disapprobation of Schiller's poetical labours in the most unequivocal
terms. Schiller was at length summoned to appear before him; and it
then turned out, that his Highness was not only dissatisfied with the
moral or political errors of the work, but scandalised moreover at its
want of literary merit. In this latter respect, he was kind enough to
proffer his own services. But Schiller seems to have received the
proposal with no sufficient gratitude; and the interview passed
without advantage to either party. It terminated in the Duke's
commanding Schiller to abide by medical subjects: or at least to
beware of writing any more poetry, without submitting it to _his_
inspection.

We need not comment on this portion of the Grand Duke's history: his
treatment of Schiller has already been sufficiently avenged. By the
great body of mankind, his name will be recollected, chiefly, if at
all, for the sake of the unfriended youth whom he now schooled so
sharply, and afterwards afflicted so cruelly: it will be recollected
also with the angry triumph which we feel against a shallow and
despotic 'noble of convention,' who strains himself to oppress 'one of
nature's nobility,' submitted by blind chance to his dominion,
and—finds that he cannot! All this is far more than the Prince of
Würtemberg deserves. Of limited faculties, and educated in the French
principles of taste, then common to persons of his rank in Germany, he
had perused the _Robbers_ with unfeigned disgust; he could see in the
author only a misguided enthusiast, with talents barely enough to make
him dangerous. And though he never fully or formally retracted this
injustice, he did not follow it up; when Schiller became known to the
world at large, the Duke ceased to persecute him. The father he still
kept in his service, and nowise molested.

In the mean time, however, various mortifications awaited Schiller. It
was in vain that he discharged the humble duties of his station with
the most strict fidelity, and even, it is said, with superior skill:
he was a suspected person, and his most innocent actions were
misconstrued, his slightest faults were visited with the full measure
of official severity. His busy imagination aggravated the evil. He had
seen poor Schubart[9] wearing out his tedious eight years of durance
in the fortress of Asperg, because he had been 'a rock of offence to
the powers that were.' The fate of this unfortunate author appeared to
Schiller a type of his own. His free spirit shrank at the prospect of
wasting its strength in strife against the pitiful constraints, the
minute and endless persecutions of men who knew him not, yet had his
fortune in their hands; the idea of dungeons and jailors haunted and
tortured his mind; and the means of escaping them, the renunciation
of poetry, the source of all his joy, if likewise of many woes, the
radiant guiding-star of his turbid and obscure existence, seemed a
sentence of death to all that was dignified, and delightful, and worth
retaining, in his character. Totally ignorant of what is called the
world; conscious too of the might that slumbered in his soul, and
proud of it, as kings are of their sceptres; impetuous when roused,
and spurning unjust restraint; yet wavering and timid from the
delicacy of his nature, and still more restricted in the freedom of
his movements by the circumstances of his father, whose all depended
on the pleasure of the court, Schiller felt himself embarrassed, and
agitated, and tormented in no common degree. Urged this way and that
by the most powerful and conflicting impulses; driven to despair by
the paltry shackles that chained him, yet forbidden by the most sacred
considerations to break them, he knew not on what he should resolve;
he reckoned himself 'the most unfortunate of men.'

    [Footnote 9: See Appendix I., No. 1.]

Time at length gave him the solution; circumstances occurred which
forced him to decide. The popularity of the _Robbers_ had brought him
into correspondence with several friends of literature, who wished to
patronise the author, or engage him in new undertakings. Among this
number was the Freiherr von Dalberg, superintendent of the theatre at
Mannheim, under whose encouragement and countenance Schiller
remodelled the _Robbers_, altered it in some parts, and had it brought
upon the stage in 1781. The correspondence with Dalberg began in
literary discussions, but gradually elevated itself into the
expression of more interesting sentiments. Dalberg loved and
sympathised with the generous enthusiast, involved in troubles and
perplexities which his inexperience was so little adequate to thread:
he gave him advice and assistance; and Schiller repaid this favour
with the gratitude due to his kind, his first, and then almost his
only benefactor. His letters to this gentleman have been preserved,
and lately published; they exhibit a lively picture of Schiller's
painful situation at Stuttgard, and of his unskilful as well as eager
anxiety to be delivered from it.[10] His darling project was that
Dalberg should bring him to Mannheim, as theatrical poet, by
permission of the Duke: at one time he even thought of turning player.

    [Footnote 10: See Appendix I., No. 2.]

Neither of these projects could take immediate effect, and Schiller's
embarrassments became more pressing than ever. With the natural
feeling of a young author, he had ventured to go in secret, and
witness the first representation of his tragedy, at Mannheim. His
incognito did not conceal him; he was put under arrest during a week,
for this offence: and as the punishment did not deter him from again
transgressing in a similar manner, he learned that it was in
contemplation to try more rigorous measures with him. Dark hints were
given to him of some exemplary as well as imminent severity: and
Dalberg's aid, the sole hope of averting it by quiet means, was
distant and dubious. Schiller saw himself reduced to extremities.
Beleaguered with present distresses, and the most horrible
forebodings, on every side; roused to the highest pitch of
indignation, yet forced to keep silence, and wear the face of
patience, he could endure this maddening constraint no longer. He
resolved to be free, at whatever risk; to abandon advantages which he
could not buy at such a price; to quit his step-dame home, and go
forth, though friendless and alone, to seek his fortune in the great
market of life. Some foreign Duke or Prince was arriving at Stuttgard;
and all the people were in movement, occupied with seeing the
spectacle of his entrance: Schiller seized this opportunity of
retiring from the city, careless whither he went, so he got beyond the
reach of turnkeys, and Grand Dukes, and commanding officers. It was in
the month of October 1782.

This last step forms the catastrophe of the publication of the
_Robbers_: it completed the deliverance of Schiller from the grating
thraldom under which his youth had been passed, and decided his
destiny for life. Schiller was in his twenty-third year when he left
Stuttgard. He says 'he went empty away,—empty in purse and hope.' The
future was indeed sufficiently dark before him. Without patrons,
connexions, or country, he had ventured forth to the warfare on his
own charges; without means, experience, or settled purpose, it was
greatly to be feared that the fight would go against him. Yet his
situation, though gloomy enough, was not entirely without its brighter
side. He was now a free man, free, however poor; and his strong soul
quickened as its fetters dropped off, and gloried within him in the
dim anticipation of great and far-extending enterprises. If, cast too
rudely among the hardships and bitter disquietudes of the world, his
past nursing had not been delicate, he was already taught to look upon
privation and discomfort as his daily companions. If he knew not how
to bend his course among the perplexed vicissitudes of society, there
was a force within him which would triumph over many difficulties; and
a 'light from Heaven' was about his path, which, if it failed to
conduct him to wealth and preferment, would keep him far from baseness
and degrading vices. Literature, and every great and noble thing which
the right pursuit of it implies, he loved with all his heart and all
his soul: to this inspiring object he was henceforth exclusively
devoted; advancing towards this, and possessed of common necessaries
on the humblest scale, there was little else to tempt him. His life
might be unhappy, but would hardly be disgraceful.

Schiller gradually felt all this, and gathered comfort, while better
days began to dawn upon him. Fearful of trusting himself so near
Stuttgard as at Mannheim, he had passed into Franconia, and was living
painfully at Oggersheim, under the name of Schmidt: but Dalberg, who
knew all his distresses, supplied him with money for immediate wants;
and a generous lady made him the offer of a home. Madam von Wolzogen
lived on her estate of Bauerbach, in the neighbourhood of Meinungen;
she knew Schiller from his works, and his intimacy with her sons, who
had been his fellow-students at Stuttgard. She invited him to her
house; and there treated him with an affection which helped him to
forget the past, and look cheerfully forward to the future.

Under this hospitable roof, Schiller had leisure to examine calmly the
perplexed and dubious aspect of his affairs. Happily his character
belonged not to the whining or sentimental sort: he was not of those,
in whom the pressure of misfortune produces nothing but unprofitable
pain; who spend, in cherishing and investigating and deploring their
miseries, the time which should be spent in providing a relief for
them. With him, strong feeling was constantly a call to vigorous
action: he possessed in a high degree the faculty of conquering his
afflictions, by directing his thoughts, not to maxims for enduring
them, or modes of expressing them with interest, but to plans for
getting rid of them; and to this disposition or habit,—too rare among
men of genius, men of a much higher class than mere sentimentalists,
but whose sensibility is out of proportion with their inventiveness or
activity,—we are to attribute no small influence in the fortunate
conduct of his subsequent life. With such a turn of mind, Schiller,
now that he was at length master of his own movements, could not long
be at a loss for plans or tasks. Once settled at Bauerbach, he
immediately resumed his poetical employments; and forgot, in the
regions of fancy, the vague uncertainties of his real condition, or
saw prospects of amending it in a life of literature. By many safe and
sagacious persons, the prudence of his late proceedings might be more
than questioned; it was natural for many to forbode that one who left
the port so rashly, and sailed with such precipitation, was likely to
make shipwreck ere the voyage had extended far: but the lapse of a few
months put a stop to such predictions. A year had not passed since his
departure, when Schiller sent forth his _Verschwörung des Fiesco_ and
_Kabale und Liebe_; tragedies which testified that, dangerous and
arduous as the life he had selected might be, he possessed resources
more than adequate to its emergencies. _Fiesco_ he had commenced
during the period of his arrest at Stuttgard; it was published, with
the other play, in 1783; and soon after brought upon the Mannheim
theatre, with universal approbation.

It was now about three years since the composition of the _Robbers_
had been finished; five since the first sketch of it had been formed.
With what zeal and success Schiller had, in that interval, pursued the
work of his mental culture, these two dramas are a striking proof. The
first ardour of youth is still to be discerned in them; but it is now
chastened by the dictates of a maturer reason, and made to animate the
products of a much happier and more skilful invention. Schiller's
ideas of art had expanded and grown clearer, his knowledge of life had
enlarged. He exhibits more acquaintance with the fundamental
principles of human nature, as well as with the circumstances under
which it usually displays itself; and far higher and juster views of
the manner in which its manifestations should be represented.

In the _Conspiracy of Fiesco_ we have to admire not only the energetic
animation which the author has infused into all his characters, but
the distinctness with which he has discriminated, without aggravating
them; and the vividness with which he has contrived to depict the
scene where they act and move. The political and personal relations of
the Genoese nobility; the luxurious splendour, the intrigues, the
feuds, and jarring interests, which occupy them, are made visible
before us: we understand and may appreciate the complexities of the
conspiracy; we mingle, as among realities, in the pompous and imposing
movements which lead to the catastrophe. The catastrophe itself is
displayed with peculiar effect. The midnight silence of the sleeping
city, interrupted only by the distant sounds of watchmen, by the low
hoarse murmur of the sea, or the stealthy footsteps and disguised
voice of Fiesco, is conveyed to our imagination by some brief but
graphic touches; we seem to stand in the solitude and deep stillness
of Genoa, awaiting the signal which is to burst so fearfully upon its
slumber. At length the gun is fired; and the wild uproar which ensues
is no less strikingly exhibited. The deeds and sounds of violence,
astonishment and terror; the volleying cannon, the heavy toll of the
alarm-bells, the acclamation of assembled thousands, 'the voice of
Genoa speaking with Fiesco,'—all is made present to us with a force
and clearness, which of itself were enough to show no ordinary power
of close and comprehensive conception, no ordinary skill in arranging
and expressing its results.

But it is not this felicitous delineation of circumstances and visible
scenes that constitutes our principal enjoyment. The faculty of
penetrating through obscurity and confusion, to seize the
characteristic features of an object, abstract or material; of
producing a lively description in the latter case, an accurate and
keen scrutiny in the former, is the essential property of intellect,
and occupies in its best form a high rank in the scale of mental
gifts: but the creative faculty of the poet, and especially of the
dramatic poet, is something superadded to this; it is far rarer, and
occupies a rank far higher. In this particular, _Fiesco_, without
approaching the limits of perfection, yet stands in an elevated range
of excellence. The characters, on the whole, are imagined and
portrayed with great impressiveness and vigour. Traces of old faults
are indeed still to be discovered: there still seems a want of pliancy
about the genius of the author; a stiffness and heaviness in his
motions. His sublimity is not to be questioned; but it does not always
disdain the aid of rude contrasts and mere theatrical effect. He
paints in colours deep and glowing, but without sufficient skill to
blend them delicately: he amplifies nature more than purifies it; he
omits, but does not well conceal the omission. _Fiesco_ has not the
complete charm of a true though embellished resemblance to reality;
its attraction rather lies in a kind of colossal magnitude, which
requires it, if seen to advantage, to be viewed from a distance. Yet
the prevailing qualities of the piece do more than make us pardon such
defects. If the dramatic imitation is not always entirely successful,
it is never very distant from success; and a constant flow of powerful
thought and sentiment counteracts, or prevents us from noticing, the
failure. We find evidence of great philosophic penetration, great
resources of invention, directed by a skilful study of history and
men; and everywhere a bold grandeur of feeling and imagery gives life
to what study has combined. The chief incidents have a dazzling
magnificence; the chief characters, an aspect of majesty and force
which corresponds to it. Fervour of heart, capaciousness of intellect
and imagination, present themselves on all sides: the general effect
is powerful and exalting.

Fiesco himself is a personage at once probable and tragically
interesting. The luxurious dissipation, in which he veils his daring
projects, softens the rudeness of that strength which it half
conceals. His immeasurable pride expands itself not only into a
disdain of subjection, but also into the most lofty acts of
magnanimity: his blind confidence in fortune seems almost warranted by
the resources which he finds in his own fearlessness and imperturbable
presence of mind. His ambition participates in the nobleness of his
other qualities; he is less anxious that his rivals should yield to
him in power than in generosity and greatness of character, attributes
of which power is with him but the symbol and the fit employment.
Ambition in Fiesco is indeed the common wish of every mind to diffuse
its individual influence, to see its own activity reflected back from
the united minds of millions: but it is the common wish acting on no
common man. He does not long to rule, that he may sway other wills, as
it were, by the physical exertion of his own: he would lead us captive
by the superior grandeur of his qualities, once fairly manifested; and
he aims at dominion, chiefly as it will enable him to manifest these.
'It is not the arena that he values, but what lies in that arena:' the
sovereignty is enviable, not for its adventitious splendour, not
because it is the object of coarse and universal wonder; but as it
offers, in the collected force of a nation, something which the
loftiest mortal may find scope for all his powers in guiding. "Spread
out the thunder," Fiesco exclaims, "into its single tones, and it
becomes a lullaby for children: pour it forth together in _one_ quick
peal, and the royal sound shall move the heavens." His affections are
not less vehement than his other passions: his heart can be melted
into powerlessness and tenderness by the mild persuasions of his
Leonora; the idea of exalting this amiable being mingles largely with
the other motives to his enterprise. He is, in fact, a great, and
might have been a virtuous man; and though in the pursuit of grandeur
he swerves from absolute rectitude, we still respect his splendid
qualities, and admit the force of the allurements which have led him
astray. It is but faintly that we condemn his sentiments, when, after
a night spent in struggles between a rigid and a more accommodating
patriotism, he looks out of his chamber, as the sun is rising in its
calm beauty, and gilding the waves and mountains, and all the
innumerable palaces and domes and spires of Genoa, and exclaims with
rapture: "This majestic city—mine! To flame over it like the kingly
Day; to brood over it with a monarch's power; all these sleepless
longings, all these never satiated wishes to be drowned in that
unfathomable ocean!" We admire Fiesco, we disapprove of him, and
sympathise with him: he is crushed in the ponderous machinery which
himself put in motion and thought to control: we lament his fate, but
confess that it was not undeserved. He is a fit 'offering of
individual free-will to the force of social conventions.'

Fiesco is not the only striking character in the play which bears his
name. The narrow fanatical republican virtue of Verrina, the mild and
venerable wisdom of the old Doria, the unbridled profligacy of his
Nephew, even the cold, contented, irreclaimable perversity of the
cutthroat Moor, all dwell in our recollections: but what, next to
Fiesco, chiefly attracts us, is the character of Leonora his wife.
Leonora is of kindred to Amelia in the _Robbers_, but involved in more
complicated relations, and brought nearer to the actual condition of
humanity. She is such a heroine as Schiller most delights to draw.
Meek and retiring by the softness of her nature, yet glowing with an
ethereal ardour for all that is illustrious and lovely, she clings
about her husband, as if her being were one with his. She dreams of
remote and peaceful scenes, where Fiesco should be all to her, she all
to Fiesco: her idea of love is, that '_her_ name should lie in secret
behind every one of his thoughts, should speak to him from every
object of Nature; that for him, this bright majestic universe itself
were but as the shining jewel, on which her image, only _hers_, stood
engraved.' Her character seems a reflection of Fiesco's, but refined
from his grosser strength, and transfigured into a celestial form of
purity, and tenderness, and touching grace. Jealousy cannot move her
into anger; she languishes in concealed sorrow, when she thinks
herself forgotten. It is affection alone that can rouse her into
passion; but under the influence of this, she forgets all weakness and
fear. She cannot stay in her palace, on the night when Fiesco's
destiny is deciding; she rushes forth, as if inspired, to share in her
husband's dangers and sublime deeds, and perishes at last in the
tumult.

The death of Leonora, so brought about, and at such a time, is
reckoned among the blemishes of the work: that of Fiesco, in which
Schiller has ventured to depart from history, is to be more favourably
judged of. Fiesco is not here accidentally drowned; but plunged into
the waves by the indignant Verrina, who forgets or stifles the
feelings of friendship, in his rage at political apostasy. 'The nature
of the Drama,' we are justly told, 'will not suffer the operation of
Chance, or of an immediate Providence. Higher spirits can discern the
minute fibres of an event stretching through the whole expanse of the
system of the world, and hanging, it may be, on the remotest limits of
the future and the past, where man discerns nothing save the action
itself, hovering unconnected in space. But the artist has to paint for
the short view of man, whom he wishes to instruct; not for the
piercing eye of superior powers, from whom he learns.'


In the composition of _Fiesco_, Schiller derived the main part of his
original materials from history; he could increase the effect by
gorgeous representations, and ideas preëxisting in the mind of his
reader. Enormity of incident and strangeness of situation lent him a
similar assistance in the _Robbers_. _Kabale und Liebe_ is destitute
of these advantages; it is a tragedy of domestic life; its means of
interesting are comprised within itself, and rest on very simple
feelings, dignified by no very singular action. The name,
_Court-Intriguing and Love_, correctly designates its nature; it aims
at exhibiting the conflict, the victorious conflict, of political
manœuvering, of cold worldly wisdom, with the pure impassioned
movements of the young heart, as yet unsullied by the tarnish of
every-day life, inexperienced in its calculations, sick of its empty
formalities, and indignantly determined to cast-off the mean
restrictions it imposes, which bind so firmly by their number, though
singly so contemptible. The idea is far from original: this is a
conflict which most men have figured to themselves, which many men of
ardent mind are in some degree constantly waging. To make it, in this
simple form, the subject of a drama, seems to be a thought of
Schiller's own; but the praise, though not the merit of his
undertaking, considerable rather as performed than projected, has been
lessened by a multitude of worthless or noxious imitations. The same
primary conception has been tortured into a thousand shapes, and
tricked out with a thousand tawdry devices and meretricious ornaments,
by the Kotzebues, and other 'intellectual Jacobins,' whose
productions have brought what we falsely call the 'German Theatre'
into such deserved contempt in England. Some portion of the gall, due
only to these inflated, flimsy, and fantastic persons, appears to have
acted on certain critics in estimating this play of Schiller's. August
Wilhelm Schlegel speaks slightingly of the work: he says, 'it will
hardly move us by its tone of overstrained sensibility, but may well
afflict us by the painful impressions which it leaves.' Our own
experience has been different from that of Schlegel. In the characters
of Louisa and Ferdinand Walter we discovered little overstraining;
their sensibility we did not reckon very criminal; seeing it united
with a clearness of judgment, chastened by a purity of heart, and
controlled by a force of virtuous resolution, in full proportion with
itself. We rather admired the genius of the poet, which could elevate
a poor music-master's daughter to the dignity of a heroine; could
represent, without wounding our sense of propriety, the affection of
two noble beings, created for each other by nature, and divided by
rank; we sympathised in their sentiments enough to feel a proper
interest in their fate, and see in them, what the author meant we
should see, two pure and lofty minds involved in the meshes of vulgar
cunning, and borne to destruction by the excess of their own good
qualities and the crimes of others.

Ferdinand is a nobleman, but not convinced that 'his patent of
nobility is more ancient or of more authority than the primeval scheme
of the universe:' he speaks and acts like a young man entertaining
such persuasions: disposed to yield everything to reason and true
honour, but scarcely anything to mere use and wont. His passion for
Louisa is the sign and the nourishment rather than the cause of such a
temper: he loves her without limit, as the only creature he has ever
met with of a like mind with himself; and this feeling exalts into
inspiration what was already the dictate of his nature. We accompany
him on his straight and plain path; we rejoice to see him fling aside
with a strong arm the artifices and allurements with which a worthless
father and more worthless associates assail him at first in vain:
there is something attractive in the spectacle of native integrity,
fearless though inexperienced, at war with selfishness and craft;
something mournful, because the victory will seldom go as we would
have it.

Louisa is a meet partner for the generous Ferdinand: the poet has done
justice to her character. She is timid and humble; a feeling and
richly gifted soul is hid in her by the unkindness of her earthly lot;
she is without counsellors except the innate holiness of her heart,
and the dictates of her keen though untutored understanding; yet when
the hour of trial comes, she can obey the commands of both, and draw
from herself a genuine nobleness of conduct, which secondhand
prudence, and wealth, and titles, would but render less touching. Her
filial affection, her angelic attachment to her lover, her sublime and
artless piety, are beautifully contrasted with the bleakness of her
external circumstances: she appears before us like the '_one_ rose of
the wilderness left on its stalk,' and we grieve to see it crushed and
trodden down so rudely.

The innocence, the enthusiasm, the exalted life and stern fate of
Louisa and Ferdinand give a powerful charm to this tragedy: it is
everywhere interspersed with pieces of fine eloquence, and scenes
which move us by their dignity or pathos. We recollect few passages of
a more overpowering nature than the conclusion, where Ferdinand,
beguiled by the most diabolical machinations to disbelieve the virtue
of his mistress, puts himself and her to death by poison. There is a
gloomy and solemn might in his despair; though overwhelmed, he seems
invincible: his enemies have blinded and imprisoned him in their
deceptions; but only that, like Samson, he may overturn his
prison-house, and bury himself, and all that have wronged him, in its
ruins.

The other characters of the play, though in general properly
sustained, are not sufficiently remarkable to claim much of our
attention. Wurm, the chief counsellor and agent of the unprincipled,
calculating Father, is wicked enough; but there is no great
singularity in his wickedness. He is little more than the dry, cool,
and now somewhat vulgar miscreant, the villanous Attorney of modern
novels. Kalb also is but a worthless subject, and what is worse, but
indifferently handled. He is meant for the feather-brained thing of
tags and laces, which frequently inhabits courts; but he wants the
grace and agility proper to the species; he is less a fool than a
blockhead, less perverted than totally inane. Schiller's strength lay
not in comedy, but in something far higher. The great merit of the
present work consists in the characters of the hero and heroine; and
in this respect it ranks at the very head of its class. As a tragedy
of common life, we know of few rivals to it, certainly of no superior.


The production of three such pieces as the _Robbers_, _Fiesco_, and
_Kabale und Liebe_, already announced to the world that another great
and original mind had appeared, from whose maturity, when such was the
promise of its youth, the highest expectations might be formed. These
three plays stand related to each other in regard to their nature and
form, as well as date: they exhibit the progressive state of
Schiller's education; show us the fiery enthusiasm of youth,
exasperated into wildness, astonishing in its movements rather than
sublime; and the same enthusiasm gradually yielding to the sway of
reason, gradually using itself to the constraints prescribed by sound
judgment and more extensive knowledge. Of the three, the _Robbers_ is
doubtless the most singular, and likely perhaps to be the most widely
popular: but the latter two are of more real worth in the eye of
taste, and will better bear a careful and rigorous study.

With the appearance of _Fiesco_ and its companion, the first period of
Schiller's literary history may conclude. The stormy confusions of his
youth were now subsiding; after all his aberrations, repulses, and
perplexed wanderings, he was at length about to reach his true
destination, and times of more serenity began to open for him. Two
such tragedies as he had lately offered to the world made it easier
for his friend Dalberg to second his pretensions. Schiller was at last
gratified by the fulfilment of his favourite scheme; in September
1783, he went to Mannheim, as poet to the theatre, a post of
respectability and reasonable profit, to the duties of which he
forthwith addressed himself with all his heart. He was not long
afterwards elected a member of the German Society established for
literary objects in Mannheim; and he valued the honour, not only as a
testimony of respect from a highly estimable quarter, but also as a
means of uniting him more closely with men of kindred pursuits and
tempers: and what was more than all, of quieting forever his
apprehensions from the government at Stuttgard. Since his arrival at
Mannheim, one or two suspicious incidents had again alarmed him on
this head; but being now acknowledged as a subject of the Elector
Palatine, naturalised by law in his new country, he had nothing more
to fear from the Duke of Würtemberg.

Satisfied with his moderate income, safe, free, and surrounded by
friends that loved and honoured him, Schiller now looked confidently
forward to what all his efforts had been a search and hitherto a
fruitless search for, an undisturbed life of intellectual labour. What
effect this happy aspect of his circumstances must have produced upon
him may be easily conjectured. Through many years he had been inured
to agitation and distress; now peace and liberty and hope, sweet in
themselves, were sweeter for their novelty. For the first time in his
life, he saw himself allowed to obey without reluctance the ruling
bias of his nature; for the first time inclination and duty went hand
in hand. His activity awoke with renovated force in this favourable
scene; long-thwarted, half-forgotten projects again kindled into
brightness, as the possibility of their accomplishment became
apparent: Schiller glowed with a generous pride when he felt his
faculties at his own disposal, and thought of the use he meant to make
of them. 'All my connexions,' he said, 'are now dissolved. The public
is now all to me, my study, my sovereign, my confidant. To the public
alone I henceforth belong; before this and no other tribunal will I
place myself; this alone do I reverence and fear. Something majestic
hovers before me, as I determine now to wear no other fetters but the
sentence of the world, to appeal to no other throne but the soul of
man.'

These expressions are extracted from the preface to his _Thalia_, a
periodical work which he undertook in 1784, devoted to subjects
connected with poetry, and chiefly with the drama. In such sentiments
we leave him, commencing the arduous and perilous, but also glorious
and sublime duties of a life consecrated to the discovery of truth,
and the creation of intellectual beauty. He was now exclusively what
is called a _Man of Letters_, for the rest of his days.



                               PART II.

   FROM SCHILLER'S SETTLEMENT AT MANNHEIM TO HIS SETTLEMENT AT JENA.
                             (1783-1790.)



                             PART SECOND.

                             [1783-1790.]


If to know wisdom were to practise it; if fame brought true dignity
and peace of mind; or happiness consisted in nourishing the intellect
with its appropriate food and surrounding the imagination with ideal
beauty, a literary life would be the most enviable which the lot of
this world affords. But the truth is far otherwise. The Man of Letters
has no immutable, all-conquering volition, more than other men; to
understand and to perform are two very different things with him as
with every one. His fame rarely exerts a favourable influence on his
dignity of character, and never on his peace of mind: its glitter is
external, for the eyes of others; within, it is but the aliment of
unrest, the oil cast upon the ever-gnawing fire of ambition,
quickening into fresh vehemence the blaze which it stills for a
moment. Moreover, this Man of Letters is not wholly made of spirit,
but of clay and spirit mixed: his thinking faculties may be nobly
trained and exercised, but he must have affections as well as thoughts
to make him happy, and food and raiment must be given him or he dies.
Far from being the most enviable, his way of life is perhaps, among
the many modes by which an ardent mind endeavours to express its
activity, the most thickly beset with suffering and degradation. Look
at the biography of authors! Except the Newgate Calendar, it is the
most sickening chapter in the history of man. The calamities of these
people are a fertile topic; and too often their faults and vices have
kept pace with their calamities. Nor is it difficult to see how this
has happened. Talent of any sort is generally accompanied with a
peculiar fineness of sensibility; of genius this is the most essential
constituent; and life in any shape has sorrows enough for hearts so
formed. The employments of literature sharpen this natural tendency;
the vexations that accompany them frequently exasperate it into morbid
soreness. The cares and toils of literature are the business of life;
its delights are too ethereal and too transient to furnish that
perennial flow of satisfaction, coarse but plenteous and substantial,
of which happiness in this world of ours is made. The most finished
efforts of the mind give it little pleasure, frequently they give it
pain; for men's aims are ever far beyond their strength. And the
outward recompense of these undertakings, the distinction they confer,
is of still smaller value: the desire for it is insatiable even when
successful; and when baffled, it issues in jealousy and envy, and
every pitiful and painful feeling. So keen a temperament with so
little to restrain or satisfy, so much to distress or tempt it,
produces contradictions which few are adequate to reconcile. Hence the
unhappiness of literary men, hence their faults and follies.

Thus literature is apt to form a dangerous and discontenting
occupation even for the amateur. But for him whose rank and worldly
comforts depend on it, who does not live to write, but writes to live,
its difficulties and perils are fearfully increased. Few spectacles
are more afflicting than that of such a man, so gifted and so fated,
so jostled and tossed to and fro in the rude bustle of life, the
buffetings of which he is so little fitted to endure. Cherishing, it
may be, the loftiest thoughts, and clogged with the meanest wants; of
pure and holy purposes, yet ever driven from the straight path by the
pressure of necessity, or the impulse of passion; thirsting for glory,
and frequently in want of daily bread; hovering between the empyrean
of his fancy and the squalid desert of reality; cramped and foiled in
his most strenuous exertions; dissatisfied with his best performances,
disgusted with his fortune, this Man of Letters too often spends his
weary days in conflicts with obscure misery: harassed, chagrined,
debased, or maddened; the victim at once of tragedy and farce; the
last forlorn outpost in the war of Mind against Matter. Many are the
noble souls that have perished bitterly, with their tasks unfinished,
under these corroding woes! Some in utter famine, like Otway; some in
dark insanity, like Cowper and Collins; some, like Chatterton, have
sought out a more stern quietus, and turning their indignant steps
away from a world which refused them welcome, have taken refuge in
that strong Fortress, where poverty and cold neglect, and the thousand
natural shocks which flesh is heir to, could not reach them any more.

Yet among these men are to be found the brightest specimens and the
chief benefactors of mankind! It is they that keep awake the finer
parts of our souls; that give us better aims than power or pleasure,
and withstand the total sovereignty of Mammon in this earth. They are
the vanguard in the march of mind; the intellectual Backwoodsmen,
reclaiming from the idle wilderness new territories for the thought
and the activity of their happier brethren. Pity that from all their
conquests, so rich in benefit to others, themselves should reap so
little! But it is vain to murmur. They are volunteers in this cause;
they weighed the charms of it against the perils: and they must abide
the results of their decision, as all must. The hardships of the
course they follow are formidable, but not all inevitable; and to such
as pursue it rightly, it is not without its great rewards. If an
author's life is more agitated and more painful than that of others,
it may also be made more spirit-stirring and exalted: fortune may
render him unhappy; it is only himself that can make him despicable.
The history of genius has, in fact, its bright side as well as its
dark. And if it is distressing to survey the misery, and what is
worse, the debasement of so many gifted men, it is doubly cheering on
the other hand to reflect on the few, who, amid the temptations and
sorrows to which life in all its provinces and most in theirs is
liable, have travelled through it in calm and virtuous majesty, and
are now hallowed in our memories, not less for their conduct than
their writings. Such men are the flower of this lower world: to such
alone can the epithet of great be applied with its true emphasis.
There is a congruity in their proceedings which one loves to
contemplate: 'he who would write heroic poems, should make his whole
life a heroic poem.'

So thought our Milton; and, what was more difficult, he acted so. To
Milton, the moral king of authors, a heroic multitude, out of many
ages and countries, might be joined; a 'cloud of witnesses,' that
encompass the true literary man throughout his pilgrimage, inspiring
him to lofty emulation, cheering his solitary thoughts with hope,
teaching him to struggle, to endure, to conquer difficulties, or, in
failure and heavy sufferings, to

                          'arm th' obdured breast
    With stubborn patience as with triple steel.'

To this august series, in his own degree, the name of Schiller may be
added.

Schiller lived in more peaceful times than Milton; his history is less
distinguished by obstacles surmounted, or sacrifices made to
principle; yet he had his share of trials to encounter; and the
admirers of his writings need not feel ashamed of the way in which he
bore it. One virtue, the parent of many others, and the most essential
of any, in his circumstances, he possessed in a supreme degree; he was
devoted with entire and unchanging ardour to the cause he had embarked
in. The extent of his natural endowments might have served, with a
less eager character, as an excuse for long periods of indolence,
broken only by fits of casual exertion: with him it was but a new
incitement to improve and develop them. The Ideal Man that lay within
him, the image of himself as he _should_ be, was formed upon a strict
and curious standard; and to reach this constantly approached and
constantly receding emblem of perfection, was the unwearied effort of
his life. This crowning principle of conduct, never ceasing to inspire
his energetic mind, introduced a consistency into his actions, a firm
coherence into his character, which the changeful condition of his
history rendered of peculiar importance. His resources, his place of
residence, his associates, his worldly prospects, might vary as they
pleased; this purpose did not vary; it was ever present with him to
nerve every better faculty of his head and heart, to invest the
chequered vicissitudes of his fortune with a dignity derived from
himself. The zeal of his nature overcame the temptations to that
loitering and indecision, that fluctuation between sloth and consuming
toil, that infirmity of resolution, with all its tormenting and
enfeebling consequences, to which a literary man, working as he does
at a solitary task, uncalled for by any pressing tangible demand, and
to be recompensed by distant and dubious advantage, is especially
exposed. Unity of aim, aided by ordinary vigour of character, will
generally insure perseverance; a quality not ranked among the cardinal
virtues, but as essential as any of them to the proper conduct of
life. Nine-tenths of the miseries and vices of mankind proceed from
idleness: with men of quick minds, to whom it is especially
pernicious, this habit is commonly the fruit of many disappointments
and schemes oft baffled; and men fail in their schemes not so much
from the want of strength as from the ill-direction of it. The weakest
living creature, by concentrating his powers on a single object, can
accomplish something: the strongest, by dispersing his over many, may
fail to accomplish anything. The drop, by continual falling, bores its
passage through the hardest rock; the hasty torrent rushes over it
with hideous uproar, and leaves no trace behind. Few men have applied
more steadfastly to the business of their life, or been more
resolutely diligent than Schiller.

The profession of theatrical poet was, in his present circumstances,
particularly favourable to the maintenance of this wholesome state of
mind. In the fulfilment of its duties, while he gratified his own
dearest predilections, he was likewise warmly seconded by the
prevailing taste of the public. The interest excited by the stage, and
the importance attached to everything connected with it, are greater
in Germany than in any other part of Europe, not excepting France, or
even Paris. Nor, as in Paris, is the stage in German towns considered
merely as a mental recreation, an elegant and pleasant mode of filling
up the vacancy of tedious evenings: in Germany, it has the advantage
of being comparatively new; and its exhibitions are directed to a
class of minds attuned to a far higher pitch of feeling. The Germans
are accused of a proneness to amplify and systematise, to admire with
excess, and to find, in whatever calls forth their applause, an
epitome of a thousand excellencies, which no one else can discover in
it. Their discussions on the theatre do certainly give colour to this
charge. Nothing, at least to an English reader, can appear more
disproportionate than the influence they impute to the stage, and the
quantity of anxious investigation they devote to its concerns.

With us, the question about the moral tendency of theatrical
amusements is now very generally consigned to the meditation of
debating clubs, and speculative societies of young men under age; with
our neighbours it is a weighty subject of inquiry for minds of almost
the highest order. With us, the stage is considered as a harmless
pastime, wholesome because it occupies the man by occupying his
mental, not his sensual faculties; one of the many departments of
fictitious representation; perhaps the most exciting, but also the
most transitory; sometimes hurtful, generally beneficial, just as the
rest are; entitled to no peculiar regard, and far inferior in its
effect to many others which have no special apparatus for their
application. The Germans, on the contrary, talk of it as of some new
organ for refining the hearts and minds of men; a sort of lay pulpit,
the worthy ally of the sacred one, and perhaps even better fitted to
exalt some of our nobler feelings; because its objects are much more
varied, and because it speaks to us through many avenues, addressing
the eye by its pomp and decorations, the ear by its harmonies, and the
heart and imagination by its poetical embellishments, and heroic acts
and sentiments. Influences still more mysterious are hinted at, if not
directly announced. An idea seems to lurk obscurely at the bottom of
certain of their abstruse and elaborate speculations, as if the stage
were destined to replace some of those sublime illusions which the
progress of reason is fast driving from the earth; as if its
pageantry, and allegories, and figurative shadowing-forth of things,
might supply men's nature with much of that quickening nourishment
which we once derived from the superstitions and mythologies of darker
ages. Viewing the matter in this light, they proceed in the management
of it with all due earnestness. Hence their minute and painful
investigations of the origin of dramatic emotion, of its various kinds
and degrees; their subdivisions of romantic and heroic and
romantico-heroic, and the other endless jargon that encumbers their
critical writings. The zeal of the people corresponds with that of
their instructors. The want of more important public interests
naturally contributes still farther to the prominence of this, the
discussion of which is not forbidden, or sure to be without effect.
Literature attracts nearly all the powerful thought that circulates in
Germany; and the theatre is the great nucleus of German literature.

It was to be expected that Schiller would participate in a feeling so
universal, and so accordant with his own wishes and prospects. The
theatre of Mannheim was at that period one of the best in Germany; he
felt proud of the share which he had in conducting it, and exerted
himself with his usual alacrity in promoting its various objects.
Connected with the duties of his office, was the more personal duty of
improving his own faculties, and extending his knowledge of the art
which he had engaged to cultivate. He read much, and studied more. The
perusal of Corneille, Racine, Voltaire, and the other French classics,
could not be without advantage to one whose exuberance of power, and
defect of taste, were the only faults he had ever been reproached
with; and the sounder ideas thus acquired, he was constantly busy in
exemplifying by attempts of his own. His projected translations from
Shakspeare and the French were postponed for the present: indeed,
except in the instance of _Macbeth_, they were never finished: his
_Conradin von Schwaben_, and a second part of the _Robbers_, were
likewise abandoned: but a number of minor undertakings sufficiently
evinced his diligence: and _Don Carlos_, which he had now seriously
commenced, was occupying all his poetical faculties.

Another matter he had much at heart was the setting forth of a
periodical work, devoted to the concerns of the stage. In this
enterprise, Schiller had expected the patronage and coöperation of the
German Society, of which he was a member. It did not strike him that
any other motive than a genuine love of art, and zeal for its
advancement, could have induced men to join such a body. But the zeal
of the German Society was more according to knowledge than that of
their new associate: they listened with approving ear to his vivid
representations, and wide-spreading projects, but declined taking any
part in the execution of them. Dalberg alone seemed willing to support
him. Mortified, but not disheartened by their coldness, Schiller
reckoned up his means of succeeding without them. The plan of his work
was contracted within narrower limits; he determined to commence it on
his own resources. After much delay, the first number of the
_Rheinische Thalia_, enriched by three acts of _Don Carlos_, appeared
in 1785. It was continued, with one short interruption, till 1794. The
main purpose of the work being the furtherance of dramatic art, and
the extension and improvement of the public taste for such
entertainments, its chief contents are easy to be guessed at;
theatrical criticisms, essays on the nature of the stage, its history
in various countries, its moral and intellectual effects, and the best
methods of producing them. A part of the publication was open to
poetry and miscellaneous discussion.

Meditating so many subjects so assiduously, Schiller knew not what it
was to be unemployed. Yet the task of composing dramatic varieties, of
training players, and deliberating in the theatrical senate, or even
of expressing philosophically his opinions on these points, could not
wholly occupy such a mind as his. There were times when,
notwithstanding his own prior habits, and all the vaunting of
dramaturgists, he felt that their scenic glories were but an empty
show, a lying refuge, where there was no abiding rest for the soul.
His eager spirit turned away from their paltry world of pasteboard, to
dwell among the deep and serious interests of the living world of men.
The _Thalia_, besides its dramatic speculations and performances,
contains several of his poems, which indicate that his attention,
though officially directed elsewhither, was alive to all the common
concerns of humanity; that he looked on life not more as a writer than
as a man. The _Laura_, whom he celebrates, was not a vision of the
mind; but a living fair one, whom he saw daily, and loved in the
secrecy of his heart. His _Gruppe aus dem Tartarus_ (Group from
Tartarus), his _Kindesmörderinn_ (Infanticide), are products of a mind
brooding over dark and mysterious things. While improving in the art
of poetry, in the capability of uttering his thoughts in the form best
adapted to express them, he was likewise improving in the more
valuable art of thought itself; and applying it not only to the
business of the imagination, but also to those profound and solemn
inquiries, which every reasonable mortal is called to engage with.

In particular, the _Philosophische Briefe_, written about this period,
exhibits Schiller in a new, and to us more interesting point of view.
Julius and Raphael are the emblems of his own fears and his own hopes;
their _Philosophic Letters_ unfold to us many a gloomy conflict that
had passed in the secret chambers of their author's soul. Sceptical
doubts on the most important of all subjects were natural to such an
understanding as Schiller's; but his heart was not of a temper to rest
satisfied with doubts; or to draw a sorry compensation for them from
the pride of superior acuteness, or the vulgar pleasure of producing
an effect on others by assailing their dearest and holiest
persuasions. With him the question about the essence of our being was
not a subject for shallow speculation, charitably named scientific;
still less for vain jangling and polemical victories: it was a fearful
mystery, which it concerned all the deepest sympathies and most
sublime anticipations of his mind to have explained. It is no idle
curiosity, but the shuddering voice of nature that asks: 'If our
happiness depend on the harmonious play of the sensorium; if our
conviction may waver with the beating of the pulse?' What Schiller's
ultimate opinions on these points were, we are nowhere specially
informed. That his heart was orthodox, that the whole universe was for
him a temple, in which he offered up the continual sacrifice of devout
adoration, his works and life bear noble testimony; yet, here and
there, his fairest visions seem as if suddenly sicklied over with a
pale cast of doubt; a withering shadow seems to flit across his soul,
and chill it in his loftiest moods. The dark condition of the man who
longs to believe and longs in vain, he can represent with a
verisimilitude and touching beauty, which shows it to have been
familiar to himself. Apart from their ingenuity, there is a certain
severe pathos in some of these passages, which affects us with a
peculiar emotion. The hero of another work is made to express himself
in these terms:

'What went before and what will follow me, I regard as two black
impenetrable curtains, which hang down at the two extremities of human
life, and which no living man has yet drawn aside. Many hundreds of
generations have already stood before them with their torches,
guessing anxiously what lies behind. On the curtain of Futurity, many
see their own shadows, the forms of their passions enlarged and put in
motion; they shrink in terror at this image of themselves. Poets,
philosophers, and founders of states, have painted this curtain with
their dreams, more smiling or more dark, as the sky above them was
cheerful or gloomy; and their pictures deceive the eye when viewed
from a distance. Many jugglers too make profit of this our universal
curiosity: by their strange mummeries, they have set the outstretched
fancy in amazement. A deep silence reigns behind this curtain; no one
once within it will answer those he has left without; all you can hear
is a hollow echo of your question, as if you shouted into a chasm. To
the other side of this curtain we are all bound: men grasp hold of it
as they pass, trembling, uncertain who may stand within it to receive
them, _quid sit id quod tantum morituri vident_. Some unbelieving
people there have been, who have asserted that this curtain did but
make a mockery of men, and that nothing could be seen because nothing
_was_ behind it: but to convince these people, the rest have seized
them, and hastily pushed them in.'[11]

    [Footnote 11: _Der Geisterseher_, Schillers Werke, B. iv. p
    350.]

The _Philosophic Letters_ paint the struggles of an ardent,
enthusiastic, inquisitive spirit to deliver itself from the harassing
uncertainties, to penetrate the dread obscurity, which overhangs the
lot of man. The first faint scruples of the Doubter are settled by the
maxim: 'Believe nothing but thy own reason; there is nothing holier
than truth.' But Reason, employed in such an inquiry, can do but half
the work: she is like the Conjuror that has pronounced the spell of
invocation, but has forgot the counter-word; spectres and shadowy
forms come crowding at his summons; in endless multitudes they press
and hover round his magic circle, and the terror-struck Black-artist
cannot lay them. Julius finds that on rejecting the primary dictates
of feeling, the system of dogmatical belief, he is driven to the
system of materialism. Recoiling in horror from this dead and
cheerless creed, he toils and wanders in the labyrinths of pantheism,
seeking comfort and rest, but finding none; till, baffled and tired,
and sick at heart, he seems inclined, as far as we can judge, to
renounce the dreary problem altogether, to shut the eyes of his too
keen understanding, and take refuge under the shade of Revelation. The
anxieties and errors of Julius are described in glowing terms; his
intellectual subtleties are mingled with the eloquence of intense
feeling. The answers of his friend are in a similar style; intended
not more to convince than to persuade. The whole work is full of
passion as well as acuteness; the impress of a philosophic and poetic
mind striving with all its vast energies to make its poetry and its
philosophy agree. Considered as exhibiting the state of Schiller's
thoughts at this period, it possesses a peculiar interest. In other
respects there is little in it to allure us. It is short and
incomplete; there is little originality in the opinions it expresses,
and none in the form of its composition. As an argument on either
side, it is too rhetorical to be of much weight; it abandons the
inquiry when its difficulties and its value are becoming greatest, and
breaks off abruptly without arriving at any conclusion. Schiller has
surveyed the dark Serbonian bog of Infidelity: but he has, made no
causeway through it: the _Philosophic Letters_ are a fragment.

Amid employments so varied, with health, and freedom from the coarser
hardships of life, Schiller's feelings might be earnest, but could
scarcely be unhappy. His mild and amiable manners, united to such
goodness of heart, and such height of accomplishment, endeared him to
all classes of society in Mannheim; Dalberg was still his warm friend;
Schwann and Laura he conversed with daily. His genius was fast
enlarging its empire, and fast acquiring more complete command of it;
he was loved and admired, rich in the enjoyment of present activity
and fame, and richer in the hope of what was coming. Yet in proportion
as his faculties and his prospects expanded, he began to view his
actual situation with less and less contentment. For a season after
his arrival, it was natural that Mannheim should appear to him as land
does to the shipwrecked mariner, full of gladness and beauty, merely
because it is land. It was equally natural that, after a time, this
sentiment should abate and pass away; that his place of refuge should
appear but as other places, only with its difficulties and discomforts
aggravated by their nearness. His revenue was inconsiderable here, and
dependent upon accidents for its continuance; a share in directing the
concerns of a provincial theatre, a task not without its irritations,
was little adequate to satisfy the wishes of a mind like his. Schiller
longed for a wider sphere of action; the world was all before him; he
lamented that he should still be lingering on the mere outskirts of
its business; that he should waste so much time and effort in
contending with the irascible vanity of players, or watching the ebbs
and flows of public taste; in resisting small grievances, and
realising a small result. He determined upon leaving Mannheim. If
destitute of other holds, his prudence might still have taught him to
smother this unrest, the never-failing inmate of every human breast,
and patiently continue where he was: but various resources remained to
him, and various hopes invited him from other quarters. The produce of
his works, or even the exercise of his profession, would insure him a
competence anywhere; the former had already gained him distinction
and goodwill in every part of Germany. The first number of his
_Thalia_ had arrived at the court of Hessen-Darmstadt while the Duke
of Sachsen-Weimar happened to be there: the perusal of the first acts
of _Don Carlos_ had introduced the author to that enlightened prince,
who expressed his satisfaction and respect by transmitting him the
title of Counsellor. A less splendid but not less truthful or pleasing
testimonial had lately reached him from Leipzig.

'Some days ago,' he writes, 'I met with a very flattering and
agreeable surprise. There came to me, out of Leipzig, from unknown
hands, four parcels, and as many letters, written with the highest
enthusiasm towards me, and overflowing with poetical devotion. They
were accompanied by four miniature portraits, two of which are of very
beautiful young ladies, and by a pocket-book sewed in the finest
taste. Such a present, from people who can have no interest in it, but
to let me know that they wish me well, and thank me for some cheerful
hours, I prize extremely; the loudest applause of the world could
scarcely have flattered me so agreeably.'

Perhaps this incident, trifling as it was, might not be without effect
in deciding the choice of his future residence. Leipzig had the more
substantial charm of being a centre of activity and commerce of all
sorts, that of literature not excepted; and it contained some more
effectual friends of Schiller than these his unseen admirers. He
resolved on going thither. His wishes and intentions are minutely
detailed to Huber, his chief intimate at Leipzig, in a letter written
shortly before his removal. We translate it for the hints it gives us
of Schiller's tastes and habits at that period of his history.

'This, then, is probably the last letter I shall write to you from
Mannheim. The time from the fifteenth of March has hung upon my hands,
like a trial for life; and, thank Heaven! I am now ten whole days
nearer you. And now, my good friend, as you have already consented to
take my entire confidence upon your shoulders, allow me the pleasure
of leading you into the interior of my domestic wishes.

'In my new establishment at Leipzig, I purpose to avoid one error,
which has plagued me a great deal here in Mannheim. It is this: No
longer to conduct my own housekeeping, and also no longer to live
alone. The former is not by any means a business I excel in. It costs
me less to execute a whole conspiracy, in five acts, than to settle my
domestic arrangements for a week; and poetry, you yourself know, is
but a dangerous assistant in calculations of economy. My mind is drawn
different ways; I fall headlong out of my ideal world, if a holed
stocking remind me of the real world.

'As to the other point, I require for my private happiness to have a
true warm friend that would be ever at my hand, like my better angel;
to whom I could communicate my nascent ideas in the very act of
conceiving them, not needing to transmit them, as at present, by
letters or long visits. Nay, when this friend of mine lives beyond the
four corners of my house, the trifling circumstance, that in order to
reach him I must cross the street, dress myself, and so forth, will of
itself destroy the enjoyment of the moment, and the train of my
thoughts is torn in pieces before I see him.

'Observe you, my good fellow, these are petty matters; but petty
matters often bear the weightiest result in the management of life. I
know myself better than perhaps a thousand mothers' sons know
themselves; I understand how much, and frequently how little, I
require to be completely happy. The question therefore is: Can I get
this wish of my heart fulfilled in Leipzig?

'If it were possible that I could make a lodgment with you, all my
cares on that head would be removed. I am no bad neighbour, as perhaps
you imagine; I have pliancy enough to suit myself to another, and here
and there withal a certain knack, as Yorick says, at helping to make
him merrier and better. Failing this, if you could find me any person
that would undertake my small economy, everything would still be well.

'I want nothing but a bedroom, which might also be my working room;
and another chamber for receiving visits. The house-gear necessary for
me are a good chest of drawers, a desk, a bed and sofa, a table, and a
few chairs. With these conveniences, my accommodation were
sufficiently provided for.

'I cannot live on the ground-floor, nor close by the ridge-tile; also
my windows positively must not look into the churchyard. I love men,
and therefore like their bustle. If I cannot so arrange it that we
(meaning the _quintuple alliance_[12]) shall mess together, I would
engage at the _table d'hôte_ of the inn; for I had rather fast than
eat without company, large, or else particularly good.

    [Footnote 12: Who the other three were is nowhere
    particularly mentioned.]

'I write all this to you, my dearest friend, to forewarn you of my
silly tastes; and, at all events, that I may put it in your power to
take some preparatory steps, in one place or another, for my
settlement. My demands are, in truth, confoundedly naïve, but your
goodness has spoiled me.

'The first part of the _Thalia_ must already be in your possession;
the doom of _Carlos_ will ere now be pronounced. Yet I will take it
from you orally. Had we five not been acquainted, who knows but we
might have become so on occasion of this very _Carlos_?'

Schiller went accordingly to Leipzig; though whether Huber received
him, or he found his humble necessaries elsewhere, we have not
learned. He arrived in the end of March 1785, after eighteen months'
residence at Mannheim. The reception he met with, his amusements,
occupations, and prospects are described in a letter to the Kammerrath
Schwann, a bookseller at Mannheim, alluded to above. Except Dalberg,
Schwann had been his earliest friend; he was now endeared to him by
subsequent familiarity, not of letters and writing, but of daily
intercourse; and what was more than all, by the circumstance that
_Laura_ was his daughter. The letter, it will be seen, was written
with a weightier object than the pleasure of describing Leipzig: it is
dated 24th April 1785.

'You have an indubitable right to be angry at my long silence; yet I
know your goodness too well to be in doubt that you will pardon me.

'When a man, unskilled as I am in the busy world, visits Leipzig for
the first time, during the Fair, it is, if not excusable, at least
intelligible, that among the multitude of strange things running
through his head, he should for a few days lose recollection of
himself. Such, my dearest friend, has till today been nearly my case;
and even now I have to steal from many avocations the pleasing moments
which, in idea, I mean to spend with you at Mannheim.

'Our journey hither, of which Herr Götz will give you a circumstantial
description, was the most dismal you can well imagine; Bog, Snow and
Rain were the three wicked foes that by turns assailed us; and though
we used an additional pair of horses all the way from Vach, yet our
travelling, which should have ended on Friday, was spun-out till
Sunday. It is universally maintained that the Fair has visibly
suffered by the shocking state of the roads; at all events, even in my
eyes, the crowd of sellers and buyers is far _beneath_ the description
I used to get of it in the Empire.

'In the very first week of my residence here, I made innumerable new
acquaintances; among whom, Weisse, Oeser, Hiller, Zollikofer,
Professor Huber, Jünger, the famous actor Reinike, a few merchants'
families of the place, and some Berlin people, are the most
interesting. During Fair-time, as you know well, a person cannot get
the _full_ enjoyment of any one; our attention to the individual is
dissipated in the noisy multitude.

'My most pleasant recreation hitherto has been to visit Richter's
coffee-house, where I constantly find half the _world_ of Leipzig
assembled, and extend my acquaintance with foreigners and natives.

'From various quarters I have had some alluring invitations to Berlin
and Dresden; which it will be difficult for me to withstand. It is
quite a peculiar case, my friend, to have a literary name. The few men
of worth and consideration who offer you their intimacy on that score,
and whose regard is really worth coveting, are too disagreeably
counterweighed by the baleful swarm of creatures who keep humming
round you, like so many flesh-flies; gape at you as if you were a
monster, and condescend moreover, on the strength of one or two
blotted sheets, to present themselves as colleagues. Many people
cannot understand how a man that wrote the _Robbers_ should look like
another son of Adam. Close-cut hair, at the very least, and
postillion's boots, and a hunter's whip, were expected.

'Many families are in the habit here of spending the summer in some
of the adjacent villages, and so enjoying the pleasures of the
country. I mean to pass a few months in Gohlis, which lies only a
quarter of a league from Leipzig, with a very pleasant walk leading to
it, through the Rosenthal. Here I purpose being very diligent, working
at _Carlos_ and the _Thalia_; that so, which perhaps will please you
more than anything, I may gradually and silently return to my medical
profession. I long impatiently for that epoch of my life, when my
prospects may be settled and determined, when I may follow my darling
pursuits merely for my own pleasure. At one time I studied medicine
_con amore_; could I not do it now with still greater keenness?

'This, my best friend, might of itself convince you of the truth and
firmness of my purpose; but what should offer you the most complete
security on that point, what must banish all your doubts about my
steadfastness, I have yet kept secret. _Now or never_ I must speak it
out. Distance alone gives me courage to express the wish of my heart.
Frequently enough, when I used to have the happiness of being near
you, has this confession hovered on my tongue; but my confidence
always forsook me, when I tried to utter it. My best friend! Your
goodness, your affection, your generosity of heart, have encouraged me
in a hope which I can justify by nothing but the friendship and
respect you have always shown me. My free, unconstrained access to
your house afforded me the opportunity of intimate acquaintance with
your amiable daughter; and the frank, kind treatment with which both
you and she honoured me, tempted my heart to entertain the bold wish
of becoming your son. My prospects have hitherto been dim and vague;
they now begin to alter in my favour. I will strive with more
continuous vigour when the goal is clear; do you decide whether I can
reach it, when the dearest wish of my heart supports my zeal.

'Yet two short years and my whole fortune will be determined. I feel
how _much_ I ask, how boldly, and with how little right I ask it. A
year is past since this thought took possession of my soul; but my
esteem for you and your excellent daughter was too high to allow room
for a wish, which at that time I could found on no solid basis. I made
it a duty with myself to visit your house less frequently, and to
dissipate such feelings by absence; but this poor artifice did not
avail me.

'The Duke of Weimar was the first person to whom I disclosed myself.
His anticipating goodness, and the declaration that he took an
interest in my happiness, induced me to confess that this happiness
depended on a union with your noble daughter; and he expressed his
satisfaction at my choice. I have reason to hope that he will do more,
should it come to the point of completing my happiness by this union.

'I shall add nothing farther: I know well that hundreds of others
might afford your daughter a more splendid fate than I at this moment
can promise her; but that any other _heart_ can be more worthy of her,
I venture to deny. Your decision, which I look for with impatience and
fearful expectation, will determine whether I may venture to write in
person to your daughter. Fare you well, forever loved by—Your—

'FRIEDRICH SCHILLER.'


Concerning this proposal, we have no farther information to
communicate; except that the parties did not marry, and did not cease
being friends. That Schiller obtained the permission he concludes with
requesting, appears from other sources. Three years afterwards, in
writing to the same person, he alludes emphatically to his eldest
daughter; and what is more ominous, _apologises_ for his silence to
her. Schiller's situation at this period was such as to preclude the
idea of present marriage; perhaps, in the prospect of it, _Laura_ and
he commenced corresponding; and before the wished-for change of
fortune had arrived, both of them, attracted to other objects, had
lost one another in the vortex of life, and ceased to regard their
finding one another as desirable.

Schiller's medical project, like many which he formed, never came to
any issue. In moments of anxiety, amid the fluctuations of his lot,
the thought of this profession floated through his mind, as of a
distant stronghold, to which, in time of need, he might retire. But
literature was too intimately interwoven with his dispositions and his
habits to be seriously interfered with; it was only at brief intervals
that the pleasure of pursuing it exclusively seemed overbalanced by
its inconveniences. He needed a more certain income than poetry could
yield him; but he wished to derive it from some pursuit less alien to
his darling study. Medicine he never practised after leaving
Stuttgard.

In the mean time, whatever he might afterwards resolve on, he
determined to complete his _Carlos_, the half of which, composed a
considerable time before, had lately been running the gauntlet of
criticism in the _Thalia_.[13] With this for his chief occupation,
Gohlis or Leipzig for his residence, and a circle of chosen friends
for his entertainment, Schiller's days went happily along. His _Lied
an die Freude_ (Song to Joy), one of his most spirited and beautiful
lyrical productions, was composed here: it bespeaks a mind impetuous
even in its gladness, and overflowing with warm and earnest emotions.

    [Footnote 13: Wieland's rather harsh and not too judicious
    sentence on it may be seen at large in Gruber's _Wieland
    Geschildert_, B. ii. S. 571.]

But the love of change is grounded on the difference between
anticipation and reality, and dwells with man till the age when habit
becomes stronger than desire, or anticipation ceases to be hope.
Schiller did not find that his establishment at Leipzig, though
pleasant while it lasted, would realise his ulterior views: he yielded
to some of his 'alluring invitations,' and went to Dresden in the end
of summer. Dresden contained many persons who admired him, more who
admired his fame, and a few who loved himself. Among the latter, the
Appellationsrath Körner deserves especial mention.[14] Schiller found
a true friend in Körner, and made his house a home. He parted his time
between Dresden and Löschwitz, near it, where that gentleman resided:
it was here that _Don Carlos_, the printing of which was meanwhile
proceeding at Leipzig, received its completion and last
corrections.[15] It was published in 1786.

    [Footnote 14: The well-written life, prefixed to the
    Stuttgard and Tübingen edition of Schiller's works, is by
    this Körner. The Theodor Körner, whose _Lyre and Sword_
    became afterwards famous, was his son.]

    [Footnote 15: In vol. x. of the Vienna edition of Schiller
    are some ludicrous verses, almost his sole attempt in the way
    of drollery, bearing a title equivalent to this: 'To the
    Right Honourable the Board of Washers, the most humble
    Memorial of a downcast Tragic Poet, at Löschwitz;' of which
    Doering gives the following account. 'The first part of _Don
    Carlos_ being already printed, by Göschen, in Leipzig, the
    poet, pressed for the remainder, felt himself obliged to stay
    behind from an excursion which the Körner family were making,
    in a fine autumn day. Unluckily, the lady of the house,
    thinking Schiller was to go along with them, had locked all
    her cupboards and the cellar. Schiller found himself without
    meat or drink, or even wood for fuel; still farther
    exasperated by the dabbling of some washer-maids beneath his
    window, he produced these lines.' The poem is of the kind
    which cannot be translated; the first three stanzas are as
    follows:

    "Die Wäsche klatscht vor meiner Thür,
        Es plarrt die Küchenzofe,
    Und mich, mich fuhrt das Flügelthier
        Zu König Philips Hofe.

    Ich eile durch die Gallerie
        Mit schnellem Schritt, belausche
    Dort die Prinzessin Eboli
        Im süssen Liebesrausche.

    Schon ruft das schöne Weib: Triumph!
        Schon hör' ich—Tod und Hölle!
    Was hör' ich—einen nassen Strumpf
        Geworfen in die Welle."]

The story of Don Carlos seems peculiarly adapted for dramatists. The
spectacle of a royal youth condemned to death by his father, of which
happily our European annals furnish but another example, is among the
most tragical that can be figured; the character of that youth, the
intermixture of bigotry and jealousy, and love, with the other strong
passions, which brought on his fate, afford a combination of
circumstances, affecting in themselves, and well calculated for the
basis of deeply interesting fiction. Accordingly they have not been
neglected: Carlos has often been the theme of poets; particularly
since the time when his history, recorded by the Abbé St. Réal, was
exposed in more brilliant colours to the inspection of every writer,
and almost of every reader.

The Abbé St. Réal was a dexterous artist in that half-illicit species
of composition, the historic novel: in the course of his operations,
he lighted on these incidents; and, by filling-up according to his
fancy, what historians had only sketched to him, by amplifying,
beautifying, suppressing, and arranging, he worked the whole into a
striking little narrative, distinguished by all the symmetry, the
sparkling graces, the vigorous description, and keen thought, which
characterise his other writings. This French Sallust, as his
countrymen have named him, has been of use to many dramatists. His
_Conjuraison contre Venise_ furnished Otway with the outline of his
best tragedy; _Epicaris_ has more than once appeared upon the stage;
and _Don Carlos_ has been dramatised in almost all the languages of
Europe. Besides Otway's _Carlos_ so famous at its first appearance,
many tragedies on this subject have been written: most of them are
gathered to their final rest; some are fast going thither; two bid
fair to last for ages. Schiller and Alfieri have both drawn their plot
from St. Réal; the former has expanded and added; the latter has
compressed and abbreviated.

Schiller's _Carlos_ is the first of his plays that bears the stamp of
anything like full maturity. The opportunities he had enjoyed for
extending his knowledge of men and things, the sedulous practice of
the art of composition, the study of purer models, had not been
without their full effect. Increase of years had done something for
him; diligence had done much more. The ebullience of youth is now
chastened into the steadfast energy of manhood; the wild enthusiast,
that spurned at the errors of the world, has now become the
enlightened moralist, that laments their necessity, or endeavours to
find out their remedy. A corresponding alteration is visible in the
external form of the work, in its plot and diction. The plot is
contrived with great ingenuity, embodying the result of much study,
both dramatic and historical. The language is blank verse, not prose,
as in the former works; it is more careful and regular, less ambitious
in its object, but more certain of attaining it. Schiller's mind had
now reached its full stature: he felt and thought more justly; he
could better express what he felt and thought.

The merit we noticed in _Fiesco_, the fidelity with which the scene of
action is brought before us, is observable to a still greater degree
in _Don Carlos_. The Spanish court in the end of the sixteenth
century; its rigid, cold formalities; its cruel, bigoted, but
proud-spirited grandees; its inquisitors and priests; and Philip, its
head, the epitome at once of its good and its bad qualities, in all
his complex interests, are exhibited with wonderful distinctness and
address. Nor is it at the surface or the outward movements alone that
we look; we are taught the mechanism of their characters, as well as
shown it in action. The stony-hearted Despot himself must have been an
object of peculiar study to the author. Narrow in his understanding,
dead in his affections, from his birth the lord of Europe, Philip has
existed all his days above men, not among them. Locked up within
himself, a stranger to every generous and kindly emotion, his gloomy
spirit has had no employment but to strengthen or increase its own
elevation, no pleasure but to gratify its own self-will. Superstition,
harmonising with these native tendencies, has added to their force,
but scarcely to their hatefulness: it lends them a sort of sacredness
in his own eyes, and even a sort of horrid dignity in ours. Philip is
not without a certain greatness, the greatness of unlimited external
power, and of a will relentless in its dictates, guided by principles,
false, but consistent and unalterable. The scene of his existence is
haggard, stern and desolate; but it is all his own, and he seems
fitted for it. We hate him and fear him; but the poet has taken care
to secure him from contempt.

The contrast both of his father's fortune and character are those of
Carlos. Few situations of a more affecting kind can be imagined, than
the situation of this young, generous and ill-fated prince. From
boyhood his heart had been bent on mighty things; he had looked upon
the royal grandeur that awaited his maturer years, only as the means
of realising those projects for the good of men, which his beneficent
soul was ever busied with. His father's dispositions, and the temper
of the court, which admitted no development of such ideas, had given
the charm of concealment to his feelings; his life had been in
prospect; and we are the more attached to him, that deserving to be
glorious and happy, he had but expected to be either. Bright days,
however, seemed approaching; shut out from the communion of the Albas
and Domingos, among whom he lived a stranger, the communion of another
and far dearer object was to be granted him; Elizabeth's love seemed
to make him independent even of the future, which it painted with
still richer hues. But in a moment she is taken from him by the most
terrible of all visitations; his bride becomes his mother; and the
stroke that deprives him of her, while it ruins him forever, is more
deadly, because it cannot be complained of without sacrilege, and
cannot be altered by the power of Fate itself. Carlos, as the poet
represents him, calls forth our tenderest sympathies. His soul seems
once to have been rich and glorious, like the garden of Eden; but the
desert-wind has passed over it, and smitten it with perpetual blight.
Despair has overshadowed all the fair visions of his youth; or if he
hopes, it is but the gleam of delirium, which something sterner than
even duty extinguishes in the cold darkness of death. His energy
survives but to vent itself in wild gusts of reckless passion, or
aimless indignation. There is a touching poignancy in his expression
of the bitter melancholy that oppresses him, in the fixedness of
misery with which he looks upon the faded dreams of former years, or
the fierce ebullitions and dreary pauses of resolution, which now
prompts him to retrieve what he has lost, now withers into
powerlessness, as nature and reason tell him that it cannot, must not
be retrieved.

Elizabeth, no less moving and attractive, is also depicted with
masterly skill. If she returns the passion of her amiable and once
betrothed lover, we but guess at the fact; for so horrible a thought
has never once been whispered to her own gentle and spotless mind. Yet
her heart bleeds for Carlos; and we see that did not the most sacred
feelings of humanity forbid her, there is no sacrifice she would not
make to restore his peace of mind. By her soothing influence she
strives to calm the agony of his spirit; by her mild winning eloquence
she would persuade him that for Don Carlos other objects must remain,
when his hopes of personal felicity have been cut off; she would
change his love for her into love for the millions of human beings
whose destiny depends on his. A meek vestal, yet with the prudence of
a queen, and the courage of a matron, with every graceful and generous
quality of womanhood harmoniously blended in her nature, she lives in
a scene that is foreign to her; the happiness she should have had is
beside her, the misery she must endure is around her; yet she utters
no regret, gives way to no complaint, but seeks to draw from duty
itself a compensation for the cureless evil which duty has inflicted.
Many tragic queens are more imposing and majestic than this Elizabeth
of Schiller; but there is none who rules over us with a sway so soft
and feminine, none whom we feel so much disposed to love as well as
reverence.

The virtues of Elizabeth are heightened by comparison with the
principles and actions of her attendant, the Princess Eboli. The
character of Eboli is full of pomp and profession; magnanimity and
devotedness are on her tongue, some shadow of them even floats in her
imagination; but they are not rooted in her heart; pride, selfishness,
unlawful passion are the only inmates there. Her lofty boastings of
generosity are soon forgotten when the success of her attachment to
Carlos becomes hopeless; the fervour of a selfish love once
extinguished in her bosom, she regards the object of it with none but
vulgar feelings. Virtue no longer according with interest, she ceases
to be virtuous; from a rejected mistress the transition to a jealous
spy is with her natural and easy. Yet we do not hate the Princess:
there is a seductive warmth and grace about her character, which makes
us lament her vices rather than condemn them. The poet has drawn her
at once false and fair.

In delineating Eboli and Philip, Schiller seems as if struggling
against the current of his nature; our feelings towards them are
hardly so severe as he intended; their words and deeds, at least those
of the latter, are wicked and repulsive enough; but we still have a
kind of latent persuasion that they meant better than they spoke or
acted. With the Marquis of Posa, he had a more genial task. This Posa,
we can easily perceive, is the representative of Schiller himself. The
ardent love of men, which forms his ruling passion, was likewise the
constant feeling of his author; the glowing eloquence with which he
advocates the cause of truth, and justice, and humanity, was such as
Schiller too would have employed in similar circumstances. In some
respects, Posa is the chief character of the piece; there is a
preëminent magnificence in his object, and in the faculties and
feelings with which he follows it. Of a splendid intellect, and a
daring devoted heart, his powers are all combined upon a single
purpose. Even his friendship for Carlos, grounded on the likeness of
their minds, and faithful as it is, yet seems to merge in this
paramount emotion, zeal for the universal interests of man. Aiming,
with all his force of thought and action, to advance the happiness and
best rights of his fellow-creatures; pursuing this noble aim with the
skill and dignity which it deserves, his mind is at once unwearied,
earnest and serene. He is another Carlos, but somewhat older, more
experienced, and never crossed in hopeless love. There is a calm
strength in Posa, which no accident of fortune can shake. Whether
cheering the forlorn Carlos into new activity; whether lifting up his
voice in the ear of tyrants and inquisitors, or taking leave of life
amid his vast unexecuted schemes, there is the same sedate
magnanimity, the same fearless composure: when the fatal bullet
strikes him, he dies with the concerns of others, not his own, upon
his lips. He is a reformer, the perfection of reformers; not a
revolutionist, but a prudent though determined improver. His
enthusiasm does not burst forth in violence, but in manly and
enlightened energy; his eloquence is not more moving to the heart than
his lofty philosophy is convincing to the head. There is a majestic
vastness of thought in his precepts, which recommends them to the mind
independently of the beauty of their dress. Few passages of poetry are
more spirit-stirring than his last message to Carlos, through the
Queen. The certainty of death seems to surround his spirit with a kind
of martyr glory; he is kindled into transport, and speaks with a
commanding power. The pathetic wisdom of the line, 'Tell him, that
when he is a man, he must reverence the dreams of his youth,' has
often been admired: that scene has many such.

The interview with Philip is not less excellent. There is something so
striking in the idea of confronting the cold solitary tyrant with 'the
only man in all his states that does not need him;' of raising the
voice of true manhood for once within the gloomy chambers of thraldom
and priestcraft, that we can forgive the stretch of poetic license by
which it is effected. Philip and Posa are antipodes in all respects.
Philip thinks his new instructor is 'a Protestant;' a charge which
Posa rebuts with calm dignity, his object not being separation and
contention, but union and peaceful gradual improvement. Posa seems to
understand the character of Philip better; not attempting to awaken in
his sterile heart any feeling for real glory, or the interests of his
fellow-men, he attacks his selfishness and pride, represents to him
the intrinsic meanness and misery of a throne, however decked with
adventitious pomp, if built on servitude, and isolated from the
sympathies and interests of others.

We translate the entire scene; though not by any means the best, it is
among the fittest for extraction of any in the piece. Posa has been
sent for by the King, and is waiting in a chamber of the palace to
know what is required of him; the King enters, unperceived by Posa,
whose attention is directed to a picture on the wall:


ACT III. SCENE X.

The KING and MARQUIS DE POSA.

[_The latter, on noticing the King, advances towards him, and kneels,
then rises, and waits without any symptom of embarrassment._]

KING. [_looks at him with surprise_].
      We have met before, then?

MAR.                 No.

KING.                                      You did my crown
Some service: wherefore have you shunn'd my thanks?
Our memory is besieged by crowds of suitors;
Omniscient is none but He in Heaven.
You should have sought my looks: why did you not?

MAR. 'Tis scarcely yet two days, your Majesty,
Since I returned to Spain.

KING.                      I am not used
To be my servants' debtor; ask of me
Some favour.

MAR. I enjoy the laws.

KING.                          That right
The very murd'rer has.

MAR.                    And how much more
The honest citizen!—Sire, I'm content.

KING [_aside_]. Much self-respect indeed, and lofty daring!
But this was to be looked for: I would have
My Spaniards haughty; better that the cup
Should overflow than not be full.—I hear
You left my service, Marquis.

MAR.                           Making way
For men more worthy, I withdrew.

KING.                            'Tis wrong:
When spirits such as yours play truant,
My state must suffer. You conceive, perhaps,
Some post unworthy of your merits
Might be offer'd you?

MAR.                   No, Sire, I cannot doubt
But that a judge so skilful, and experienced
In the gifts of men, has at a glance discover'd
Wherein I might do him service, wherein not.
I feel with humble gratitude the favour,
With which your Majesty is loading me
By thoughts so lofty: yet I can—            [_He stops._

KING.                             You pause?

MAR. Sire, at the moment I am scarce prepar'd
To speak, in phrases of a Spanish subject,
What as a citizen o' th' world I've thought.
Truth is, in parting from the Court forever,
I held myself discharged from all necessity
Of troubling it with reasons for my absence.

KING. Are your reasons bad, then? Dare you not risk
Disclosing them?

MAR.             My life, and joyfully,
Were scope allow'd me to disclose them _all_.
'Tis not myself but Truth that I endanger,
Should the King refuse me a full hearing.
Your anger or contempt I fain would shun;
But forced to choose between them, I had rather
Seem to you a man deserving punishment
Than pity.

KING [_with a look of expectation_]. Well?

MAR.                                   The servant of a prince
I cannot be.         [_The King looks at him with astonishment._
              I will not cheat my merchant:
If you deign to take me as your servant,
You expect, you wish, my actions only;
You wish my arm in fight, my thought in counsel;
Nothing more you will accept of: not my actions,
Th' approval they might find at Court becomes
The object of my acting. Now for me
Right conduct has a value of its own:
The happiness my king might cause me plant
I would myself produce; and conscious joy,
And free selection, not the force of duty,
Should impel me. Is it thus your Majesty
Requires it? Could you suffer new creators
In your own creation? Or could I
Consent with patience to become the chisel,
When I hoped to be the statuary?
I love mankind; and in a monarchy,
Myself is all that I can love.

KING.                          This fire
Is laudable. You would do good to others;
How you do it, patriots, wise men think
Of little moment, so it be but done.
Seek for yourself the office in my kingdoms
That will give you scope to gratify
This noble zeal.

MAR.             There is not such an office.

KING. How?

MAR.       What the king desires to spread abroad
Through these weak hands, is it the good of men?
That good which my unfetter'd love would wish them?
Pale majesty would tremble to behold it!
No! Policy has fashioned in her courts
Another sort of human good; a sort
Which _she_ is rich enough to give away,
Awakening with it in the hearts of men
New cravings, such as _it_ can satisfy.
Truth she keeps coining in her mints, such truth
As she can tolerate; and every die
Except her own she breaks and casts away.
But is the royal bounty wide enough
For me to wish and work in? Must the love
I hear my brother pledge itself to be
My brother's jailor? Can I call him happy
When he dare not think? Sire, choose some other
To dispense the good which _you_ have stamped for us.
With me it tallies not; a prince's servant
I cannot be.

KING [_rather quickly_].
            You are a Protestant.

MAR. [_after some reflection_]
Sire, your creed is also mine.              [_After a pause._
                               I find
I am misunderstood: 'tis as I feared.
You see me draw the veil from majesty,
And view its mysteries with steadfast eye:
How should you know if I regard as holy
What I no more regard as terrible?
Dangerous I seem, for bearing thoughts too high:
My King, I am not dangerous: my wishes
Lie buried here.                  [_Laying his hand on his breast._
                 The poor and purblind rage
Of innovation, that but aggravates
The weight o' th' fetters which it cannot break,
Will never heat _my_ blood. The century
Admits not my ideas: I live a citizen
Of those that are to come. Sire, can a picture
Break your rest? Your breath obliterates it.

KING. No other knows you harbour such ideas?

MAR. Such, no one.

KING [_rises, walks a few steps, then stops opposite the Marquis.
                —Aside_]. New at least, this dialect!
Flattery exhausts itself: a man of parts
Disdains to imitate. For once let's have
A trial of the opposite! Why not?
The strange is oft the lucky.—If so be
This is your principle, why let it pass!
I will conform; the crown shall have a servant
New in Spain,—a liberal!

MAR.                   Sire, I see
How very meanly you conceive of men;
How, in the language of the frank true spirit
You find but another deeper artifice
Of a more practis'd coz'ner: I can also
Partly see what causes this. 'Tis men;
'Tis men that force you to it: they themselves
Have cast away their own nobility,
Themselves have crouch'd to this degraded posture.
Man's innate greatness, like a spectre, frights them;
Their poverty seems safety; with base skill
They ornament their chains, and call it virtue
To wear them with an air of grace. Twas thus
You found the world; thus from your royal father
Came it to you: how in this distorted,
Mutilated image could you honour man?

KING. Some truth there is in this.

MAR.                               Pity, however,
That in taking man from the Creator,
And changing him into _your_ handiwork,
And setting up yourself to be the god
Of this new-moulded creature, you should have
Forgotten one essential; you yourself
Remained a man, a very child of Adam!
You are still a suffering, longing mortal,
You call for sympathy, and to a god
We can but sacrifice, and pray, and tremble!
O unwise exchange! unbless'd perversion!
When you have sunk your brothers to be play'd
As harp-strings, who will join in harmony
With you the player?

KING [_aside_].         By Heaven, he touches me!

MAR. For you, however, this is unimportant;
It but makes you separate, peculiar;
'Tis the price you pay for being a god.
And frightful were it if you failed in this!
If for the desolated good of millions,
You the Desolator should gain—nothing!
If the very freedom you have blighted
And kill'd were that alone which could exalt
Yourself!—Sire, pardon me, I must not stay:
The matter makes me rash: my heart is full,
Too strong the charm of looking on the one
Of living men to whom I might unfold it.

[_The Count de Lerma enters, and whispers a few words to the King. The
latter beckons to him to withdraw, and continues sitting in his former
posture._

KING [_to the Marquis, after Lerma is gone_].
Speak on!

MAR. [_after a pause_] I feel, Sire, all the worth—

KING.                             Speak on!
Y' had something more to say.

MAR.                          Not long since, Sire,
I chanced to pass through Flanders and Brabant.
So many rich and flourishing provinces;
A great, a mighty people, and still more,
An honest people!—And this people's Father!
That, thought I, must be divine: so thinking,
I stumbled on a heap of human bones.

[_He pauses; his eyes rest on the King, who endeavours to return his
glance, but with an air of embarrassment is forced to look upon the
ground._

You are in the right, you _must_ proceed so.
That you _could_ do, what you saw you _must_ do,
Fills me with a shuddering admiration.
Pity that the victim welt'ring in its blood
Should speak so feeble an eulogium
On the spirit of the priest! That mere men,
Not beings of a calmer essence, write
The annals of the world! Serener ages
Will displace the age of Philip; these will bring
A milder wisdom; the subject's good will then
Be reconcil'd to th' prince's greatness;
The thrifty State will learn to prize its children,
And necessity no more will be inhuman.

KING. And when, think you, would those blessed ages
Have come round, had I recoil'd before
The curse of this? Behold my Spain! Here blooms
The subject's good, in never-clouded peace:
_Such_ peace will I bestow on Flanders.

MAR. Peace of a churchyard! And you hope to end
What you have entered on? Hope to withstand
The timeful change of Christendom; to stop
The universal Spring that shall make young
The countenance o' th' Earth? _You_ purpose, single
In all Europe, alone, to fling yourself
Against the wheel of Destiny that rolls
For ever its appointed course; to clutch
Its spokes with mortal arm? You may not, Sire!
Already thousands have forsook your kingdoms,
Escaping glad though poor: the citizen
You lost for conscience' sake, he was your noblest.
With mother's arms Elizabeth receives
The fugitives, and rich by foreign skill,
In fertile strength her England blooms. Forsaken
Of its toilsome people, lies Grenada
Desolate; and Europe sees with glad surprise
Its enemy faint with self-inflicted wounds.

[_The King seems moved: the Marquis observes it, and advances some
steps nearer._

Plant for Eternity and death the seed?
Your harvest will be nothingness. The work
Will not survive the spirit of its former;
It will be in vain that you have labour'd;
That you have fought the fight with Nature;
And to plans of Ruin consecrated
A high and royal lifetime. Man is greater
Than you thought. The bondage of long slumber
He will break; his sacred rights he will reclaim.
With Nero and Busiris will he rank
The name of Philip, and—that grieves me, for
You once were good.

KING.                How know you that?

MAR. [_with warm energy_]         You were;
Yes, by th' All-Merciful! Yes, I repeat it.
Restore to us what you have taken from us.
Generous as strong, let human happiness
Stream from your horn of plenty, let souls ripen
Round you. Restore us what you took from us.
Amid a thousand kings become a king.

[_He approaches him boldly, fixing on him firm and glowing looks._

Oh, could the eloquence of all the millions,
Who participate in this great moment,
Hover on my lips, and raise into a flame
That gleam that kindles in your eyes!
Give up this false idolatry of self,
Which makes your brothers nothing! Be to us
A pattern of the Everlasting and the True!
Never, never, did a mortal hold so much,
To use it so divinely. All the kings
Of Europe reverence the name of Spain:
Go on in front of all the kings of Europe!
One movement of your pen, and new-created
Is the Earth. Say but, Let there be freedom!

                                     [_Throwing himself at his feet._

KING [_surprised, turning his face away, then again towards Posa_].
Singular enthusiast! Yet—rise—I—

MAR. Look round and view God's lordly universe:
On Freedom it is founded, and how rich
Is it with Freedom! He, the great Creator,
Has giv'n the very worm its sev'ral dewdrop;
Ev'n in the mouldering spaces of Decay,
He leaves Free-will the pleasures of a choice.
This world of _yours_! how narrow and how poor!
The rustling of a leaf alarms the lord
Of Christendom. You quake at every virtue;
He, not to mar the glorious form of Freedom,
Suffers that the hideous hosts of Evil
Should run riot in his fair Creation.
Him the maker we behold not; calm
He veils himself in everlasting laws,
Which and not Him the sceptic seeing exclaims,
'Wherefore a God? The World itself is God.'
And never did a Christian's adoration
So praise him as this sceptic's blasphemy.

KING. And such a model you would undertake,
On Earth, in my domains to imitate?

MAR. You, you can: who else? To th' people's good
Devote the kingly power, which far too long
Has struggled for the greatness of the throne.
Restore the lost nobility of man.
Once more make of the subject what he was,
The purpose of the Crown; let no tie bind him,
Except his brethren's right, as sacred as
His own. And when, given back to self-dependence,
Man awakens to the feeling of his worth,
And freedom's proud and lofty virtues blossom,
Then, Sire, having made _your_ realms the happiest
In the Earth, it may become your duty
To subdue the realms of others.

KING [_after a long pause_].
I have heard you to an end.
Not as in common heads, the world is painted
In that head of yours: nor will I mete you
By the common standard. I am the first
To whom your heart has been disclosed:
I know this, so believe it. For the sake
Of such forbearance; for your having kept
Ideas, embraced with such devotion, secret
Up to this present moment, for the sake
Of that reserve, young man, I will forget
That I have learned them, and how I learned them.
Arise. The headlong youth I will set right,
Not as his sovereign, but as his senior.
I will, because I will. So! bane itself,
I find, in generous natures may become
Ennobled into something better. But
Beware my Inquisition! It would grieve me
If you—

MAR. Would it? would it?

KING [_gazing at him, and lost in surprise_].
                             Such a mortal
Till this hour I never saw. No, Marquis!
No! You do me wrong. To you I will not
Be a Nero, not to you. _All_ happiness
Shall not be blighted by me: you yourself
Shall be permitted to remain a man
Beside me.

MAR. [_quickly_] And my fellow-subjects, Sire?
Oh, not for _me_, not _my_ cause was I pleading.
And your subjects, Sire?

KING.                 You see so clearly
How posterity will judge of me; yourself
Shall teach it how I treated men so soon
As I had found one.

MAR. O Sire! in being
The most just of kings, at the same instant
Be not the most unjust! In your Flanders
Are many thousands worthier than I.
'Tis but yourself,—shall I confess it, Sire?—
That under this mild form first truly see
What freedom is.

KING [_with softened earnestness_].
             Young man, no more of this.
Far differently will you think of men,
When you have seen and studied them as I have.
Yet our first meeting must not be our last;
How shall I try to make you mine?

MAR.                         Sire, let me
Continue as I am. What good were it
To you, if I like others were corrupted?

KING. This pride I will not suffer. From this moment
You are in my service. No remonstrance!
I will have it so. * * * * *


Had the character of Posa been drawn ten years later, it would have
been imputed, as all things are, to the 'French Revolution;' and
Schiller himself perhaps might have been called a Jacobin. Happily, as
matters stand, there is room for no such imputation. It is pleasing to
behold in Posa the deliberate expression of a great and good man's
sentiments on these ever-agitated subjects: a noble monument,
embodying the liberal ideas of his age, in a form beautified by his
own genius, and lasting as its other products.[16]

    [Footnote 16: Jean Paul nevertheless, not without some show
    of reason, has compared this Posa to the tower of a
    lighthouse: 'high, far-shining,—empty!' (_Note of 1845._)]

Connected with the superior excellence of Posa, critics have remarked
a dramatic error, which the author himself was the first to
acknowledge and account for. The magnitude of Posa throws Carlos into
the shade; the hero of the first three acts is no longer the hero of
the other two. The cause of this, we are informed, was that Schiller
kept the work too long upon his own hands:

'In composing the piece,' he observes, 'many interruptions occurred;
so that a considerable time elapsed between beginning and concluding
it; and, in the mean while, much within myself had changed. The
various alterations which, during this period, my way of thinking and
feeling underwent, naturally told upon the work I was engaged with.
What parts of it had at first attracted me, began to produce this
effect in a weaker degree, and, in the end, scarcely at all. New
ideas, springing up in the interim, displaced the former ones; Carlos
himself had lost my favour, perhaps for no other reason than because I
had become his senior; and, from the opposite cause, Posa had occupied
his place. Thus I commenced the fourth and fifth acts with quite an
altered heart. But the first three were already in the hands of the
public; the plan of the whole could not now be re-formed; nothing
therefore remained but to suppress the piece entirely, or to fit the
second half to the first the best way I could.'

The imperfection alluded to is one of which the general reader will
make no great account; the second half is fitted to the first with
address enough for his purposes. Intent not upon applying the dramatic
gauge, but on being moved and exalted, we may peruse the tragedy
without noticing that any such defect exists in it. The pity and love
we are first taught to feel for Carlos abide with us to the last; and
though Posa rises in importance as the piece proceeds, our admiration
of his transcendent virtues does not obstruct the gentler feelings
with which we look upon the fate of his friend. A certain confusion
and crowding together of events, about the end of the play, is the
only fault in its plan that strikes us with any force. Even this is
scarcely prominent enough to be offensive.

An intrinsic and weightier defect is the want of ease and lightness in
the general composition of the piece; a defect which, all its other
excellencies will not prevent us from observing. There is action
enough in the plot, energy enough in the dialogue, and abundance of
individual beauties in both; but there is throughout a certain air of
stiffness and effort, which abstracts from the theatrical illusion.
The language, in general impressive and magnificent, is now and then
inflated into bombast. The characters do not, as it were, verify their
human nature, by those thousand little touches and nameless turns,
which distinguish the genius essentially dramatic from the genius
merely poetical; the Proteus of the stage from the philosophic
observer and trained imitator of life. We have not those careless
felicities, those varyings from high to low, that air of living
freedom which Shakspeare has accustomed us, like spoiled children, to
look for in every perfect work of this species. Schiller is too
elevated, too regular and sustained in his elevation, to be altogether
natural.

Yet with all this, _Carlos_ is a noble tragedy. There is a stately
massiveness about the structure of it; the incidents are grand and
affecting; the characters powerful, vividly conceived, and
impressively if not completely delineated. Of wit and its kindred
graces Schiller has but a slender share: nor among great poets is he
much distinguished for depth or fineness of pathos. But what gives him
a place of his own, and the loftiest of its kind, is the vastness and
intense vigour of his mind; the splendour of his thoughts and imagery,
and the bold vehemence of his passion for the true and the sublime,
under all their various forms. He does not thrill, but he exalts us.
His genius is impetuous, exuberant, majestic; and a heavenly fire
gleams through all his creations. He transports us into a holier and
higher world than our own; everything around us breathes of force and
solemn beauty. The looks of his heroes may be more staid than those of
men, the movements of their minds may be slower and more calculated;
but we yield to the potency of their endowments, and the loveliness of
the scene which they animate. The enchantments of the poet are strong
enough to silence our scepticism; we forbear to inquire whether it is
true or false.

The celebrity of Alfieri generally invites the reader of _Don Carlos_
to compare it with _Filippo_. Both writers treat the same subject;
both borrow their materials from the same source, the _nouvelle
historique_ of St. Réal: but it is impossible that two powerful minds
could have handled one given idea in more diverse manners. Their
excellencies are, in fact, so opposite, that they scarcely come in
competition. Alfieri's play is short, and the characters are few. He
describes no scene: his personages are not the King of Spain and his
courtiers, but merely men; their place of action is not the Escurial
or Madrid, but a vacant, objectless platform anywhere in space. In all
this, Schiller has a manifest advantage. He paints manners and
opinions, he sets before us a striking pageant, which interests us of
itself, and gives a new interest to whatever is combined with it. The
principles of the antique, or perhaps rather of the French drama, upon
which Alfieri worked, permitted no such delineation. In the style
there is the same diversity. A severe simplicity uniformly marks
Alfieri's style; in his whole tragedy there is not a single figure. A
hard emphatic brevity is all that distinguishes his language from that
of prose. Schiller, we have seen, abounds with noble metaphors, and
all the warm exciting eloquence of poetry. It is only in expressing
the character of Philip that Alfieri has a clear superiority. Without
the aid of superstition, which his rival, especially in the
catastrophe, employs to such advantage, Alfieri has exhibited in his
Filippo a picture of unequalled power. Obscurity is justly said to be
essential to terror and sublimity; and Schiller has enfeebled the
effect of his Tyrant, by letting us behold the most secret recesses of
his spirit: we understand him better, but we fear him less. Alfieri
does not show us the internal combination of Filippo: it is from its
workings alone that we judge of his nature. Mystery, and the shadow of
horrid cruelty, brood over his Filippo: it is only a transient word or
act that gives us here and there a glimpse of his fierce, implacable,
tremendous soul; a short and dubious glimmer that reveals to us the
abysses of his being, dark, lurid, and terrific, 'as the throat of the
infernal Pool.' Alfieri's Filippo is perhaps the most wicked man that
human imagination has conceived.

Alfieri and Schiller were again unconscious competitors in the history
of Mary Stuart. But the works before us give a truer specimen of their
comparative merits. Schiller seems to have the greater genius; Alfieri
the more commanding character. Alfieri's greatness rests on the stern
concentration of fiery passion, under the dominion of an adamantine
will: this was his own make of mind; and he represents it, with
strokes in themselves devoid of charm, but in their union terrible as
a prophetic scroll. Schiller's moral force is commensurate with his
intellectual gifts, and nothing more. The mind of the one is like the
ocean, beautiful in its strength, smiling in the radiance of summer,
and washing luxuriant and romantic shores: that of the other is like
some black unfathomable lake placed far amid the melancholy mountains;
bleak, solitary, desolate; but girdled with grim sky-piercing cliffs,
overshadowed with storms, and illuminated only by the red glare of the
lightning. Schiller is magnificent in his expansion, Alfieri is
overpowering in his condensed energy; the first inspires us with
greater admiration, the last with greater awe.


This tragedy of _Carlos_ was received with immediate and universal
approbation. In the closet and on the stage, it excited the warmest
applauses equally among the learned and unlearned. Schiller's
expectations had not been so high: he knew both the excellencies and
the faults of his work; but he had not anticipated that the former
would be recognised so instantaneously. The pleasure of this new
celebrity came upon him, therefore, heightened by surprise. Had
dramatic eminence been his sole object, he might now have slackened
his exertions; the public had already ranked him as the first of their
writers in that favourite department. But this limited ambition was
not his moving principle; nor was his mind of that sort for which rest
is provided in this world. The primary disposition of his nature urged
him to perpetual toil: the great aim of his life, the unfolding of his
mental powers, was one of those which admit but a relative not an
absolute progress. New ideas of perfection arise as the former have
been reached; the student is always attaining, never has attained.

Schiller's worldly circumstances, too, were of a kind well calculated
to prevent excess of quietism. He was still drifting at large on the
tide of life; he was crowned with laurels, but without a home. His
heart, warm and affectionate, fitted to enjoy the domestic blessings
which it longed for, was allowed to form no permanent attachment: he
felt that he was unconnected, solitary in the world; cut off from the
exercise of his kindlier sympathies; or if tasting such pleasures, it
was 'snatching them rather than partaking of them calmly.' The vulgar
desire of wealth and station never entered his mind for an instant:
but as years were added to his age, the delights of peace and
continuous comfort were fast becoming more acceptable than any other;
and he looked with anxiety to have a resting-place amid his
wanderings, to be a man among his fellow-men.

For all these wishes, Schiller saw that the only chance of fulfilment
depended on unwearied perseverance in his literary occupations. Yet
though his activity was unabated, and the calls on it were increasing
rather than diminished, its direction was gradually changing. The
Drama had long been stationary, and of late been falling in his
estimation: the difficulties of the art, as he viewed it at present,
had been overcome, and new conquests invited him in other quarters.
The latter part of _Carlos_ he had written as a task rather than a
pleasure; he contemplated no farther undertaking connected with the
Stage. For a time, indeed, he seems to have wavered among a
multiplicity of enterprises; now solicited to this, and now to that,
without being able to fix decidedly on any. The restless ardour of his
mind is evinced by the number and variety of his attempts; its
fluctuation by the circumstance that all of them are either short in
extent, or left in the state of fragments. Of the former kind are his
lyrical productions, many of which were composed about this period,
during intervals from more serious labours. The character of these
performances is such as his former writings gave us reason to expect.
With a deep insight into life, and a keen and comprehensive sympathy
with its sorrows and enjoyments, there is combined that impetuosity of
feeling, that pomp of thought and imagery which belong peculiarly to
Schiller. If he had now left the Drama, it was clear that his mind was
still overflowing with the elements of poetry; dwelling among the
grandest conceptions, and the boldest or finest emotions; thinking
intensely and profoundly, but decorating its thoughts with those
graces, which other faculties than the understanding are required to
afford them. With these smaller pieces, Schiller occupied himself at
intervals of leisure throughout the remainder of his life. Some of
them are to be classed among the most finished efforts of his genius.
The _Walk_, the _Song of the Bell_, contain exquisite delineations of
the fortunes and history of man; his _Ritter Toggenburg_, his _Cranes
of Ibycus_, his _Hero and Leander_, are among the most poetical and
moving ballads to be found in any language.

Of these poems, the most noted written about this time, the
_Freethinking of Passion_ (_Freigeisterei der Leidenschaft_), is said
to have originated in a real attachment. The lady, whom some
biographers of Schiller introduce to us by the mysterious designation
of the 'Fräulein A * * *, one of the first beauties in Dresden,' seems
to have made a deep impression on the heart of the poet. They tell us
that she sat for the picture of the princess Eboli, in his _Don
Carlos_; that he paid his court to her with the most impassioned
fervour, and the extreme of generosity. They add one or two anecdotes
of dubious authenticity; which, as they illustrate nothing, but show
us only that love could make Schiller crazy, as it is said to make all
gods and men, we shall use the freedom to omit.

This enchanting and not inexorable spinster perhaps displaced the
Mannheim _Laura_ from her throne; but the gallant assiduities, which
she required or allowed, seem not to have abated the zeal of her
admirer in his more profitable undertakings. Her reign, we suppose,
was brief and without abiding influence. Schiller never wrote or
thought with greater diligence than while at Dresden. Partially
occupied with conducting his _Thalia_, or with those more slight
poetical performances, his mind was hovering among a multitude of
weightier plans, and seizing with avidity any hint that might assist
in directing its attempts. To this state of feeling we are probably
indebted for the _Geisterseher_, a novel, naturalised in our
circulating libraries by the title of the _Ghostseer_, two volumes of
which were published about this time. The king of quacks, the renowned
Cagliostro, was now playing his dextrous game at Paris; harrowing-up
the souls of the curious and gullible of all ranks in that capital,
by various thaumaturgic feats; raising the dead from their graves;
and, what was more to the purpose, raising himself from the station of
a poor Sicilian lacquey to that of a sumptuous and extravagant count.
The noise of his exploits appears to have given rise to this work of
Schiller's. It is an attempt to exemplify the process of hoodwinking
an acute but too sensitive man; of working on the latent germ of
superstition, which exists beneath his outward scepticism; harassing
his mind by the terrors of magic,—the magic of chemistry and natural
philosophy and natural cunning; till, racked by doubts and agonising
fears, and plunging from one depth of dark uncertainty into another,
he is driven at length to still his scruples in the bosom of the
Infallible Church. The incidents are contrived with considerable
address, displaying a familiar acquaintance, not only with several
branches of science, but also with some curious forms of life and
human nature. One or two characters are forcibly drawn; particularly
that of the amiable but feeble Count, the victim of the operation. The
strange Foreigner, with the visage of stone, who conducts the business
of mystification, strikes us also, though we see but little of him.
The work contains some vivid description, some passages of deep
tragical effect: it has a vein of keen observation; in general, a
certain rugged power, which might excite regret that it was never
finished. But Schiller found that his views had been mistaken: it was
thought that he meant only to electrify his readers, by an
accumulation of surprising horrors, in a novel of the Mrs. Radcliffe
fashion. He felt, in consequence, discouraged to proceed; and finally
abandoned it.

Schiller was, in fact, growing tired of fictitious writing.
Imagination was with him a strong, not an exclusive, perhaps not even
a predominating faculty: in the sublimest flights of his genius,
intellect is a quality as conspicuous as any other; we are frequently
not more delighted with the grandeur of the drapery in which he
clothes his thoughts, than with the grandeur of the thoughts
themselves. To a mind so restless, the cultivation of all its powers
was a peremptory want; in one so earnest, the love of truth was sure
to be among its strongest passions. Even while revelling, with unworn
ardour, in the dreamy scenes of the Imagination, he had often cast a
longing look, and sometimes made a hurried inroad, into the calmer
provinces of reason: but the first effervescence of youth was past,
and now more than ever, the love of contemplating or painting things
as they should be, began to yield to the love of knowing things as
they are. The tendency of his mind was gradually changing; he was
about to enter on a new field of enterprise, where new triumphs
awaited him.

For a time he had hesitated what to choose; at length he began to
think of History. As a leading object of pursuit, this promised him
peculiar advantages. It was new to him; and fitted to employ some of
his most valuable gifts. It was grounded on reality, for which, as we
have said, his taste was now becoming stronger; its mighty revolutions
and events, and the commanding characters that figure in it, would
likewise present him with things great and moving, for which his taste
had always been strong. As recording the past transactions, and
indicating the prospects of nations, it could not fail to be
delightful to one, for whom not only human nature was a matter of most
fascinating speculation, but who looked on all mankind with the
sentiments of a brother, feeling truly what he often said, that 'he
had no dearer wish than to see every living mortal happy and contented
with his lot.' To all these advantages another of a humbler sort was
added, but which the nature of his situation forbade him to lose
sight of. The study of History, while it afforded him a subject of
continuous and regular exertion, would also afford him, what was even
more essential, the necessary competence of income for which he felt
reluctant any longer to depend on the resources of poetry, but which
the produce of his pen was now the only means he had of realising.

For these reasons, he decided on commencing the business of historian.
The composition of _Don Carlos_ had already led him to investigate the
state of Spain under Philip II.; and, being little satisfied with
Watson's clear but shallow Work on that reign, he had turned to the
original sources of information, the writings of Grotius, Strada, De
Thou, and many others. Investigating these with his usual fidelity and
eagerness, the Revolt of the Netherlands had, by degrees, become
familiar to his thoughts; distinct in many parts where it was
previously obscure; and attractive, as it naturally must be to a
temper such as his. He now determined that his first historical
performance should be a narrative of that event. He resolved to
explore the minutest circumstance of its rise and progress; to arrange
the materials he might collect, in a more philosophical order; to
interweave with them the general opinions he had formed, or was
forming, on many points of polity, and national or individual
character; and, if possible, to animate the whole with that warm
sympathy, which, in a lover of Freedom, this most glorious of her
triumphs naturally called forth.

In the filling-up of such an outline, there was scope enough for
diligence. But it was not in Schiller's nature to content himself with
ordinary efforts; no sooner did a project take hold of his mind, than,
rallying round it all his accomplishments and capabilities, he
stretched it out into something so magnificent and comprehensive, that
little less than a lifetime would have been sufficient to effect it.
This History of the Revolt of the Netherlands, which formed his chief
study, he looked upon but as one branch of the great subject he was
yet destined to engage with. History at large, in all its bearings,
was now his final aim; and his mind was continually occupied with
plans for acquiring, improving, and diffusing the knowledge of it.

Of these plans many never reached a describable shape; very few
reached even partial execution. One of the latter sort was an intended
_History of the most remarkable Conspiracies and Revolutions in the
Middle and Later Ages_. A first volume of the work was published in
1787. Schiller's part in it was trifling; scarcely more than that of a
translator and editor. St. Réal's _Conspiracy of Bedmar against
Venice_, here furnished with an extended introduction, is the best
piece in the book. Indeed, St. Réal seems first to have set him on
this task: the Abbé had already signified his predilection for plots
and revolutions, and given a fine sample of his powers in treating
such matters. What Schiller did was to expand this idea, and
communicate a systematic form to it. His work might have been curious
and valuable, had it been completed; but the pressure of other
engagements, the necessity of limiting his views to the Netherlands,
prevented this for the present; it was afterwards forgotten, and never
carried farther.


Such were Schiller's occupations while at Dresden; their extent and
variety are proof enough that idleness was not among his vices. It
was, in truth, the opposite extreme in which he erred. He wrote and
thought with an impetuosity beyond what nature always could endure.
His intolerance of interruptions first put him on the plan of studying
by night; an alluring but pernicious practice, which began at
Dresden, and was never afterwards forsaken. His recreations breathed a
similar spirit; he loved to be much alone, and strongly moved. The
banks of the Elbe were the favourite resort of his mornings: here
wandering in solitude amid groves and lawns, and green and beautiful
places, he abandoned his mind to delicious musings; watched the fitful
current of his thoughts, as they came sweeping through his soul in
their vague, fantastic, gorgeous forms; pleased himself with the
transient images of memory and hope; or meditated on the cares and
studies which had lately been employing, and were again soon to employ
him. At times, he might be seen floating on the river in a gondola,
feasting himself with the loveliness of earth and sky. He delighted
most to be there when tempests were abroad; his unquiet spirit found a
solace in the expression of his own unrest on the face of Nature;
danger lent a charm to his situation; he felt in harmony with the
scene, when the rack was sweeping stormfully across the heavens, and
the forests were sounding in the breeze, and the river was rolling its
chafed waters into wild eddying heaps.

Yet before the darkness summoned him exclusively to his tasks,
Schiller commonly devoted a portion of his day to the pleasures of
society. Could he have found enjoyment in the flatteries of admiring
hospitality, his present fame would have procured them for him in
abundance. But these things were not to Schiller's taste. His opinion
of the 'flesh-flies' of Leipzig we have already seen: he retained the
same sentiments throughout all his life. The idea of being what we
call a _lion_ is offensive enough to any man, of not more than common
vanity, or less than common understanding; it was doubly offensive to
him. His pride and his modesty alike forbade it. The delicacy of his
nature, aggravated into shyness by his education and his habits,
rendered situations of display more than usually painful to him; the
_digito prætereuntium_ was a sort of celebration he was far from
coveting. In the circles of fashion he appeared unwillingly, and
seldom to advantage: their glitter and parade were foreign to his
disposition; their strict ceremonial cramped the play of his mind.
Hemmed in, as by invisible fences, among the intricate barriers of
etiquette, so feeble, so inviolable, he felt constrained and helpless;
alternately chagrined and indignant. It was the giant among pigmies;
Gulliver, in Lilliput, tied down by a thousand packthreads. But there
were more congenial minds, with whom he could associate; more familiar
scenes, in which he found the pleasures he was seeking. Here Schiller
was himself; frank, unembarrassed, pliant to the humour of the hour.
His conversation was delightful, abounding at once in rare and simple
charms. Besides the intellectual riches which it carried with it,
there was that flow of kindliness and unaffected good humour, which
can render dulness itself agreeable. Schiller had many friends in
Dresden, who loved him as a man, while they admired him as a writer.
Their intercourse was of the kind he liked, sober, as well as free and
mirthful. It was the careless, calm, honest effusion of his feelings
that he wanted, not the noisy tumults and coarse delirium of
dissipation. For this, under any of its forms, he at no time showed
the smallest relish.

A visit to Weimar had long been one of Schiller's projects: he now
first accomplished it in 1787. Saxony had been, for ages, the Attica
of Germany; and Weimar had, of late, become its Athens. In this
literary city, Schiller found what he expected, sympathy and
brotherhood with men of kindred minds. To Goethe he was not
introduced;[17] but Herder and Wieland received him with a cordial
welcome; with the latter he soon formed a most friendly intimacy.
Wieland, the Nestor of German letters, was grown gray in the service:
Schiller reverenced him as a father, and he was treated by him as a
son. 'We shall have bright hours,' he said; 'Wieland is still young,
when he loves.' Wieland had long edited the _Deutsche Mercur_: in
consequence of their connexion, Schiller now took part in contributing
to that work. Some of his smaller poems, one or two fragments of the
History of the Netherlands, and the _Letters on Don Carlos_, first
appeared here. His own _Thalia_ still continued to come out at
Leipzig. With these for his incidental employments, with the Belgian
Revolt for his chief study, and the best society in Germany for his
leisure, Schiller felt no wish to leave Weimar. The place and what it
held contented him so much, that he thought of selecting it for his
permanent abode. 'You know the men,' he writes, 'of whom Germany is
proud; a Herder, a Wieland, with their brethren; and one wall now
encloses me and them. What excellencies are in Weimar! In this city,
at least in this territory, I mean to settle for life, and at length
once more to get a country.'

    [Footnote 17: Doering says, 'Goethe was at this time absent
    in Italy;' an error, as will by and by appear.]

So occupied and so intentioned, he continued to reside at Weimar. Some
months after his arrival, he received an invitation from his early
patroness and kind protectress, Madam von Wolzogen, to come and visit
her at Bauerbach. Schiller went accordingly to this his ancient city
of refuge; he again found all the warm hospitality, which he had of
old experienced when its character could less be mistaken; but his
excursion thither produced more lasting effects than this. At
Rudolstadt, where he stayed for a time on occasion of this journey, he
met with a new friend. It was here that he first saw the Fräulein
Lengefeld, a lady whose attractions made him loth to leave
Rudolstadt, and eager to return.

Next year he did return; he lived from May till November there or in
the neighbourhood. He was busy as usual, and he visited the Lengefeld
family almost every day. Schiller's views on marriage, his longing for
'a civic and domestic existence,' we already know. 'To be united with
a person,' he had said, 'that shares our sorrows and our joys, that
responds to our feelings, that moulds herself so pliantly, so closely
to our humours; reposing on her calm and warm affection, to relax our
spirit from a thousand distractions, a thousand wild wishes and
tumultuous passions; to dream away all the bitterness of fortune, in
the bosom of domestic enjoyment; this the true delight of life.' Some
years had elapsed since he expressed these sentiments, which time had
confirmed, not weakened: the presence of the Fräulein Lengefeld awoke
them into fresh activity. He loved this lady; the return of love, with
which she honoured him, diffused a sunshine over all his troubled
world; and, if the wish of being hers excited more impatient thoughts
about the settlement of his condition, it also gave him fresh strength
to attain it. He was full of occupation, while in Rudolstadt; ardent,
serious, but not unhappy. His literary projects were proceeding as
before; and, besides the enjoyment of virtuous love, he had that of
intercourse with many worthy and some kindred minds.

Among these, the chief in all respects was Goethe. It was during his
present visit, that Schiller first met with this illustrious person;
concerning whom, both by reading and report, his expectations had been
raised so high. No two men, both of exalted genius, could be possessed
of more different sorts of excellence, than the two that were now
brought together, in a large company of their mutual friends. The
English reader may form some approximate conception of the contrast,
by figuring an interview between Shakspeare and Milton. How gifted,
how diverse in their gifts! The mind of the one plays calmly, in its
capricious and inimitable graces, over all the provinces of human
interest; the other concentrates powers as vast, but far less various,
on a few subjects; the one is catholic, the other is sectarian. The
first is endowed with an all-comprehending spirit; skilled, as if by
personal experience, in all the modes of human passion and opinion;
therefore, tolerant of all; peaceful, collected; fighting for no class
of men or principles; rather looking on the world, and the various
battles waging in it, with the quiet eye of one already reconciled to
the futility of their issues; but pouring over all the forms of
many-coloured life the light of a deep and subtle intellect, and the
decorations of an overflowing fancy; and allowing men and things of
every shape and hue to have their own free scope in his conception, as
they have it in the world where Providence has placed them. The other
is earnest, devoted; struggling with a thousand mighty projects of
improvement; feeling more intensely as he feels more narrowly;
rejecting vehemently, choosing vehemently; at war with the one half of
things, in love with the other half; hence dissatisfied, impetuous,
without internal rest, and scarcely conceiving the possibility of such
a state. Apart from the difference of their opinions and mental
culture, Shakspeare and Milton seem to have stood in some such
relation as this to each other, in regard to the primary structure of
their minds. So likewise, in many points, was it with Goethe and
Schiller. The external circumstances of the two were, moreover, such
as to augment their several peculiarities. Goethe was in his
thirty-ninth year; and had long since found his proper rank and
settlement in life. Schiller was ten years younger, and still without
a fixed destiny; on both of which accounts, his fundamental scheme of
thought, the principles by which he judged and acted, and maintained
his individuality, although they might be settled, were less likely to
be sobered and matured. In these circumstances we can hardly wonder
that on Schiller's part the first impression was not very pleasant.
Goethe sat talking of Italy, and art, and travelling, and a thousand
other subjects, with that flow of brilliant and deep sense, sarcastic
humour, knowledge, fancy and good nature, which is said to render him
the best talker now alive.[18] Schiller looked at him in quite a
different mood; he felt his natural constraint increased under the
influence of a man so opposite in character, so potent in resources,
so singular and so expert in using them; a man whom he could not agree
with, and knew not how to contradict. Soon after their interview, he
thus writes:

'On the whole, this personal meeting has not at all diminished the
idea, great as it was, which I had previously formed of Goethe; but I
doubt whether we shall ever come into any close communication with
each other. Much that still interests me has already had its epoch
with him. His whole nature is, from its very origin, otherwise
constructed than mine; his world is not my world; our modes of
conceiving things appear to be essentially different. From such a
combination, no secure, substantial intimacy can result. Time will
try.'

    [Footnote 18: 1825.]

The aid of time was not, in fact, unnecessary. On the part of Goethe
there existed prepossessions no less hostile; and derived from sources
older and deeper than the present transitory meeting, to the
discontents of which they probably contributed. He himself has lately
stated them with his accustomed frankness and good humour, in a
paper, part of which some readers may peruse with an interest more
than merely biographical.

'On my return from Italy,' he says, 'where I had been endeavouring to
train myself to greater purity and precision in all departments of
art, not heeding what meanwhile was going on in Germany, I found here
some older and some more recent works of poetry, enjoying high esteem
and wide circulation, while unhappily their character to me was
utterly offensive. I shall only mention Heinse's _Ardinghello_ and
Schiller's _Robbers_. The first I hated for its having undertaken to
exhibit sensuality and mystical abstruseness, ennobled and supported
by creative art: the last, because in it, the very paradoxes moral and
dramatic, from which I was struggling to get liberated, had been laid
hold of by a powerful though an immature genius, and poured in a
boundless rushing flood over all our country.

'Neither of these gifted individuals did I blame for what he had
performed or purposed: it is the nature and the privilege of every
mortal to attempt working in his own peculiar way; he attempts it
first without culture, scarcely with the consciousness of what he is
about; and continues it with consciousness increasing as his culture
increases; whereby it happens that so many exquisite and so many
paltry things are to be found circulating in the world, and one
perplexity is seen to rise from the ashes of another.

'But the rumour which these strange productions had excited over
Germany, the approbation paid to them by every class of persons, from
the wild student to the polished court-lady, frightened me; for I now
thought all my labour was to prove in vain; the objects, and the way
of handling them, to which I had been exercising all my powers,
appeared as if defaced and set aside. And what grieved me still more
was, that all the friends connected with me, Heinrich Meyer and
Moritz, as well as their fellow-artists Tischbein and Bury, seemed in
danger of the like contagion. I was much hurt. Had it been possible, I
would have abandoned the study of creative art, and the practice of
poetry altogether; for where was the prospect of surpassing those
performances of genial worth and wild form, in the qualities which
recommended them? Conceive my situation. It had been my object and my
task to cherish and impart the purest exhibitions of poetic art; and
here was I hemmed in between Ardinghello and Franz von Moor!

'It happened also about this time that Moritz returned from Italy, and
stayed with me awhile; during which, he violently confirmed himself
and me in these persuasions. I avoided Schiller, who was now at
Weimar, in my neighbourhood. The appearance of _Don Carlos_ was not
calculated to approximate us; the attempts of our common friends I
resisted; and thus we still continued to go on our way apart.'

By degrees, however, both parties found that they had been mistaken.
The course of accidents brought many things to light, which had been
hidden; the true character of each became unfolded more and more
completely to the other; and the cold, measured tribute of respect was
on both sides animated and exalted by feelings of kindness, and
ultimately of affection. Ere long, Schiller had by gratifying proofs
discovered that 'this Goethe was a very worthy man;' and Goethe, in
his love of genius, and zeal for the interests of literature, was
performing for Schiller the essential duties of a friend, even while
his personal repugnance continued unabated.

A strict similarity of characters is not necessary, or perhaps very
favourable, to friendship. To render it complete, each party must no
doubt be competent to understand the other; both must be possessed of
dispositions kindred in their great lineaments: but the pleasure of
comparing our ideas and emotions is heightened, when there is
'likeness in unlikeness.' _The same sentiments, different opinions_,
Rousseau conceives to be the best material of friendship: reciprocity
of kind words and actions is more effectual than all. Luther loved
Melancthon; Johnson was not more the friend of Edmund Burke than of
poor old Dr. Levitt. Goethe and Schiller met again; as they ultimately
came to live together, and to see each other oftener, they liked each
other better; they became associates, friends; and the harmony of
their intercourse, strengthened by many subsequent communities of
object, was never interrupted, till death put an end to it. Goethe, in
his time, has done many glorious things; but few on which he should
look back with greater pleasure than his treatment of Schiller.
Literary friendships are said to be precarious, and of rare
occurrence: the rivalry of interest disturbs their continuance; a
rivalry greater, where the subject of competition is one so vague,
impalpable and fluctuating, as the favour of the public; where the
feeling to be gratified is one so nearly allied to vanity, the most
irritable, arid and selfish feeling of the human heart. Had Goethe's
prime motive been the love of fame, he must have viewed with
repugnance, not the misdirection but the talents of the rising genius,
advancing with such rapid strides to dispute with him the palm of
intellectual primacy, nay as the million thought, already in
possession of it; and if a sense of his own dignity had withheld him
from offering obstructions, or uttering any whisper of discontent,
there is none but a truly patrician spirit that would cordially have
offered aid. To being secretly hostile and openly indifferent, the
next resource was to enact the patron; to solace vanity, by helping
the rival whom he could not hinder, and who could do without his help.
Goethe adopted neither of these plans. It reflects much credit on him
that he acted as he did. Eager to forward Schiller's views by exerting
all the influence within his power, he succeeded in effecting this;
and what was still more difficult, in suffering the character of
benefactor to merge in that of equal. They became not friends only,
but fellow-labourers: a connection productive of important
consequences in the history of both, particularly of the younger and
more undirected of the two.


Meanwhile the _History of the Revolt of the United Netherlands_ was in
part before the world; the first volume came out in 1788. Schiller's
former writings had given proofs of powers so great and various, such
an extent of general intellectual strength, and so deep an
acquaintance, both practical and scientific, with the art of
composition, that in a subject like history, no ordinary work was to
be looked for from his hands. With diligence in accumulating
materials, and patient care in elaborating them, he could scarcely
fail to attain distinguished excellence. The present volume was well
calculated to fulfil such expectations. The _Revolt of the
Netherlands_ possesses all the common requisites of a good history,
and many which are in some degree peculiar to itself. The information
it conveys is minute and copious; we have all the circumstances of the
case, remote and near, set distinctly before us. Yet, such is the
skill of the arrangement, these are at once briefly and impressively
presented. The work is not stretched out into a continuous narrative;
but gathered up into masses, which are successively exhibited to view,
the minor facts being grouped around some leading one, to which, as
to the central object, our attention is chiefly directed. This method
of combining the details of events, of proceeding as it were, _per
saltum_, from eminence to eminence, and thence surveying the
surrounding scene, is undoubtedly the most philosophical of any: but
few men are equal to the task of effecting it rightly. It must be
executed by a mind able to look on all its facts at once; to
disentangle their perplexities, referring each to its proper head; and
to choose, often with extreme address, the station from which the
reader is to view them. Without this, or with this inadequately done,
a work on such a plan would be intolerable. Schiller has accomplished
it in great perfection; the whole scene of affairs was evidently clear
before his own eye, and he did not want expertness to discriminate and
seize its distinctive features. The bond of cause and consequence he
never loses sight of; and over each successive portion of his
narrative he pours that flood of intellectual and imaginative
brilliancy, which all his prior writings had displayed. His
reflections, expressed or implied, are the fruit of strong,
comprehensive, penetrating thought. His descriptions are vivid; his
characters are studied with a keen sagacity, and set before us in
their most striking points of view; those of Egmont and Orange occur
to every reader as a rare union of perspicacity and eloquence. The
work has a look of order; of beauty joined to calm reposing force. Had
it been completed, it might have ranked as the very best of Schiller's
prose compositions. But no second volume ever came to light; and the
first concludes at the entrance of Alba into Brussels. Two fragments
alone, the _Siege of Antwerp_, and the _Passage of Alba's Army_, both
living pictures, show us still farther what he might have done had he
proceeded. The surpassing and often highly-picturesque movements of
this War, the devotedness of the Dutch, their heroic achievement of
liberty, were not destined to be painted by the glowing pen of
Schiller, whose heart and mind were alike so qualified to do them
justice.[19]

    [Footnote 19: If we mistake not, Madame de Staël, in her
    _Révolution Française_, had this performance of Schiller's in
    her eye. Her work is constructed on a similar though a rather
    looser plan of arrangement: the execution of it bears the
    same relation to that of Schiller; it is less irregular; more
    ambitious in its rhetoric; inferior in precision, though
    often not in force of thought and imagery.]

The accession of reputation, which this work procured its author, was
not the only or the principal advantage he derived from it. Eichhorn,
Professor of History, was at this time about to leave the University
of Jena: Goethe had already introduced his new acquaintance Schiller
to the special notice of Amelia, the accomplished Regent of
Sachsen-Weimar; he now joined with Voigt, the head Chaplain of the
Court, in soliciting the vacant chair for him. Seconded by the general
voice, and the persuasion of the Princess herself, he succeeded.
Schiller was appointed Professor at Jena; he went thither in 1789.


With Schiller's removal to Jena begins a new epoch in his public and
private life. His connexion with Goethe here first ripened into
friendship, and became secured and cemented by frequency of
intercourse.[20] Jena is but a few miles distant from Weimar; and the
two friends, both settled in public offices belonging to the same
Government, had daily opportunities of interchanging visits.
Schiller's wanderings were now concluded: with a heart tired of so
fluctuating an existence, but not despoiled of its capacity for
relishing a calmer one; with a mind experienced by much and varied
intercourse with men; full of knowledge and of plans to turn it to
account, he could now repose himself in the haven of domestic
comforts, and look forward to days of more unbroken exertion, and more
wholesome and permanent enjoyment than hitherto had fallen to his lot.
In the February following his settlement at Jena, he obtained the hand
of Fräulein Lengefeld; a happiness, with the prospect of which he had
long associated all the pleasures which he hoped for from the future.
A few months after this event, he thus expresses himself, in writing
to a friend:

'Life is quite a different thing by the side of a beloved wife, than
so forsaken and alone; even in Summer. Beautiful Nature! I now for the
first time fully enjoy it, live in it. The world again clothes itself
around me in poetic forms; old feelings are again awakening in my
breast. What a life I am leading here! I look with a glad mind around
me; my heart finds a perennial contentment without it; my spirit so
fine, so refreshing a nourishment. My existence is settled in
harmonious composure; not strained and impassioned, but peaceful and
clear. I look to my future destiny with a cheerful heart; now when
standing at the wished-for goal, I wonder with myself how it all has
happened, so far beyond my expectations. Fate has conquered the
difficulties for me; it has, I may say, forced me to the mark. From
the future I expect everything. A few years, and I shall live in the
full enjoyment of my spirit; nay, I think my very youth will be
renewed; an inward poetic life will give it me again.'

    [Footnote 20: The obstacles to their union have already been
    described in the words of Goethe; the steps by which these
    were surmounted, are described by him in the same paper with
    equal minuteness and effect. It is interesting, but cannot be
    inserted here. See Appendix I., No. 3.]

To what extent these smiling hopes were realised will be seen in the
next and concluding Part of this Biography.



                               PART III.

               FROM HIS SETTLEMENT AT JENA TO HIS DEATH.

                             (1790-1805.)



                              PART THIRD.

                             [1790-1805.]


The duties of his new office naturally called upon Schiller to devote
himself with double zeal to History: a subject, which from choice he
had already entered on with so much eagerness. In the study of it, we
have seen above how his strongest faculties and tastes were exercised
and gratified: and new opportunities were now combined with new
motives for persisting in his efforts. Concerning the plan or the
success of his academical prelections, we have scarcely any notice: in
his class, it is said, he used most frequently to speak extempore; and
his delivery was not distinguished by fluency or grace, a circumstance
to be imputed to the agitation of a public appearance; for, as
Woltmann assures us, 'the beauty, the elegance, ease, and true
instructiveness with which he could continuously express himself in
private, were acknowledged and admired by all his friends.' His
matter, we suppose, would make amends for these deficiencies of
manner: to judge from his introductory lecture, preserved in his
works, with the title, _What is Universal History, and with what views
should it be studied_, there perhaps has never been in Europe another
course of history sketched out on principles so magnificent and
philosophical.[21] But college exercises were far from being his
ultimate object, nor did he rest satisfied with mere visions of
perfection: the compass of the outline he had traced, for a proper
Historian, was scarcely greater than the assiduity with which he
strove to fill it up. His letters breathe a spirit not only of
diligence but of ardour; he seems intent with all his strength upon
this fresh pursuit; and delighted with the vast prospects of untouched
and attractive speculation, which were opening around him on every
side. He professed himself to be 'exceedingly contented with his
business;' his ideas on the nature of it were acquiring both extension
and distinctness; and every moment of his leisure was employed in
reducing them to practice. He was now busied with the _History of the
Thirty-Years War_.

    [Footnote 21: The paper entitled _Hints on the Origin of
    Human Society, as indicated in the Mosaic Records_, the
    _Mission of Moses_, the _Laws of Solon and Lycurgus_, are
    pieces of the very highest order; full of strength and
    beauty; delicious to the lovers of that plastic philosophy,
    which employs itself in giving form and life to the 'dry
    bones' of those antique events, that lie before us so
    inexplicable in the brief and enigmatic pages of their
    chroniclers. The _Glance over Europe at the period of the
    first Crusade_; the _Times of the Emperor Frederick I._; the
    _Troubles in France_, are also masterly sketches, in a
    simpler and more common style.]

This work, which appeared in 1791, is considered by the German critics
as his chief performance in this department of literature: _The Revolt
of the Netherlands_, the only one which could have vied with it, never
was completed; otherwise, in our opinion, it might have been superior.
Either of the two would have sufficed to secure for Schiller a
distinguished rank among historians, of the class denominated
philosophical; though even both together, they afford but a feeble
exemplification of the ideas which he entertained on the manner of
composing history. In his view, the business of history is not merely
to record, but to interpret; it involves not only a clear conception
and a lively exposition of events and characters, but a sound,
enlightened theory of individual and national morality, a general
philosophy of human life, whereby to judge of them, and measure their
effects. The historian now stands on higher ground, takes in a wider
range than those that went before him; he can now survey vast tracts
of human action, and deduce its laws from an experience extending over
many climes and ages. With his ideas, moreover, his feelings ought to
be enlarged: he should regard the interests not of any sect or state,
but of mankind; the progress not of any class of arts or opinions, but
of universal happiness and refinement. His narrative, in short, should
be moulded according to the science, and impregnated with the liberal
spirit of his time.

Voltaire is generally conceived to have invented and introduced a new
method of composing history; the chief historians that have followed
him have been by way of eminence denominated philosophical. This is
hardly correct. Voltaire wrote history with greater talent, but
scarcely with a new species of talent: he applied the ideas of the
eighteenth century to the subject; but in this there was nothing
radically new. In the hands of a thinking writer history has always
been 'philosophy teaching by experience;' that is, such philosophy as
the age of the historian has afforded. For a Greek or Roman, it was
natural to look upon events with an eye to their effect on his own
city or country; and to try them by a code of principles, in which the
prosperity or extension of this formed a leading object. For a monkish
chronicler, it was natural to estimate the progress of affairs by the
number of abbeys founded; the virtue of men by the sum-total of
donations to the clergy. And for a thinker of the present day, it is
equally natural to measure the occurrences of history by quite a
different standard: by their influence upon the general destiny of
man, their tendency to obstruct or to forward him in his advancement
towards liberty, knowledge, true religion and dignity of mind. Each
of these narrators simply measures by the scale which is considered
for the time as expressing the great concerns and duties of humanity.

Schiller's views on this matter were, as might have been expected, of
the most enlarged kind. 'It seems to me,' said he in one of his
letters, 'that in writing history for the moderns, we should try to
communicate to it such an interest as the History of the Peloponnesian
War had for the Greeks. Now this is the problem: to choose and arrange
your materials so that, to interest, they shall not need the aid of
decoration. We moderns have a source of interest at our disposal,
which no Greek or Roman was acquainted with, and which the _patriotic_
interest does not nearly equal. This last, in general, is chiefly of
importance for unripe nations, for the youth of the world. But we may
excite a very different sort of interest if we represent each
remarkable occurrence that happened to _men_ as of importance to
_man_. It is a poor and little aim to write for one nation; a
philosophic spirit cannot tolerate such limits, cannot bound its views
to a form of human nature so arbitrary, fluctuating, accidental. The
most powerful nation is but a fragment; and thinking minds will not
grow warm on its account, except in so far as this nation or its
fortunes have been influential on the progress of the species.'

That there is not some excess in this comprehensive cosmopolitan
philosophy, may perhaps be liable to question. Nature herself has,
wisely no doubt, partitioned us into 'kindreds, and nations, and
tongues:' it is among our instincts to grow warm in behalf of our
country, simply for its own sake; and the business of Reason seems to
be to chasten and direct our instincts, never to destroy them. We
require individuality in our attachments: the sympathy which is
expanded over all men will commonly be found so much attenuated by
the process, that it cannot be effective on any. And as it is in
nature, so it is in art, which ought to be the image of it. Universal
philanthropy forms but a precarious and very powerless rule of
conduct; and the 'progress of the species' will turn out equally
unfitted for deeply exciting the imagination. It is not with freedom
that we can sympathise, but with free men. There ought, indeed, to be
in history a spirit superior to petty distinctions and vulgar
partialities; our particular affections ought to be enlightened and
purified; but they should not be abandoned, or, such is the condition
of humanity, our feelings must evaporate and fade away in that extreme
diffusion. Perhaps, in a certain sense, the surest mode of pleasing
and instructing all nations _is_ to write for one.

This too Schiller was aware of, and had in part attended to. Besides,
the Thirty-Years War is a subject in which nationality of feeling may
be even wholly spared, better than in almost any other. It is not a
German but a European subject; it forms the concluding portion of the
Reformation, and this is an event belonging not to any country in
particular, but to the human race. Yet, if we mistake not, this
over-tendency to generalisation, both in thought and sentiment, has
rather hurt the present work. The philosophy, with which it is embued,
now and then grows vague from its abstractness, ineffectual from its
refinement: the enthusiasm which pervades it, elevated, strong,
enlightened, would have told better on our hearts, had it been
confined within a narrower space, and directed to a more specific
class of objects. In his extreme attention to the philosophical
aspects of the period, Schiller has neglected to take advantage of
many interesting circumstances, which it offered under other points of
view. The Thirty-Years War abounds with what may be called
picturesqueness in its events, and still more in the condition of the
people who carried it on. Harte's _History of Gustavus_, a wilderness
which mere human patience seems unable to explore, is yet enlivened
here and there with a cheerful spot, when he tells us of some scalade
or camisado, or speculates on troopers rendered bullet-proof by
art-magic. His chaotic records have, in fact, afforded to our Novelist
the raw materials of Dugald Dalgetty, a cavalier of the most singular
equipment, of character and manners which, for many reasons, merit
study and description. To much of this, though, as he afterwards
proved, it was well known to him, Schiller paid comparatively small
attention; his work has lost in liveliness by the omission, more than
it has gained in dignity or instructiveness.

Yet, with all its imperfections, this is no ordinary history. The
speculation, it is true, is not always of the kind we wish; it
excludes more moving or enlivening topics, and sometimes savours of
the inexperienced theorist who had passed his days remote from
practical statesmen; the subject has not sufficient unity; in spite of
every effort, it breaks into fragments towards the conclusion: but
still there is an energy, a vigorous beauty in the work, which far
more than redeems its failings. Great thoughts at every turn arrest
our attention, and make us pause to confirm or contradict them; happy
metaphors,[22] some vivid descriptions of events and men, remind us of
the author of _Fiesco_ and _Don Carlos_. The characters of Gustavus
and Wallenstein are finely developed in the course of the narrative.
Tilly's passage of the Lech, the battles of Leipzig and Lützen figure
in our recollection, as if our eyes had witnessed them: the death of
Gustavus is described in terms which might draw 'iron tears' from the
eyes of veterans.[23] If Schiller had inclined to dwell upon the mere
visual or imaginative department of his subject, no man could have
painted it more graphically, or better called forth our emotions,
sympathetic or romantic. But this, we have seen, was not by any means
his leading aim.

    [Footnote 22: Yet we scarcely meet with one so happy as that
    in the _Revolt of the Netherlands_, where he finishes his
    picture of the gloomy silence and dismay that reigned in
    Brussels on the first entrance of Alba, by this striking
    simile: 'Now that the City had received the Spanish General
    within its walls, it had the air as of a man that has drunk a
    cup of poison, and with shuddering expectation watches, every
    moment, for its deadly agency.']

    [Footnote 23: See Appendix I., No. 4.]

On the whole, the present work is still the best historical
performance which Germany can boast of. Müller's histories are
distinguished by merits of another sort; by condensing, in a given
space, and frequently in lucid order, a quantity of information,
copious and authentic beyond example: but as intellectual productions,
they cannot rank with Schiller's. Woltmann of Berlin has added to the
_Thirty-Years War_ another work of equal size, by way of continuation,
entitled _History of the Peace of Munster_; with the first
negotiations of which treaty the former concludes. Woltmann is a
person of ability; but we dare not say of him, what Wieland said of
Schiller, that by his first historical attempt he 'has discovered a
decided capability of rising to a level with Hume, Robertson and
Gibbon.' He will rather rise to a level with Belsham or Smollett.


This first complete specimen of Schiller's art in the historical
department, though but a small fraction of what he meant to do, and
could have done, proved in fact to be the last he ever undertook. At
present very different cares awaited him: in 1791, a fit of sickness
overtook him; he had to exchange the inspiring labours of literature
for the disgusts and disquietudes of physical disease. His disorder,
which had its seat in the chest, was violent and threatening; and
though nature overcame it in the present instance, the blessing of
entire health never more returned to him. The cause of this severe
affliction seemed to be the unceasing toil and anxiety of mind, in
which his days had hitherto been passed: his frame, which, though
tall, had never been robust, was too weak for the vehement and
sleepless soul that dwelt within it; and the habit of nocturnal study
had, no doubt, aggravated all the other mischiefs. Ever since his
residence at Dresden, his constitution had been weakened: but this
rude shock at once shattered its remaining strength; for a time the
strictest precautions were required barely to preserve existence. A
total cessation from every intellectual effort was one of the most
peremptory laws prescribed to him. Schiller's habits and domestic
circumstances equally rebelled against this measure; with a beloved
wife depending on him for support, inaction itself could have procured
him little rest. His case seemed hard; his prospects of innocent
felicity had been too banefully obscured. Yet in this painful and
difficult position, he did not yield to despondency; and at length,
assistance, and partial deliverance, reached him from a very
unexpected quarter. Schiller had not long been sick, when the
hereditary Prince, now reigning Duke of Holstein-Augustenburg, jointly
with the Count Von Schimmelmann, conferred on him a pension of a
thousand crowns for three years.[24] No stipulation was added, but
merely that he should be careful of his health, and use every
attention to recover. This speedy and generous aid, moreover, was
presented with a delicate politeness, which, as Schiller said, touched
him more than even the gift itself. We should remember this Count and
this Duke; they deserve some admiration and some envy.

    [Footnote 24: It was to Denmark likewise that Klopstock owed
    the means of completing his _Messias_.]

This disorder introduced a melancholy change into Schiller's
circumstances: he had now another enemy to strive with, a secret and
fearful impediment to vanquish, in which much resolute effort must be
sunk without producing any positive result. Pain is not entirely
synonymous with Evil; but bodily pain seems less redeemed by good than
almost any other kind of it. From the loss of fortune, of fame, or
even of friends, Philosophy pretends to draw a certain compensating
benefit; but in general the permanent loss of health will bid defiance
to her alchymy. It is a universal diminution; the diminution equally
of our resources and of our capacity to guide them; a penalty
unmitigated, save by love of friends, which then first becomes truly
dear and precious to us; or by comforts brought from beyond this
earthly sphere, from that serene Fountain of peace and hope, to which
our weak Philosophy cannot raise her wing. For all men, in itself,
disease is misery; but chiefly for men of finer feelings and
endowments, to whom, in return for such superiorities, it seems to be
sent most frequently and in its most distressing forms. It is a cruel
fate for the poet to have the sunny land of his imagination, often the
sole territory he is lord of, disfigured and darkened by the shades of
pain; for one whose highest happiness is the exertion of his mental
faculties, to have them chained and paralysed in the imprisonment of a
distempered frame. With external activity, with palpable pursuits,
above all, with a suitable placidity of nature, much even in certain
states of sickness may be performed and enjoyed. But for him whose
heart is already over-keen, whose world is of the mind, ideal,
internal; when the mildew of lingering disease has struck that world,
and begun to blacken and consume its beauty, nothing seems to remain
but despondency and bitterness and desolate sorrow, felt and
anticipated, to the end.

Woe to him if his will likewise falter, if his resolution fail, and
his spirit bend its neck to the yoke of this new enemy! Idleness and a
disturbed imagination will gain the mastery of him, and let loose
their thousand fiends to harass him, to torment him into madness.
Alas! the bondage of Algiers is freedom compared with this of the sick
man of genius, whose heart has fainted and sunk beneath its load. His
clay dwelling is changed into a gloomy prison; every nerve is become
an avenue of disgust or anguish; and the soul sits within, in her
melancholy loneliness, a prey to the spectres of despair, or stupefied
with excess of suffering, doomed as it were to a 'life in death,' to a
consciousness of agonised existence, without the consciousness of
power which should accompany it. Happily, death, or entire fatuity, at
length puts an end to such scenes of ignoble misery; which, however,
ignoble as they are, we ought to view with pity rather than contempt.

Such are frequently the fruits of protracted sickness, in men
otherwise of estimable qualities and gifts, but whose sensibility
exceeds their strength of mind. In Schiller, its worst effects were
resisted by the only availing antidote, a strenuous determination to
neglect them. His spirit was too vigorous and ardent to yield even in
this emergency: he disdained to dwindle into a pining valetudinarian;
in the midst of his infirmities, he persevered with unabated zeal in
the great business of his life. As he partially recovered, he returned
as strenuously as ever to his intellectual occupations; and often, in
the glow of poetical conception, he almost forgot his maladies. By
such resolute and manly conduct, he disarmed sickness of its cruelest
power to wound; his frame might be in pain, but his spirit retained
its force, unextinguished, almost unimpeded; he did not lose his
relish for the beautiful, the grand, or the good, in any of their
shapes; he loved his friends as formerly, and wrote his finest and
sublimest works when his health was gone. Perhaps no period of his
life displayed more heroism than the present one.

After this severe attack, and the kind provision which he had received
from Denmark, Schiller seems to have relaxed his connexion with the
University of Jena: the weightiest duties of his class appear to have
been discharged by proxy, and his historical studies to have been
forsaken. Yet this was but a change, not an abatement, in the activity
of his mind. Once partially free from pain, all his former diligence
awoke; and being also free from the more pressing calls of duty and
economy, he was now allowed to turn his attention to objects which
attracted it more. Among these one of the most alluring was the
Philosophy of Kant.

The transcendental system of the Königsberg Professor had, for the
last ten years, been spreading over Germany, which it had now filled
with the most violent contentions. The powers and accomplishments of
Kant were universally acknowledged; the high pretensions of his
system, pretensions, it is true, such as had been a thousand times put
forth, a thousand times found wanting, still excited notice, when so
backed by ability and reputation. The air of mysticism connected with
these doctrines was attractive to the German mind, with which the
vague and the vast are always pleasing qualities; the dreadful array
of first principles, the forest huge of terminology and definitions,
where the panting intellect of weaker men wanders as in pathless
thickets, and at length sinks powerless to the earth, oppressed with
fatigue, and suffocated with scholastic miasma, seemed sublime rather
than appalling to the Germans; men who shrink not at toil, and to
whom a certain degree of darkness appears a native element, essential
for giving play to that deep meditative enthusiasm which forms so
important a feature in their character. Kant's Philosophy,
accordingly, found numerous disciples, and possessed them with a zeal
unexampled since the days of Pythagoras. This, in fact, resembled
spiritual fanaticism rather than a calm ardour in the cause of
science; Kant's warmest admirers seemed to regard him more in the
light of a prophet than of a mere earthly sage. Such admiration was of
course opposed by corresponding censure; the transcendental neophytes
had to encounter sceptical gainsayers as determined as themselves. Of
this latter class the most remarkable were Herder and Wieland. Herder,
then a clergyman of Weimar, seems never to have comprehended what he
fought against so keenly: he denounced and condemned the Kantean
metaphysics, because he found them heterodox. The young divines came
back from the University of Jena with their minds well nigh delirious;
full of strange doctrines, which they explained to the examinators of
the Weimar Consistorium in phrases that excited no idea in the heads
of these reverend persons, but much horror in their hearts.[25] Hence
reprimands, and objurgations, and excessive bitterness between the
applicants for ordination and those appointed to confer it: one young
clergyman at Weimar shot himself on this account; heresy, and jarring,
and unprofitable logic, were universal. Hence Herder's vehement
attacks on this 'pernicious quackery;' this delusive and destructive
'system of words.'[26] Wieland strove against it for another reason.
He had, all his life, been labouring to give currency among his
countrymen to a species of diluted epicurism; to erect a certain
smooth, and elegant, and very slender scheme of taste and morals,
borrowed from our Shaftesbury and the French. All this feeble edifice
the new doctrine was sweeping before it to utter ruin, with the
violence of a tornado. It grieved Wieland to see the work of half a
century destroyed: he fondly imagined that but for Kant's philosophy
it might have been perennial. With scepticism quickened into action by
such motives, Herder and he went forth as brother champions against
the transcendental metaphysics; they were not long without a multitude
of hot assailants. The uproar produced among thinking men by the
conflict, has scarcely been equalled in Germany since the days of
Luther. Fields were fought, and victories lost and won; nearly all the
minds of the nation were, in secret or openly, arrayed on this side or
on that. Goethe alone seemed altogether to retain his wonted
composure; he was clear for allowing the Kantean scheme to 'have its
day, as all things have.' Goethe has already lived to see the wisdom
of this sentiment, so characteristic of his genius and turn of
thought.

    [Footnote 25: Schelling has a book on the 'Soul of the
    World:' Fichte's expression to his students, "Tomorrow,
    gentlemen, I shall create God," is known to most readers.]

    [Footnote 26: See _Herder's Leben_, by his Widow. That Herder
    was not usually troubled with any unphilosophical scepticism,
    or aversion to novelty, may be inferred from his patronising
    Dr. Gall's system of Phrenology, or 'Skull-doctrine' as they
    call it in Germany. But Gall had referred with acknowledgment
    and admiration to the _Philosophie der Geschichte der
    Menschheit_. Here lay a difference.]

In these controversies, soon pushed beyond the bounds of temperate or
wholesome discussion, Schiller took no part: but the noise they made
afforded him a fresh inducement to investigate a set of doctrines, so
important in the general estimation. A system which promised, even
with a very little plausibility, to accomplish all that Kant asserted
his complete performance of; to explain the difference between Matter
and Spirit, to unravel the perplexities of Necessity and Free-will;
to show us the true grounds of our belief in God, and what hope nature
gives us of the soul's immortality; and thus at length, after a
thousand failures, to interpret the enigma of our being,—hardly
needed that additional inducement to make such a man as Schiller grasp
at it with eager curiosity. His progress also was facilitated by his
present circumstances; Jena had now become the chief well-spring of
Kantean doctrine, a distinction or disgrace it has ever since
continued to deserve. Reinhold, one of Kant's ablest followers, was at
this time Schiller's fellow-teacher and daily companion: he did not
fail to encourage and assist his friend in a path of study, which, as
he believed, conducted to such glorious results. Under this tuition,
Schiller was not long in discovering, that at least the 'new
philosophy was more poetical than that of Leibnitz, and had a grander
character;' persuasions which of course confirmed him in his
resolution to examine it.

How far Schiller penetrated into the arcana of transcendentalism it is
impossible for us to say. The metaphysical and logical branches of it
seem to have afforded him no solid satisfaction, or taken no firm hold
of his thoughts; their influence is scarcely to be traced in any of
his subsequent writings. The only department to which he attached
himself with his ordinary zeal was that which relates to the
principles of the imitative arts, with their moral influences, and
which in the Kantean nomenclature has been designated by the term
_Æsthetics_,[27] or the doctrine of sentiments and emotions. On these
subjects he had already amassed a multitude of thoughts; to see which
expressed by new symbols, and arranged in systematic form, and held
together by some common theory, would necessarily yield enjoyment to
his intellect, and inspire him with fresh alacrity in prosecuting
such researches. The new light which dawned, or seemed to dawn, upon
him, in the course of these investigations, is reflected, in various
treatises, evincing, at least, the honest diligence with which he
studied, and the fertility with which he could produce. Of these the
largest and most elaborate are the essays on _Grace and Dignity_; on
_Naïve and Sentimental Poetry_; and the _Letters on the Æsthetic
Culture of Man_: the other pieces are on _Tragic Art_; on the
_Pathetic_; on the _Cause of our Delight in Tragic Objects_; on
_Employing the Low and Common in Art_.

    [Footnote 27: From the verb αισθανομαι, _to
    feel_.—The term is Baumgarten's; prior to Kant (1845).]

Being cast in the mould of Kantism, or at least clothed in its
garments, these productions, to readers unacquainted with that system,
are encumbered here and there with difficulties greater than belong
intrinsically to the subject. In perusing them, the uninitiated
student is mortified at seeing so much powerful thought distorted, as
he thinks, into such fantastic forms: the principles of reasoning, on
which they rest, are apparently not those of common logic; a dimness
and doubt overhangs their conclusions; scarcely anything is proved in
a convincing manner. But this is no strange quality in such writings.
To an exoteric reader the philosophy of Kant almost always appears to
invert the common maxim; its end and aim seem not to be 'to make
abstruse things simple, but to make simple things abstruse.' Often a
proposition of inscrutable and dread aspect, when resolutely grappled
with, and torn from its shady den, and its bristling entrenchments of
uncouth terminology, and dragged forth into the open light of day, to
be seen by the natural eye, and tried by merely human understanding,
proves to be a very harmless truth, familiar to us from of old,
sometimes so familiar as to be a truism. Too frequently, the anxious
novice is reminded of Dryden in the _Battle of the Books_: there is a
helmet of rusty iron, dark, grim, gigantic; and within it, at the
farthest corner, is a head no bigger than a walnut. These are the
general errors of Kantean criticism; in the present works, they are by
no means of the worst or most pervading kind; and there is a
fundamental merit which does more than counterbalance them. By the aid
of study, the doctrine set before us can, in general, at length be
comprehended; and Schiller's fine intellect, recognisable even in its
masquerade, is ever and anon peering forth in its native form, which
all may understand, which all must relish, and presenting us with
passages that show like bright verdant islands in the misty sea of
metaphysics.

We have been compelled to offer these remarks on Kant's Philosophy;
but it is right to add that they are the result of only very limited
acquaintance with the subject. We cannot wish that any influence of
ours should add a note, however feeble, to the loud and not at all
melodious cry which has been raised against it in this country. When a
class of doctrines so involved in difficulties, yet so sanctioned by
illustrious names, is set before us, curiosity must have a theory
respecting them, and indolence and other humbler feelings are too
ready to afford her one. To call Kant's system a laborious dream, and
its adherents crazy mystics, is a brief method, brief but false. The
critic, whose philosophy includes the _craziness_ of men like these,
so easily and smoothly in its formulas, should render thanks to Heaven
for having gifted him with science and acumen, as few in any age or
country have been gifted. Meaner men, however, ought to recollect that
where we do not understand, we should postpone deciding, or, at least,
keep our decision for our own exclusive benefit. We of England may
reject this Kantean system, perhaps with reason; but it ought to be on
other grounds than are yet before us. Philosophy is science, and
science, as Schiller has observed, cannot always be explained in
'conversations by the parlour fire,' or in written treatises that
resemble such. The _cui bono_ of these doctrines may not, it is true,
be expressible by arithmetical computations: the subject also is
perplexed with obscurities, and probably with manifold delusions; and
too often its interpreters with us have been like 'tenebrific stars,'
that 'did ray out darkness' on a matter itself sufficiently dark. But
what then? Is the jewel always to be found among the common dust of
the highway, and always to be estimated by its value in the common
judgment? It lies embosomed in the depths of the mine; rocks must be
rent before it can be reached; skilful eyes and hands must separate it
from the rubbish where it lies concealed, and kingly purchasers alone
can prize it and buy it. This law of _ostracism_ is as dangerous in
science as it was of old in politics. Let us not forget that many
things are true which cannot be demonstrated by the rules of _Watts's
Logic_; that many truths are valuable, for which no price is given in
Paternoster Row, and no preferment offered at St. Stephen's! Whoever
reads these treatises of Schiller with attention, will perceive that
they depend on principles of an immensely higher and more complex
character than our 'Essays on Taste,' and our 'Inquiries concerning
the Freedom of the Will.' The laws of criticism, which it is their
purpose to establish, are derived from the inmost nature of man; the
scheme of morality, which they inculcate, soars into a brighter
region, very far beyond the ken of our 'Utilities' and 'Reflex-senses.'
They do not teach us 'to judge of poetry and art as we judge of
dinner,' merely by observing the impressions it produced in us; and
they _do_ derive the duties and chief end of man from other grounds
than the philosophy of Profit and Loss. These _Letters on Æsthetic
Culture_, without the aid of anything which the most sceptical could
designate as superstition, trace out and attempt to sanction for us a
system of morality, in which the sublimest feelings of the Stoic and
the Christian are represented but as stages in our progress to the
pinnacle of true human grandeur; and man, isolated on this fragment of
the universe, encompassed with the boundless desolate Unknown, at war
with Fate, without help or the hope of help, is confidently called
upon to rise into a calm cloudless height of internal activity and
peace, and _be_, what he has fondly named himself, the god of this
lower world. When such are the results, who would not make an effort
for the steps by which they are attained? In Schiller's treatises, it
must be owned, the reader, after all exertions, will be fortunate if
he can find them. Yet a second perusal will satisfy him better than
the first; and among the shapeless immensities which fill the Night of
Kantism, and the meteoric coruscations, which perplex him rather than
enlighten, he will fancy he descries some streaks of a serener
radiance, which he will pray devoutly that time may purify and ripen
into perfect day. The Philosophy of Kant is probably combined with
errors to its very core; but perhaps also, this ponderous unmanageable
dross may bear in it the everlasting gold of truth! Mighty spirits
have already laboured in refining it: is it wise in us to take up with
the base pewter of Utility, and renounce such projects altogether? We
trust, not.[28]

    [Footnote 28: Are our hopes from Mr. Coleridge always to be
    fruitless? Sneers at the common-sense philosophy of the
    Scotch are of little use: it is a poor philosophy, perhaps;
    but not so poor as none at all, which seems to be the state
    of matters here at present.]

That Schiller's _genius_ profited by this laborious and ardent study
of Æsthetic Metaphysics, has frequently been doubted, and sometimes
denied. That, after such investigations, the process of composition
would become more difficult, might be inferred from the nature of the
case. That also the principles of this critical theory were in part
erroneous, in still greater part too far-fetched and fine-spun for
application to the business of writing, we may farther venture to
assert. But excellence, not ease of composition, is the thing to be
desired; and in a mind like Schiller's, so full of energy, of images
and thoughts and creative power, the more sedulous practice of
selection was little likely to be detrimental. And though considerable
errors might mingle with the rules by which he judged himself, the
habit of judging carelessly, or not at all, is far worse than that of
sometimes judging wrong. Besides, once accustomed to attend strictly
to the operations of his genius, and rigorously to try its products,
such a man as Schiller could not fail in time to discover what was
false in the principles by which he tried them, and consequently, in
the end, to retain the benefits of this procedure without its evils.
There is doubtless a purism in taste, a rigid fantastical demand of
perfection, a horror at approaching the limits of impropriety, which
obstructs the free impulse of the faculties, and if excessive, would
altogether deaden them. But the excess on the other side is much more
frequent, and, for high endowments, infinitely more pernicious. After
the strongest efforts, there may be little realised; without strong
efforts, there must be little. That too much care does hurt in any of
our tasks is a doctrine so flattering to indolence, that we ought to
receive it with extreme caution. In works impressed with the stamp of
true genius, their quality, not their extent, is what we value: a dull
man may spend his lifetime writing little; better so than writing
much; but a man of powerful mind is liable to no such danger. Of all
our authors, Gray is perhaps the only one that from fastidiousness of
taste has written less than he should have done: there are thousands
that have erred the other way. What would a Spanish reader give, had
Lope de Vega composed a hundred times as little, and that little a
hundred times as well!

Schiller's own ideas on these points appear to be sufficiently sound:
they are sketched in the following extract of a letter, interesting
also as a record of his purposes and intellectual condition at this
period:

'Criticism must now make good to me the damage she herself has done.
And damaged me she most certainly has; for the boldness, the living
glow which I felt before a rule was known to me, have for several
years been wanting. I now _see_ myself _create_ and _form_: I watch
the play of inspiration; and my fancy, knowing she is not without
witnesses of her movements, no longer moves with equal freedom. I
hope, however, ultimately to advance so far that _art_ shall become a
second _nature_, as polished manners are to well-bred men; then
Imagination will regain her former freedom, and submit to none but
voluntary limitations.'

Schiller's subsequent writings are the best proof that in these
expectations he had not miscalculated.


The historical and critical studies, in which he had been so
extensively and seriously engaged, could not remain without effect on
Schiller's general intellectual character. He had spent five active
years in studies directed almost solely to the understanding, or the
faculties connected with it; and such industry united to such ardour
had produced an immense accession of ideas. History had furnished him
with pictures of manners and events, of strange conjunctures and
conditions of existence; it had given him more minute and truer
conceptions of human nature in its many forms, new and more accurate
opinions on the character and end of man. The domain of his mind was
both enlarged and enlightened; a multitude of images and detached
facts and perceptions had been laid up in his memory; and his
intellect was at once enriched by acquired thoughts, and strengthened
by increased exercise on a wider circle of knowledge.

But to understand was not enough for Schiller; there were in him
faculties which this could not employ, and therefore could not
satisfy. The primary vocation of his nature was poetry: the
acquisitions of his other faculties served but as the materials for
his poetic faculty to act upon, and seemed imperfect till they had
been sublimated into the pure and perfect forms of beauty, which it is
the business of this to elicit from them. New thoughts gave birth to
new feelings: and both of these he was now called upon to body forth,
to represent by visible types, to animate and adorn with the magic of
creative genius. The first youthful blaze of poetic ardour had long
since passed away; but this large increase of knowledge awakened it
anew, refined by years and experience into a steadier and clearer
flame. Vague shadows of unaccomplished excellence, gleams of ideal
beauty, were now hovering fitfully across his mind: he longed to turn
them into shape, and give them a local habitation and a name.
Criticism, likewise, had exalted his notions of art: the modern
writers on subjects of taste, Aristotle, the ancient poets, he had
lately studied; he had carefully endeavoured to extract the truth from
each, and to amalgamate their principles with his own; in choosing, he
was now more difficult to satisfy. Minor poems had all along been
partly occupying his attention; but they yielded no space for the
intensity of his impulses, and the magnificent ideas that were rising
in his fancy. Conscious of his strength, he dreaded not engaging with
the highest species of his art: the perusal of the Greek tragedians
had given rise to some late translations;[29] the perusal of Homer
seems now to have suggested the idea of an epic poem. The hero whom he
first contemplated was Gustavus Adolphus; he afterwards changed to
Frederick the Great of Prussia.

    [Footnote 29: These were a fine version, of Euripides'
    _Iphigenia in Aulide_, and a few scenes of his _Phœnissæ_.]

Epic poems, since the time of the _Epigoniad_, and _Leonidas_, and
especially since that of some more recent attempts, have with us
become a mighty dull affair. That Schiller aimed at something
infinitely higher than these faint and superannuated imitations, far
higher than even Klopstock has attained, will appear by the following
extract from one of his letters:

'An epic poem in the eighteenth century should be quite a different
thing from such a poem in the childhood of the world. And it is that
very circumstance which attracts me so much towards this project. Our
manners, the finest essence of our philosophies, our politics,
economy, arts, in short, of all we know and do, would require to be
introduced without constraint, and interwoven in such a composition,
to live there in beautiful harmonious freedom, as all the branches of
Greek culture live and are made visible in Homer's _Iliad_. Nor am I
disinclined to invent a species of machinery for this purpose; being
anxious to fulfil, with hairsbreadth accuracy, all the requisitions
that are made of epic poets, even on the side of form. Besides, this
machinery, which, in a subject so modern, in an age so prosaic,
appears to present the greatest difficulty, might exalt the interest
in a high degree, were it suitably adapted to this same modern spirit.
Crowds of confused ideas on this matter are rolling to and fro within
my head; something distinct will come out of them at last.

'As for the sort of metre I would choose, this I think you will hardly
guess: no other than _ottave rime_. All the rest, except iambic, are
become insufferable to me. And how beautifully might the earnest and
the lofty be made to play in these light fetters! What attractions
might the epic _substance_ gain by the soft yielding _form_ of this
fine rhyme! For, the poem must, not in name only, but in very deed, be
capable of being _sung_; as the _Iliad_ was sung by the peasants of
Greece, as the stanzas of _Jerusalem Delivered_ are still sung by the
Venetian gondoliers.

'The epoch of Frederick's life that would fit me best, I have
considered also. I should wish to select some unhappy situation; it
would allow me to unfold his mind far more poetically. The chief
action should, if possible, be very simple, perplexed with no
complicated circumstances, that the whole might easily be comprehended
at a glance, though the episodes were never so numerous. In this
respect there is no better model than the _Iliad_.'

Schiller did not execute, or even commence, the project he has here so
philosophically sketched: the constraints of his present situation,
the greatness of the enterprise compared with the uncertainty of its
success, were sufficient to deter him. Besides, he felt that after all
his wide excursions, the true home of his genius was the Drama, the
department where its powers had first been tried, and were now by
habit or nature best qualified to act. To the Drama he accordingly
returned. The _History of the Thirty-Years War_ had once suggested the
idea of Gustavus Adolphus as the hero of an epic poem; the same work
afforded him a subject for a tragedy: he now decided on beginning
_Wallenstein_. In this undertaking it was no easy task that he
contemplated; a common play did not now comprise his aim; he required
some magnificent and comprehensive object, in which he could expend
to advantage the new poetical and intellectual treasures which he had
for years been amassing; something that should at once exemplify his
enlarged ideas of art, and give room and shape to his fresh stores of
knowledge and sentiment. As he studied the history of Wallenstein, and
viewed its capabilities on every side, new ideas gathered round it:
the subject grew in magnitude, and often changed in form. His progress
in actual composition was, of course, irregular and small. Yet the
difficulties of the subject, increasing with his own wider, more
ambitious conceptions, did not abate his diligence: _Wallenstein_,
with many interruptions and many alterations, sometimes stationary,
sometimes retrograde, continued on the whole, though slowly, to
advance.

This was for several years his chosen occupation, the task to which he
consecrated his brightest hours, and the finest part of his faculties.
For humbler employments, demanding rather industry than inspiration,
there still remained abundant leisure, of which it was inconsistent
with his habits to waste a single hour. His occasional labours,
accordingly, were numerous, varied, and sometimes of considerable
extent. In the end of 1792, a new object seemed to call for his
attention; he once about this time seriously meditated mingling in
politics. The French Revolution had from the first affected him with
no ordinary hopes; which, however, the course of events, particularly
the imprisonment of Louis, were now fast converting into fears. For
the ill-fated monarch, and the cause of freedom, which seemed
threatened with disgrace in the treatment he was likely to receive,
Schiller felt so deeply interested, that he had determined, in his
case a determination not without its risks, to address an appeal on
these subjects to the French people and the world at large. The voice
of reason advocating liberty as well as order might still, he
conceived, make a salutary impression in this period of terror and
delusion; the voice of a distinguished man would at first sound like
the voice of the nation, which he seemed to represent. Schiller was
inquiring for a proper French translator, and revolving in his mind
the various arguments that might be used, and the comparative
propriety of using or forbearing to use them; but the progress of
things superseded the necessity of such deliberation. In a few months,
Louis perished on the scaffold; the Bourbon family were murdered, or
scattered over Europe; and the French government was changed into a
frightful chaos, amid the tumultuous and bloody horrors of which, calm
truth had no longer a chance to be heard. Schiller turned away from
these repulsive and appalling scenes, into other regions where his
heart was more familiar, and his powers more likely to produce effect.
The French Revolution had distressed and shocked him; but it did not
lessen his attachment to liberty, the name of which had been so
desecrated in its wild convulsions. Perhaps in his subsequent writings
we can trace a more respectful feeling towards old establishments;
more reverence for the majesty of Custom; and with an equal zeal, a
weaker faith in human perfectibility: changes indeed which are the
common fruit of years themselves, in whatever age or climate of the
world our experience may be gathered.

Among the number of fluctuating engagements, one, which for ten years
had been constant with him, was the editing of the _Thalia_. The
principles and performances of that work he had long looked upon as
insufficient: in particular, ever since his settlement at Jena, it had
been among his favourite projects to exchange it for some other,
conducted on a more liberal scheme, uniting more ability in its
support, and embracing a much wider compass of literary interests.
Many of the most distinguished persons in Germany had agreed to assist
him in executing such a plan; Goethe, himself a host, undertook to go
hand in hand with him. The _Thalia_ was in consequence relinquished at
the end of 1793: and the first number of the _Horen_ came out early in
the following year. This publication was enriched with many valuable
pieces on points of philosophy and criticism; some of Schiller's
finest essays first appeared here: even without the foreign aids which
had been promised him, it already bade fair to outdo, as he had meant
it should, every previous work of that description.

The _Musen-Almanach_, of which he likewise undertook the
superintendence, did not aim so high: like other works of the same
title, which are numerous in Germany, it was intended for preserving
and annually delivering to the world, a series of short poetical
effusions, or other fugitive compositions, collected from various
quarters, and often having no connexion but their juxtaposition. In
this work, as well as in the _Horen_, some of Schiller's finest
smaller poems made their first appearance; many of these pieces being
written about this period, especially the greater part of his ballads,
the idea of attempting which took its rise in a friendly rivalry with
Goethe. But the most noted composition sent forth in the pages of the
_Musen-Almanach_, was the _Xenien_;[30] a collection of epigrams which
originated partly, as it seems, in the mean or irritating conduct of
various contemporary authors. In spite of the most flattering
promises, and of its own intrinsic character, the _Horen_, at its
first appearance, instead of being hailed with welcome by the leading
minds of the country, for whom it was intended as a rallying point,
met in many quarters with no sentiment but coldness or hostility. The
controversies of the day had sown discord among literary men; Schiller
and Goethe, associating together, had provoked ill-will from a host of
persons, who felt the justice of such mutual preference, but liked not
the inferences to be drawn from it; and eyed this intellectual
duumvirate, however meek in the discharge of its functions and the
wearing of its honours, with jealousy and discontent.

    [Footnote 30: So called from ξενιον, _munus
    hospitale_; a title borrowed from Martial, who has thus
    designated a series of personal epigrams in his Thirteenth
    Book.]

The cavilling of these people, awkwardly contrasted with their
personal absurdity and insipidity, at length provoked the serious
notice of the two illustrious associates: the result was this German
Dunciad; a production of which the plan was, that it should comprise
an immense multitude of detached couplets, each conveying a complete
thought within itself, and furnished by one of the joint operators.
The subjects were of unlimited variety; 'the most,' as Schiller says,
'were wild satire, glancing at writers and writings, intermixed with
here and there a flash of poetical or philosophic thought.' It was at
first intended to provide about a thousand of these pointed
monodistichs; unity in such a work appearing to consist in a certain
boundlessness of size, which should hide the heterogeneous nature of
the individual parts: the whole were then to be arranged and
elaborated, till they had acquired the proper degree of consistency
and symmetry; each sacrificing something of its own peculiar spirit to
preserve the spirit of the rest. This number never was completed: and,
Goethe being now busy with his _Wilhelm Meister_, the project of
completing it was at length renounced; and the _Xenien_ were published
as unconnected particles, not pretending to constitute a whole. Enough
appeared to create unbounded commotion among the parties implicated:
the _Xenien_ were exclaimed against, abused, and replied to, on all
hands; but as they declared war not on persons but on actions; not
against Gleim, Nicolai, Manso, but against bad taste, dulness, and
affectation, nothing criminal could be sufficiently made out against
them.[31] The _Musen-Almanach_, where they appeared in 1797, continued
to be published till the time of Schiller's leaving Jena: the _Horen_
ceased some months before.

    [Footnote 31: This is but a lame account of the far-famed
    _Xenien_ and their results. See more of the matter in Franz
    Horn's _Poesie und Beredtsamkeit_; in Carlyle's
    _Miscellanies_ (i. 67); &c. (_Note of 1845._)]

The coöperation of Goethe, which Schiller had obtained so readily in
these pursuits, was of singular use to him in many others. Both
possessing minds of the first order, yet constructed and trained in
the most opposite modes, each had much that was valuable to learn of
the other, and suggest to him. Cultivating different kinds of
excellence, they could joyfully admit each other's merit; connected by
mutual services, and now by community of literary interests, few
unkindly feelings could have place between them. For a man of high
equalities, it is rare to find a meet companion; painful and injurious
to want one. Solitude exasperates or deadens the heart, perverts or
enervates the faculties; association with inferiors leads to dogmatism
in thought, and self-will even in affections. Rousseau never should
have lived in the Val de Montmorenci; it had been good for Warburton
that Hurd had not existed; for Johnson never to have known Boswell or
Davies. From such evils Schiller and Goethe were delivered; their
intimacy seems to have been equal, frank and cordial; from the
contrasts and the endowments of their minds, it must have had peculiar
charms. In his critical theories, Schiller had derived much profit
from communicating with an intellect as excursive as his own, but far
cooler and more sceptical: as he lopped off from his creed the
excrescences of Kantism, Goethe and he, on comparing their ideas,
often found in them a striking similarity; more striking and more
gratifying, when it was considered from what diverse premises these
harmonious conclusions had been drawn. On such subjects they often
corresponded when absent, and conversed when together. They were in
the habit of paying long visits to each other's houses; frequently
they used to travel in company between Jena and Weimar. 'At Triesnitz,
a couple of English miles from Jena, Goethe and he,' we are told,
'might sometimes be observed sitting at table, beneath the shade of a
spreading tree; talking, and looking at the current of passengers.'—There
are some who would have 'travelled fifty miles on foot' to join the
party!

Besides this intercourse with Goethe, he was happy in a kindly
connexion with many other estimable men, both in literary and in
active life. Dalberg, at a distance, was to the last his friend and
warmest admirer. At Jena, he had Schütz, Paul, Hufland, Reinhold.
Wilhelm von Humboldt, also, brother of the celebrated traveller, had
come thither about this time, and was now among his closest
associates. At Weimar, excluding less important persons, there were
still Herder and Wieland, to divide his attention with Goethe. And
what to his affectionate heart must have been the most grateful
circumstance of all, his aged parents were yet living to participate
in the splendid fortune of the son whom they had once lamented and
despaired of, but never ceased to love. In 1793 he paid them a visit
in Swabia, and passed nine cheerful months among the scenes dearest to
his recollection: enjoying the kindness of those unalterable friends
whom Nature had given him; and the admiring deference of those by whom
it was most delightful to be honoured,—those who had known him in
adverse and humbler circumstances, whether they might have respected
or contemned him. By the Grand Duke, his ancient censor and patron,
he was not interfered with; that prince, in answer to a previous
application on the subject, having indirectly engaged to take no
notice of this journey. The Grand Duke had already interfered too much
with him, and bitterly repented of his interference. Next year he
died; an event which Schiller, who had long forgotten past
ill-treatment, did not learn without true sorrow, and grateful
recollections of bygone kindness. The new sovereign, anxious to repair
the injustice of his predecessor, almost instantly made offer of a
vacant Tübingen professorship to Schiller; a proposal flattering to
the latter, but which, by the persuasion of the Duke of Weimar, he
respectfully declined.

Amid labours and amusements so multiplied, amid such variety of
intellectual exertion and of intercourse with men, Schiller, it was
clear, had not suffered the encroachments of bodily disease to
undermine the vigour of his mental or moral powers. No period of his
life displayed in stronger colours the lofty and determined zeal of
his character. He had already written much; his fame stood upon a firm
basis; domestic wants no longer called upon him for incessant effort;
and his frame was pining under the slow canker of an incurable malady.
Yet he never loitered, never rested; his fervid spirit, which had
vanquished opposition and oppression in his youth; which had struggled
against harassing uncertainties, and passed unsullied through many
temptations, in his earlier manhood, did not now yield to this last
and most fatal enemy. The present was the busiest, most productive
season of his literary life; and with all its drawbacks, it was
probably the happiest. Violent attacks from his disorder were of rare
occurrence; and its constant influence, the dark vapours with which it
would have overshadowed the faculties of his head and heart, were
repelled by diligence and a courageous exertion of his will. In other
points, he had little to complain of, and much to rejoice in. He was
happy in his family, the chosen scene of his sweetest, most lasting
satisfaction; by the world he was honoured and admired; his wants were
provided for; he had tasks which inspired and occupied him; friends
who loved him, and whom he loved. Schiller had much to enjoy, and most
of it he owed to himself.

In his mode of life at Jena, simplicity and uniformity were the most
conspicuous qualities; the single excess which he admitted being that
of zeal in the pursuits of literature, the sin which all his life had
most easily beset him. His health had suffered much, and principally,
it was thought, from the practice of composing by night: yet the
charms of this practice were still too great for his self-denial; and,
except in severe fits of sickness, he could not discontinue it. The
highest, proudest pleasure of his mind was that glow of intellectual
production, that 'fine frenzy,' which makes the poet, while it lasts,
a new and nobler creature; exalting him into brighter regions, adorned
by visions of magnificence and beauty, and delighting all his
faculties by the intense consciousness of their exerted power. To
enjoy this pleasure in perfection, the solitary stillness of night,
diffusing its solemn influence over thought as well as earth and air,
had at length in Schiller's case grown indispensable. For this
purpose, accordingly, he was accustomed, in the present, as in former
periods, to invert the common order of things: by day he read,
refreshed himself with the aspect of nature, conversed or corresponded
with his friends; but he wrote and studied in the night. And as his
bodily feelings were too often those of languor and exhaustion, he
adopted, in impatience of such mean impediments, the pernicious
expedient of stimulants, which yield a momentary strength, only to
waste our remaining fund of it more speedily and surely.

'During summer, his place of study was in a garden, which at length he
purchased, in the suburbs of Jena, not far from the Weselhöfts' house,
where at that time was the office of the _Allgemeine Litteratur-Zeitung_.
Reckoning from the market-place of Jena, it lies on the south-west
border of the town, between the Engelgatter and the Neuthor, in a
hollow defile, through which a part of the Leutrabach flows round the
city. On the top of the acclivity, from which there is a beautiful
prospect into the valley of the Saal, and the fir mountains of the
neighbouring forest, Schiller built himself a small house, with a
single chamber.[32] It was his favourite abode during hours of
composition; a great part of the works he then wrote were written
here. In winter he likewise dwelt apart from the noise of men; in the
Griesbachs' house, on the outside of the city-trench. * * * On sitting
down to his desk at night, he was wont to keep some strong coffee, or
wine-chocolate, but more frequently a flask of old Rhenish, or
Champagne, standing by him, that he might from time to time repair the
exhaustion of nature. Often the neighbours used to hear him earnestly
declaiming, in the silence of the night: and whoever had an
opportunity of watching him on such occasions, a thing very easy to be
done from the heights lying opposite his little garden-house, on the
other side of the dell, might see him now speaking aloud and walking
swiftly to and fro in his chamber, then suddenly throwing himself down
into his chair and writing; and drinking the while, sometimes more
than once, from the glass standing near him. In winter he was to be
found at his desk till four, or even five o'clock in the morning; in
summer, till towards three. He then went to bed, from which he seldom
rose till nine or ten.'[33]

    [Footnote 32: 'The street leading from Schiller's
    dwelling-house to this, was by some wags named the
    _Xenien-gasse_; a name not yet entirely disused.']

    [Footnote 33: Doering, pp. 118-131.]

Had prudence been the dominant quality in Schiller's character, this
practice would undoubtedly have been abandoned, or rather never taken
up. It was an error so to waste his strength; but one of those which
increase rather than diminish our respect; originating, as it did, in
generous ardour for what was best and grandest, they must be cold
censurers that can condemn it harshly. For ourselves, we but lament
and honour this excess of zeal; its effects were mournful, but its
origin was noble. Who can picture Schiller's feelings in this
solitude, without participating in some faint reflection of their
grandeur! The toil-worn but devoted soul, alone, under the silent
starry canopy of Night, offering up the troubled moments of existence
on the altar of Eternity! For here the splendour that gleamed across
the spirit of a mortal, transient as one of us, was made to be
perpetual; these images and thoughts were to pass into other ages and
distant lands; to glow in human hearts, when the heart that conceived
them had long been mouldered into common dust. To the lovers of
genius, this little garden-house might have been a place to visit as a
chosen shrine; nor will they learn without regret that the walls of
it, yielding to the hand of time, have already crumbled into ruin, and
are now no longer to be traced. The piece of ground that it stood on
is itself hallowed with a glory that is bright, pure and abiding; but
the literary pilgrim could not have surveyed, without peculiar
emotion, the simple chamber, in which Schiller wrote the _Reich der
Schatten_, the _Spaziergang_, the _Ideal_, and the immortal scenes of
_Wallenstein_.

The last-named work had cost him many an anxious, given him many a
pleasant, hour. For seven years it had continued in a state of
irregular, and oft-suspended progress; sometimes 'lying endless and
formless' before him; sometimes on the point of being given up
altogether. The multitude of ideas, which he wished to incorporate in
the structure of the piece, retarded him; and the difficulty of
contenting his taste, respecting the manner of effecting this,
retarded him still more. In _Wallenstein_ he wished to embody the more
enlarged notions which experience had given him of men, especially
which history had given him of generals and statesmen; and while
putting such characters in action, to represent whatever was, or could
be made, poetical, in the stormy period of the Thirty-Years War. As he
meditated on the subject, it continued to expand; in his fancy, it
assumed successively a thousand forms; and after all due strictness of
selection, such was still the extent of materials remaining on his
hands, that he found it necessary to divide the play into three parts,
distinct in their arrangements, but in truth forming a continuous
drama of eleven acts. In this shape it was sent forth to the world, in
1799; a work of labour and persevering anxiety, but of anxiety and
labour, as it then appeared, which had not been bestowed in vain.
_Wallenstein_ is by far the best performance he had yet produced; it
merits a long chapter of criticism by itself; and a few hurried pages
are all that we can spend on it.

As a porch to the great edifice stands Part first, entitled
_Wallenstein's Camp_, a piece in one act. It paints, with much humour
and graphical felicity, the manners of that rude tumultuous host which
Wallenstein presided over, and had made the engine of his ambitious
schemes. Schiller's early experience of a military life seems now to
have stood him in good stead; his soldiers are delineated with the
distinctness of actual observation; in rugged sharpness of feature,
they sometimes remind us of Smollett's seamen. Here are all the wild
lawless spirits of Europe assembled within the circuit of a single
trench. Violent, tempestuous, unstable is the life they lead.
Ishmaelites, their hands against every man, and every man's hand
against them; the instruments of rapine; tarnished with almost every
vice, and knowing scarcely any virtue but those of reckless bravery
and uncalculating obedience to their leader, their situation still
presents some aspects which affect or amuse us; and these the poet has
seized with his accustomed skill. Much of the cruelty and repulsive
harshness of these soldiers, we are taught to forget in contemplating
their forlorn houseless wanderings, and the practical magnanimity,
with which even they contrive to wring from Fortune a tolerable
scantling of enjoyment. Their manner of existence Wallenstein has, at
an after period of the action, rather movingly expressed:

    'Our life was but a battle and a march,
     And, like the wind's blast, never-resting, homeless,
     We storm'd across the war-convulsed Earth.'

Still farther to soften the asperities of the scene, the dialogue is
cast into a rude Hudibrastic metre, full of forced rhymes, and strange
double-endings, with a rhythm ever changing, ever rough and lively,
which might almost be compared to the hard, irregular, fluctuating
sound of the regimental drum. In this ludicrous doggrel, with phrases
and figures of a correspondent cast, homely, ridiculous, graphic,
these men of service paint their hopes and doings. There are ranks and
kinds among them; representatives of all the constituent parts of the
motley multitude, which followed this prince of _Condottieri_. The
solemn pedantry of the ancient Wachtmeister is faithfully given; no
less so are the jocund ferocity and heedless daring of Holky's
Jägers, or the iron courage and stern camp-philosophy of Pappenheim's
Cuirassiers. Of the Jäger the sole principle is military obedience; he
does not reflect or calculate; his business is to do whatever he is
ordered, and to enjoy whatever he can reach. 'Free wished I to live,'
he says,

    'Free wished I to live, and easy and gay,
     And see something new on each new day;
     In the joys of the moment lustily sharing,
     'Bout the past or the future not thinking or caring:
     To the Kaiser, therefore, I sold my bacon,
     And by him good charge of the whole is taken.
     Order me on 'mid the whistling fiery shot,
     Over the Rhine-stream rapid and roaring wide,
     A third of the troop must go to pot,—
     Without loss of time, I mount and ride;
     But farther, I beg very much, do you see,
     That in all things else you would leave me free.'

The Pappenheimer is an older man, more sedate and more indomitable; he
has wandered over Europe, and gathered settled maxims of soldierly
principle and soldierly privilege: he is not without a _rationale_ of
life; the various professions of men have passed in review before him,
but no coat that he has seen has pleased him like his own 'steel
doublet,' cased in which, it is his wish,

    'Looking down on the world's poor restless scramble,
     Careless, through it, astride of his nag to ramble.'

Yet at times with this military stoicism there is blended a dash of
homely pathos; he admits,

    'This sword of ours is no plough or spade,
     You cannot delve or reap with the iron blade;
     For us there falls no seed, no corn-field grows,
     Neither home nor kindred the soldier knows:
     Wandering over the face of the earth,
     Warming his hands at another's hearth:
     From the pomp of towns he must onward roam;
     In the village-green with its cheerful game,
     In the mirth of the vintage or harvest-home,
     No part or lot can the soldier claim.
     Tell me then, in the place of goods or pelf,
     What has he unless to honour himself?
     Leave not even _this_ his own, what wonder
     The man should burn and kill and plunder?

But the camp of Wallenstein is fall of bustle as well as speculation;
there are gamblers, peasants, sutlers, soldiers, recruits, capuchin
friars, moving to and fro in restless pursuit of their several
purposes. The sermon of the Capuchin is an unparalleled
composition;[34] a medley of texts, puns, nicknames, and verbal logic,
conglutinated by a stupid judgment, and a fiery catholic zeal. It
seems to be delivered with great unction, and to find fit audience in
the camp: towards the conclusion they rush upon him, and he narrowly
escapes killing or ducking, for having ventured to glance a censure at
the General. The soldiers themselves are jeering, wrangling, jostling;
discussing their wishes and expectations; and, at last, they combine
in a profound deliberation on the state of their affairs. A vague
exaggerated outline of the coming events and personages is imaged to
us in their coarse conceptions. We dimly discover the precarious
position of Wallenstein; the plots which threaten him, which he is
meditating: we trace the leading qualities of the principal officers;
and form a high estimate of the potent spirit which, binds this fierce
discordant mass together, and seems to be the object of universal
reverence where nothing else is revered.

    [Footnote 34: Said to be by Goethe; the materials faithfully
    extracted from a real sermon (by the Jesuit Santa Clara) of
    the period it refers to.—There were various Jesuits Santa
    Clara, of that period: this is the _German_ one, Abraham by
    name; specimens of whose Sermons, a fervent kind of
    preaching-run-mad, have been reprinted in late years, for
    dilettante purposes, (_Note of 1845._)]

In the _Two Piccolomini_, the next division of the work, the generals
for whom we have thus been prepared appear in person on the scene, and
spread out before us their plots and counterplots; Wallenstein,
through personal ambition and evil counsel, slowly resolving to
revolt; and Octavio Piccolomini, in secret, undermining his influence
among the leaders, and preparing for him that pit of ruin, into which,
in the third Part, _Wallenstein's Death_, we see him sink with all his
fortunes. The military spirit which pervades the former piece is here
well sustained. The ruling motives of these captains and colonels are
a little more refined, or more disguised, than those of the
Cuirassiers and Jägers; but they are the same in substance; the love
of present or future pleasure, of action, reputation, money, power;
selfishness, but selfishness distinguished by a superficial external
propriety, and gilded over with the splendour of military honour, of
courage inflexible, yet light, cool and unassuming. These are not
imaginary heroes, but genuine hired men of war: we do not love them;
yet there is a pomp about their operations, which agreeably fills up
the scene. This din of war, this clash of tumultuous conflicting
interests, is felt as a suitable accompaniment to the affecting or
commanding movements of the chief characters whom it envelops or
obeys.

Of the individuals that figure in this world of war, Wallenstein
himself, the strong Atlas which supports it all, is by far the most
imposing. Wallenstein is the model of a high-souled, great,
accomplished man, whose ruling passion is ambition. He is daring to
the utmost pitch of manhood; he is enthusiastic and vehement; but the
fire of his soul burns hid beneath a deep stratum of prudence, guiding
itself by calculations which extend to the extreme limits of his most
minute concerns. This prudence, sometimes almost bordering on
irresolution, forms the outward rind of his character, and for a while
is the only quality which we discover in it. The immense influence
which his genius appears to exert on every individual of his many
followers, prepares us to expect a great man; and, when Wallenstein,
after long delay and much forewarning, is in fine presented to us, we
at first experience something like a disappointment. We find him,
indeed, possessed of a staid grandeur; yet involved in mystery;
wavering between two opinions; and, as it seems, with all his wisdom,
blindly credulous in matters of the highest import. It is only when
events have forced decision on him, that he rises in his native might,
that his giant spirit stands unfolded in its strength before us;

    'Night must it be, ere Friedland's star will beam:'

amid difficulties, darkness and impending ruin, at which the boldest
of his followers grow pale, he himself is calm, and first in this
awful crisis feels the serenity and conscious strength of his soul
return. Wallenstein, in fact, though preeminent in power, both
external and internal, of high intellect and commanding will, skilled
in war and statesmanship beyond the best in Europe, the idol of sixty
thousand fearless hearts, is not yet removed above our sympathy. We
are united with him by feelings, which he reckons weak, though they
belong to the most generous parts of his nature. His indecision partly
takes its rise in the sensibilities of his heart, as well as in the
caution of his judgment: his belief in astrology, which gives force
and confirmation to this tendency, originates in some soft kindly
emotions, and adds a new interest to the spirit of the warrior; it
humbles him, to whom the earth is subject, before those mysterious
Powers which weigh the destinies of man in their balance, in whose
eyes the greatest and the least of mortals scarcely differ in
littleness. Wallenstein's confidence in the friendship of Octavio, his
disinterested love for Max Piccolomini, his paternal and brotherly
kindness, are feelings which cast an affecting lustre over the
harsher, more heroic qualities wherewith they are combined. His
treason to the Emperor is a crime, for which, provoked and tempted as
he was, we do not greatly blame him; it is forgotten in our admiration
of his nobleness, or recollected only as a venial trespass. Schiller
has succeeded well with Wallenstein, where it was not easy to succeed.
The truth of history has been but little violated; yet we are
compelled to feel that Wallenstein, whose actions individually are
trifling, unsuccessful, and unlawful, is a strong, sublime, commanding
character; we look at him with interest, our concern at his fate is
tinged with a shade of kindly pity.

In Octavio Piccolomini, his war-companion, we can find less fault, yet
we take less pleasure. Octavio's qualities are chiefly negative: he
rather walks by the letter of the moral law, than by its spirit; his
conduct is externally correct, but there is no touch of generosity
within. He is more of the courtier than of the soldier: his weapon is
intrigue, not force. Believing firmly that 'whatever is, is best,' he
distrusts all new and extraordinary things; he has no faith in human
nature, and seems to be virtuous himself more by calculation than by
impulse. We scarcely thank him for his loyalty; serving his Emperor,
he ruins and betrays his friend: and, besides, though he does not own
it, personal ambition is among his leading motives; he wishes to be
general and prince, and Wallenstein is not only a traitor to his
sovereign, but a bar to this advancement. It is true, Octavio does not
personally tempt him towards his destruction; but neither does he
warn him from it; and perhaps he knew that fresh temptation was
superfluous. Wallenstein did not deserve such treatment from a man
whom he had trusted as a brother, even though such confidence was
blind, and guided by visions and starry omens. Octavio is a skilful,
prudent, managing statesman; of the kind praised loudly, if not
sincerely, by their friends, and detested deeply by their enemies. His
object may be lawful or even laudable; but his ways are crooked; we
dislike him but the more that we know not positively how to blame him.

Octavio Piccolomini and Wallenstein are, as it were, the two opposing
forces by which this whole universe of military politics is kept in
motion. The struggle of magnanimity and strength combined with
treason, against cunning and apparent virtue, aided by law, gives rise
to a series of great actions, which are here vividly presented to our
view. We mingle in the clashing interests of these men of war; we see
them at their gorgeous festivals and stormy consultations, and
participate in the hopes or fears that agitate them. The subject had
many capabilities; and Schiller has turned them all to profit. Our
minds are kept alert by a constant succession of animating scenes of
spectacle, dialogue, incident: the plot thickens and darkens as we
advance; the interest deepens and deepens to the very end.

But among the tumults of this busy multitude, there are two forms of
celestial beauty that solicit our attention, and whose destiny,
involved with that of those around them, gives it an importance in our
eyes which it could not otherwise have had. Max Piccolomini, Octavio's
son, and Thekla, the daughter of Wallenstein, diffuse an ethereal
radiance over all this tragedy; they call forth the finest feelings of
the heart, where other feelings had already been aroused; they
superadd to the stirring pomp of scenes, which had already kindled
our imaginations, the enthusiasm of bright unworn humanity, 'the bloom
of young desire, the purple light of love.' The history of Max and
Thekla is not a rare one in poetry; but Schiller has treated it with a
skill which is extremely rare. Both of them are represented as
combining every excellence; their affection is instantaneous and
unbounded; yet the coolest, most sceptical reader is forced to admire
them, and believe in them.

Of Max we are taught from the first to form the highest expectations:
the common soldiers and their captains speak of him as of a perfect
hero; the Cuirassiers had, at Pappenheim's death, on the field of
Lützen, appointed him their colonel by unanimous election. His
appearance answers these ideas: Max is the very spirit of honour, and
integrity, and young ardour, personified. Though but passing into
maturer age, he has already seen and suffered much; but the experience
of the man has not yet deadened or dulled the enthusiasm of the boy.
He has lived, since his very childhood, constantly amid the clang of
war, and with few ideas but those of camps; yet here, by a native
instinct, his heart has attracted to it all that was noble and
graceful in the trade of arms, rejecting all that was repulsive or
ferocious. He loves Wallenstein his patron, his gallant and majestic
leader: he loves his present way of life, because it is one of peril
and excitement, because he knows no other, but chiefly because his
young unsullied spirit can shed a resplendent beauty over even the
wastest region in the destiny of man. Yet though a soldier, and the
bravest of soldiers, he is not this alone. He feels that there are
fairer scenes in life, which these scenes of havoc and distress but
deform or destroy; his first acquaintance with the Princess Thekla
unveils to him another world, which till then he had not dreamed of; a
land of peace and serene elysian felicity, the charms of which he
paints with simple and unrivalled eloquence. Max is not more daring
than affectionate; he is merciful and gentle, though his training has
been under tents; modest and altogether unpretending, though young and
universally admired. We conceive his aspect to be thoughtful but
fervid, dauntless but mild: he is the very poetry of war, the essence
of a youthful hero. We should have loved him anywhere; but here, amid
barren scenes of strife and danger, he is doubly dear to us.

His first appearance wins our favour; his eloquence in sentiment
prepares us to expect no common magnanimity in action. It is as
follows: _Octavio_ and _Questenberg_ are consulting on affairs of
state; _Max_ enters: he is just returned from convoying the _Princess
Thekla_ and her mother, the daughter and the wife of _Friedland_, to
the camp at Pilsen.


ACT I. SCENE IV.

MAX PICCOLOMINI, OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, QUESTENBERG.

MAX. 'Tis he himself! My father, welcome, welcome!

[_He embraces him: on turning round, he observes Questenberg, and
draws coldly back._

Busied, I perceive? I will not interrupt you.

OCT. How now, Max? View this stranger better!
An old friend deserves regard and kindness;
The Kaiser's messenger should be rever'd!

MAX. [_drily_] Von Questenberg! If it is good that brings you
To our head-quarters, welcome!

QUEST. [_has taken his hand_] Nay, draw not
Your hand away, Count Piccolomini!
Not on mine own account alone I grasp it,
And nothing common will I say therewith.
Octavio, Max, Piccolomini!    [_Taking both their hands._
Names of benignant solemn import! Never
Can Austria's fortune fail while two such stars,
To guide and guard her, gleam above our hosts.

MAX. You play it wrong, Sir Minister! To praise,
I wot, you come not hither; to blame and censure
You are come. Let me be no exception.

OCT. [_to Max._] He comes from Court, where every one is not
So well contented with the Duke as here.

MAX. And what new fault have they to charge him with?
That he alone decides what he alone
Can understand? Well! Should it not be so?
It should and must! This man was never made
To ply and mould himself like wax to others:
It goes against his heart; he cannot do it,
He has the spirit of a ruler, and
The station of a ruler. Well for us
It is so! Few can rule themselves, can use
Their wisdom wisely: happy for the whole
Where there is one among them that can be
A centre and a hold for many thousands;
That can plant himself like a firm column,
For the whole to lean on safely! Such a one
Is Wallenstein; some other man might better
Serve the Court, none else could serve the Army.

QUEST. The Army, truly!

MAX.                   And it is a pleasure
To behold how all awakes and strengthens
And revives around him; how men's faculties
Come forth; their gifts grow plainer to themselves!
From each he can elicit his endowment,
His peculiar power; and does it wisely;
Leaving each to be the man he found him,
Watching only that he always be so.
I' th' proper place: and thus he makes the talents
Of all mankind his own.

QUEST.         No one denies him
Skill in men, and skill to use them. His fault is
That in the ruler he forgets the servant,
As if he had been born to be commander.

MAX. And is he not? By birth he is invested
With all gifts for it, and with the farther gift
Of finding scope to use them; of acquiring
For the ruler's faculties the ruler's office.

QUEST. So that how far the rest of us have rights
Or influence, if any, lies with Friedland?

MAX. He is no common person; he requires
No common confidence: allow him space;
The proper limit he himself will set.

QUEST. The trial shows it!

MAX.                        Ay! Thus it is with them!
Still so! All frights them that has any depth;
Nowhere are they at ease but in the shallows.

OCT. [_to Quest._] Let him have his way, my friend! The argument
Will not avail us.

MAX.               They invoke the spirit
I' th' hour of need, and shudder when he rises.
The great, the wonderful, must be accomplished
Like a thing of course!—In war, in battle,
A moment is decisive; on the spot
Must be determin'd, in the instant done.
With ev'ry noble quality of nature
The leader must be gifted: let him live, then,
In their noble sphere! The oracle within him,
The living spirit, not dead books, old forms,
Not mould'ring parchments must he take to counsel.

OCT. My Son! despise not these old narrow forms!
They are as barriers, precious walls and fences,
Which oppressed mortals have erected
To mod'rate the rash will of their oppressors.
For the uncontrolled has ever been destructive.
The way of Order, though it lead through windings,
Is the best. Right forward goes the lightning
And the cannon-ball: quick, by the nearest path,
They come, op'ning with murderous crash their way,
To blast and ruin! My Son! the quiet road
Which men frequent, where peace and blessings travel,
Follows the river's course, the valley's bendings;
Modest skirts the cornfield and the vineyard,
Revering property's appointed bounds;
And leading safe though slower to the mark.

QUEST. O, hear your Father! him who is at once
A hero and a man!

OCT.          It is the child
O' th' camp that speaks in thee, my Son: a war
Of fifteen years has nursed and taught thee; peace
Thou hast never seen. My Son, there is a worth
Beyond the worth of warriors: ev'n in war itself
The object is not war. The rapid deeds
Of power, th' astounding wonders of the moment—
It is not these that minister to man
Aught useful, aught benignant or enduring.
In haste the wandering soldier comes, and builds
With canvas his light town: here in a moment
Is a rushing concourse; markets open;
Roads and rivers crowd with merchandise
And people; Traffic stirs his hundred arms.
Ere long, some morning, look,—and it is gone!
The tents are struck, the host has marched away;
Dead as a churchyard lies the trampled seed-field,
And wasted is the harvest of the year.

MAX. O Father! that the Kaiser _would_ make peace!
The bloody laurel I would gladly change
For the first violet Spring should offer us,
The tiny pledge that Earth again was young!

OCT. How's this? What is it that affects thee so?

MAX. Peace I have never seen? Yes, I have seen it!
Ev'n now I come from it: my journey led me
Through lands as yet unvisited by war.
O Father! life has charms, of which we know not:
We have but seen the barren coasts of life;
Like some wild roving crew of lawless pirates,
Who, crowded in their narrow noisome ship,
Upon the rude sea, with rude manners dwell;
Naught of the fair land knowing but the bays,
Where they may risk their hurried thievish landing.
Of the loveliness that, in its peaceful dales,
The land conceals—O Father!—O, of this,
In our wild voyage we have seen no glimpse.

OCT. [_gives increased attention_]
And did this journey show thee much of it?

MAX. 'Twas the first holiday of my existence.
Tell me, where's the end of all this labour,
This grinding labour that has stolen my youth,
And left my heart uncheer'd and void, my spirit
Uncultivated as a wilderness?
This camp's unceasing din; the neighing steeds;
The trumpet's clang; the never-changing round
Of service, discipline, parade, give nothing
To the heart, the heart that longs for nourishment.
There is no soul in this insipid bus'ness;
Life has another fate and other joys.

OCT. Much hast thou learn'd, my Son, in this short journey!

MAX. O blessed bright day, when at last the soldier
Shall turn back to life, and be again a man!
Through th' merry lines the colours are unfurl'd,
And homeward beats the thrilling soft peace-march;
All hats and helmets deck'd with leafy sprays,
The last spoil of the fields! The city's gates
Fly up; now needs not the petard to burst them:
The walls are crowded with rejoicing people;
Their shouts ring through the air: from every tower
Blithe bells are pealing forth the merry vesper
Of that bloody day. From town and hamlet
Flow the jocund thousands; with their hearty
Kind impetuosity our march impeding.
The old man, weeping that he sees this day,
Embraces his long-lost son: a stranger
He revisits his old home; with spreading boughs
The tree o'ershadows him at his return,
Which waver'd as a twig when he departed;
And modest blushing comes a maid to meet him,
Whom on her nurse's breast he left. O happy,
For whom some kindly door like this, for whom
Soft arms to clasp him shall be open'd!—

QUEST. [_with emotion_]                  O that
The times you speak of should be so far distant!
Should not be tomorrow, be today!

MAX. And who's to blame for it but you at Court?
I will deal plainly with you, Questenberg:
When I observ'd you here, a twinge of spleen
And bitterness went through me. It is you
That hinder peace; yes, you. The General
Must force it, and you ever keep tormenting him,
Obstructing all his steps, abusing him;
For what? Because the good of Europe lies
Nearer his heart, than whether certain acres
More or less of dirty land be Austria's!
You call him traitor, rebel, God knows what,
Because he spares the Saxons; as if that
Were not the only way to peace; for how
If during war, war end not, _can_ peace follow?
Go to! go to! As I love goodness, so I hate
This paltry work of yours: and here I vow to God,
For him, this rebel, traitor Wallenstein,
To shed my blood, my heart's blood, drop by drop,
Ere I will see you triumph in his fall!


The Princess Thekla is perhaps still dearer to us. Thekla, just
entering on life, with 'timid steps,' with the brilliant visions of a
cloister yet undisturbed by the contradictions of reality, beholds in
Max, not merely her protector and escort to her father's camp, but the
living emblem of her shapeless yet glowing dreams. She knows not
deception, she trusts and is trusted: their spirits meet and mingle,
and 'clasp each other firmly and forever.' All this is described by
the poet with a quiet inspiration, which finds its way into our
deepest sympathies. Such beautiful simplicity is irresistible. 'How
long,' the Countess Terzky asks,


How long is it since you disclosed your heart?

MAX. This morning first I risked a word of it.

COUN. Not till this morning during twenty days?

MAX. 'Twas at the castle where you met us, 'twixt this
And Nepomuk, the last stage of the journey.
On a balcony she and I were standing, our looks
In silence turn'd upon the vacant landscape;
And before us the dragoons were riding,
Whom the Duke had sent to be her escort.
Heavy on my heart lay thoughts of parting,
And with a faltering voice at last I said:
All this reminds me, Fräulein, that today
I must be parted from my happiness;
In few hours you will find a father,
Will see yourself encircled by new friends;
And I shall be to you nought but a stranger,
Forgotten in the crowd—"Speak with Aunt Terzky!"
Quick she interrupted me; I noticed
A quiv'ring in her voice; a glowing blush
Spread o'er her cheeks; slow rising from the ground,
Her eyes met mine: I could control myself
No longer—

[_The Princess appears at the door, and stops; the Countess, but not
Piccolomini, observing her._

                —I clasp'd her wildly in my arms,
My lips were join'd with hers. Some footsteps stirring
I' th' next room parted us; 'twas you; what then
Took place, you know.

COUN.                And can you be so modest,
Or incurious, as not once to ask me
For _my_ secret, in return?

MAX.               Your secret?

COUN. Yes, sure! On coming in the moment after,
How my niece receiv'd me, what i' th' instant
Of her first surprise she—

MAX.                            Ha?

THEKLA [_enters hastily_].                Spare yourself
The trouble, Aunt! That he can learn from me.

       *       *       *       *       *

We rejoice in the ardent, pure and confiding affection of these two
angelic beings: but our feeling is changed and made more poignant,
when we think that the inexorable hand of Destiny is already lifted to
smite their world with blackness and desolation. Thekla has enjoyed
'two little hours of heavenly beauty;' but her native gaiety gives
place to serious anticipations and alarms; she feels that the camp of
Wallenstein is not a place for hope to dwell in. The instructions and
explanations of her aunt disclose the secret: she is not to love Max;
a higher, it may be a royal, fate awaits her; but she is to tempt him
from his duty, and make him lend his influence to her father, whose
daring projects she now for the first time discovers. From that moment
her hopes of happiness have vanished, never more to return. Yet her
own sorrows touch her less than the ruin which she sees about to
overwhelm her tender and affectionate mother. For herself, she waits
with gloomy patience the stroke that is to crush her. She is meek, and
soft, and maiden-like; but she is Friedland's daughter, and does not
shrink from what is unavoidable. There is often a rectitude, and quick
inflexibility of resolution about Thekla, which contrasts beautifully
with her inexperience and timorous acuteness of feeling: on
discovering her father's treason, she herself decides that Max 'shall
obey his first impulse,' and forsake her.

There are few scenes in poetry more sublimely pathetic than this. We
behold the sinking but still fiery glory of Wallenstein, opposed to
the impetuous despair of Max Piccolomini, torn asunder by the claims
of duty and of love; the calm but broken-hearted Thekla, beside her
broken-hearted mother, and surrounded by the blank faces of
Wallenstein's desponding followers. There is a physical pomp
corresponding to the moral grandeur of the action; the successive
revolt and departure of the troops is heard without the walls of the
Palace; the trumpets of the Pappenheimers reëcho the wild feelings of
their leader. What follows too is equally affecting. Max being forced
away by his soldiers from the side of Thekla, rides forth at their
head in a state bordering on frenzy. Next day come tidings of his
fate, which no heart is hard enough to hear unmoved. The effect it
produces upon Thekla displays all the hidden energies of her soul. The
first accidental hearing of the news had almost overwhelmed her; but
she summons up her strength: she sends for the messenger, that she may
question him more closely, and listen to his stern details with the
heroism of a Spartan virgin.


ACT IV. SCENE X.

THEKLA; THE SWEDISH CAPTAIN; FRÄULEIN NEUBRUNN.

CAPT. [_approaches respectfully_]
Princess—I—must pray you to forgive me
My most rash unthinking words: I could not—

THEKLA [_with noble dignity_].
You saw me in my grief; a sad chance made you
At once my confidant, who were a stranger.

CAPT. I fear the sight of me is hateful to you:
They were mournful tidings I brought hither.

THEKLA. The blame was mine! 'Twas I that forced them from you;
Your voice was but the voice of Destiny.
My terror interrupted your recital:
Finish it, I pray you.

CAPT.                  'Twill renew your grief!

THEKLA. I am prepared for't, I will be prepared.
Proceed! How went the action? Let me hear.

CAPT. At Neustadt, dreading no surprise, we lay
Slightly entrench'd; when towards night a cloud
Of dust rose from the forest, and our outposts
Rush'd into the camp, and cried: The foe was there!
Scarce had we time to spring on horseback, when
The Pappenheimers, coming at full gallop,
Dash'd o'er the palisado, and next moment
These fierce troopers pass'd our camp-trench also.
But thoughtlessly their courage had impelled them
To advance without support; their infantry
Was far behind; only the Pappenheimers
Boldly following their bold leader—

[_Thekla makes a movement. The Captain pauses for a moment, till she
beckons him to proceed._

On front and flank with all our horse we charged them;
And ere long forc'd them back upon the trench,
Where rank'd in haste our infantry presented
An iron hedge of pikes to stop their passage.
Advance they could not, nor retreat a step,
Wedg'd in this narrow prison, death on all sides.
Then the Rheingraf call'd upon their leader,
In fair battle, fairly to surrender:
But Colonel Piccolomini—      [_Thekla, tottering, catches by a seat._
                           —We knew him
By's helmet-plume and his long flowing hair,
The rapid ride had loosen'd it: to th' trench
He points; leaps first himself his gallant steed
Clean over it; the troop plunge after him:
But—in a twinkle it was done!—his horse
Run through the body by a partisan,
Rears in its agony, and pitches far
Its rider; and fierce o'er him tramp the steeds
O' th' rest, now heeding neither bit nor bridle.

[_Thekla, who has listened to the last words with increasing anguish,
falls into a violent tremor; she is sinking to the ground; Fräulein
Neubrunn hastens to her, and receives her in her arms._

NEU. Lady, dearest mistress—

CAPT. [_moved_]           Let me begone.

THEKLA. 'Tis past; conclude it.

CAPT.                          Seeing their leader fall,
A grim inexorable desperation
Seiz'd the troops: their own escape forgotten,
Like wild tigers they attack us; their fury
Provokes our soldiers, and the battle ends not
Till the last man of the Pappenheimers falls.

THEKLA [_with a quivering voice_].
And where—where is—You have not told me all.

CAPT. [_after a pause_]
This morning we interr'd him. He was borne
By twelve youths of the noblest families,
And all our host accompanied the bier.
A laurel deck'd his coffin; and upon it
The Rheingraf laid his own victorious sword.
Nor were tears wanting to his fate: for many
Of us had known his noble-mindedness,
And gentleness of manners; and all hearts
Were mov'd at his sad end. Fain would the Rheingraf
Have sav'd him; but himself prevented it;
'Tis said he wish'd to die.

NEU. [_with emotion, to Thekla, who hides her face_]
                             O! dearest mistress,
Look up! O, why would you insist on this?

THEKLA. Where is his grave?

CAPT.                   I' th' chapel of a cloister
At Neustadt is he laid, till we receive
Directions from his father.

THEKLA.                      What is its name?

CAPT. St. Catharine's.

THEKLA.                     Is't far from this?

CAPT.                                           Seven leagues.

THEKLA. How goes the way?

CAPT.                              You come by Tirschenreit
And Falkenberg, and through our farthest outposts.

THEKLA. Who commands them?

CAPT.                              Colonel Seckendorf.

THEKLA [_steps to a table, and takes a ring from her jewel-box_].
You have seen me in my grief, and shown me
A sympathising heart: accept a small
Memorial of this hour [_giving him the ring_]. Now leave me.

CAPT. [_overpowered_]                                    Princess!

[_Thekla silently makes him a sign to go, and turns from
him. He lingers, and attempts to speak; Neubrunn
repeats the sign; he goes._


SCENE XI.

NEUBRUNN; THEKLA.

THEKLA [_falls on Neubrunn's neck_].
Now, good Neubrunn, is the time to show the love
Which thou hast always vow'd me. Prove thyself
A true friend and attendant! We must go,
This very night.

NEU.             Go! This very night! And whither?

THEKLA. Whither? There is but one place in the world,
The place where he lies buried: to his grave.

NEU. Alas, what would you there, my dearest mistress?

THEKLA. What there? Unhappy girl! Thou wouldst not ask
If thou hadst ever lov'd. There, there, is all
That yet remains of him; that one small spot
Is all the earth to me. Do not detain me!
O, come! Prepare, think how we may escape.

NEU. Have you reflected on your father's anger?

THEKLA. I dread no mortal's anger now.

NEU.                                  The mockery
Of the world, the wicked tongue of slander!

THEKLA. I go to seek one that is cold and low:
Am I, then, hast'ning to my lover's arms?
O God! I am but hast'ning to his grave!

NEU. And we alone? Two feeble, helpless women?

THEKLA. We will arm ourselves; my hand shall guard thee.

NEU. In the gloomy night-time?

THEKLA.                       Night will hide us.

NEU. In this rude storm?

THEKLA.                 Was _his_ bed made of down,
When the horses' hoofs went o'er him?

NEU.                        O Heaven!
And then the many Swedish posts! They will not
Let us pass.

THEKLA. Are they not men? Misfortune
Passes free through all the earth.

NEU.                            So far! So—

THEKLA. Does the pilgrim count the miles, when journeying
To the distant shrine of grace?

NEU.                         How shall we
Even get out of Eger?

THEKLA.            Gold opens gates.
Go! Do go!

NEU.    If they should recognise us?

THEKLA. In a fugitive despairing woman
No one will look to meet with Friedland's daughter.

NEU. And where shall we get horses for our flight?

THEKLA. My Equerry will find them. Go and call him.

NEU. Will he venture without his master's knowledge?

THEKLA. He will, I tell thee. Go! O, linger not!

NEU. Ah! And what will your mother do when you
Are vanish'd?

THEKLA [_recollecting this, and gazing with a look of anguish_].
             O my mother!

NEU.                   Your good mother!
She has already had so much to suffer.
Must this last heaviest stroke too fall on her?

THEKLA. I cannot help it. Go, I prithee, go!

NEU. Think well what you are doing.

THEKLA.                              All is thought
That can be thought, already.

NEU.                          _Were_ we there,
What would you do?

THEKLA.            God will direct me, there.

NEU. Your heart is full of trouble: O my lady!
This way leads _not_ to peace.

THEKLA.                         To that deep peace
Which he has found. O, hasten! Go! No words!
There is some force, I know not what to call it,
Pulls me irresistibly, and drags me
On to his grave: there I shall find some solace
Instantly; the strangling band of sorrow
Will be loosen'd; tears will flow. O, hasten!
Long time ago we might have been o' th' road.
No rest for me till I have fled these walls:
They fall upon me, some dark power repels me
From them—Ha! What's this? The chamber's filling
With pale gaunt shapes! No room is left for me!
More! more! The crowding spectres press on me,
And push me forth from this accursed house.

NEU. You frighten me, my lady: I dare stay
No longer; quickly I'll call Rosenberg.


SCENE XII.

THEKLA.

It is his spirit calls me! 'Tis the host
Of faithful souls that sacrificed themselves
In fiery vengeance for him. They upbraid me
For this loit'ring: _they_ in death forsook him not,
Who in their life had led them; their rude hearts
Were capable of this: and _I_ can live?

No! No! That laurel-garland which they laid
Upon his bier was twined for both of us!
What is this life without the light of love?
I cast it from me, since its worth is gone.
Yes, when we found and lov'd each other, life
Was something! Glittering lay before me
The golden morn: I had two hours of Heaven.

Thou stoodest at the threshold of the scene
Of busy life; with timid steps I cross'd it:
How fair it lay in solemn shade and sheen!
And thou beside me, like some angel, posted
To lead me out of childhood's fairy land
On to life's glancing summit, hand in hand!
My first thought was of joy no tongue can tell,
My first look on _thy_ spotless spirit fell.

[_She sinks into a reverie, then with signs of horror proceeds._

And Fate put forth his hand: inexorable, cold,
My friend it grasp'd and clutch'd with iron hold,
And—under th' hoofs of their wild horses hurl'd:
Such is the lot of loveliness i' th' world!


Thekla has yet another pang to encounter; the parting with her mother:
but she persists in her determination, and goes forth, to die beside
her lover's grave. The heart-rending emotions, which this amiable
creature has to undergo, are described with an almost painful effect:
the fate of Max and Thekla might draw tears from the eyes of a stoic.

Less tender, but not less sublimely poetical, is the fate of
Wallenstein himself. We do not pity Wallenstein; even in ruin he seems
too great for pity. His daughter having vanished like a fair vision
from the scene, we look forward to Wallenstein's inevitable fate with
little feeling save expectant awe:

    This kingly Wallenstein, whene'er he falls,
    Will drag a world to ruin down with him;
    And as a ship that in the midst of ocean
    Catches fire, and shiv'ring springs into the air,
    And in a moment scatters between sea and sky
    The crew it bore, so will he hurry to destruction
    Ev'ry one whose fate was join'd with his.

Yet still there is some touch of pathos in his gloomy fall; some
visitings of nature in the austere grandeur of his slowly-coming, but
inevitable and annihilating doom. The last scene of his life is among
the finest which poetry can boast of. Thekla's death is still unknown
to him; but he thinks of Max, and almost weeps. He looks at the stars:
dim shadows of superstitious dread pass fitfully across his spirit, as
he views these fountains of light, and compares their glorious and
enduring existence with the fleeting troubled life of man. The strong
spirit of his sister is subdued by dark forebodings; omens are against
him; his astrologer entreats, one of the relenting conspirators
entreats, his own feelings call upon him, to watch and beware. But he
refuses to let the resolution of his mind be overmastered; he casts
away these warnings, and goes cheerfully to sleep, with dreams of hope
about his pillow, unconscious that the javelins are already grasped
which will send him to his long and dreamless sleep. The death of
Wallenstein does not cause tears; but it is perhaps the most
high-wrought scene of the play. A shade of horror, of fateful
dreariness, hangs over it, and gives additional effect to the fire of
that brilliant poetry, which glows in every line of it. Except in
_Macbeth_ or the conclusion of _Othello_, we know not where to match
it. Schiller's genius is of a kind much narrower than Shakspeare's;
but in his own peculiar province, the exciting of lofty, earnest,
strong emotion, he admits of no superior. Others are finer, more
piercing, varied, thrilling, in their influence: Schiller, in his
finest mood, is overwhelming.


This tragedy of _Wallenstein_, published at the close of the
eighteenth century, may safely be rated as the greatest dramatic work
of which that century can boast. France never rose into the sphere of
Schiller, even in the days of her Corneille: nor can our own country,
since the times of Elizabeth, name any dramatist to be compared with
him in general strength of mind, and feeling, and acquired
accomplishment. About the time of _Wallenstein's_ appearance, we of
this gifted land were shuddering at _The Castle Spectre_! Germany,
indeed, boasts of Goethe: and on some rare occasions, it must be owned
that Goethe has shown talents of a higher order than are here
manifested; but he has made no equally regular or powerful exertion of
them: _Faust_ is but a careless effusion compared with _Wallenstein_.
The latter is in truth a vast and magnificent work. What an assemblage
of images, ideas, emotions, disposed in the most felicitous and
impressive order! We have conquerors, statesmen, ambitious generals,
marauding soldiers, heroes, and heroines, all acting and feeling as
they would in nature, all faithfully depicted, yet all embellished by
the spirit of poetry, and all made conducive to heighten one paramount
impression, our sympathy with the three chief characters of the
piece.[35]

    [Footnote 35: _Wallenstein_ has been translated into French
    by M. Benjamin Constant; and the last two parts of it have
    been faithfully rendered into English by Mr. Coleridge. As to
    the French version, we know nothing, save that it is an
    _improved_ one; but that little is enough: Schiller, as a
    dramatist, improved by M. Constant, is a spectacle we feel no
    wish to witness. Mr. Coleridge's translation is also, as a
    whole, unknown to us: but judging from many large specimens,
    we should pronounce it, excepting Sotheby's _Oberon_, to be
    the best, indeed the only sufferable, translation from the
    German with which our literature has yet been enriched.]


Soon after the publication of _Wallenstein_, Schiller once more
changed his abode. The 'mountain air of Jena' was conceived by his
physicians to be prejudicial in disorders of the lungs; and partly in
consequence of this opinion, he determined henceforth to spend his
winters in Weimar. Perhaps a weightier reason in favour of this new
arrangement was the opportunity it gave him of being near the theatre,
a constant attendance on which, now that he had once more become a
dramatist, seemed highly useful for his farther improvement. The
summer he, for several years, continued still to spend in Jena; to
which, especially its beautiful environs, he declared himself
particularly attached. His little garden-house was still his place of
study during summer; till at last he settled constantly at Weimar.
Even then he used frequently to visit Jena; to which there was a fresh
attraction in later years, when Goethe chose it for his residence,
which, we understand, it still occasionally is. With Goethe he often
stayed for months.

This change of place produced little change in Schiller's habits or
employment: he was now as formerly in the pay of the Duke of Weimar;
now as formerly engaged in dramatic composition as the great object of
his life. What the amount of his pension was, we know not: that the
Prince behaved to him in a princely manner, we have proof sufficient.
Four years before, when invited to the University of Tübingen,
Schiller had received a promise, that, in case of sickness or any
other cause preventing the continuance of his literary labour, his
salary should be doubled. It was actually increased on occasion of the
present removal; and again still farther in 1804, some advantageous
offers being made to him from Berlin. Schiller seems to have been,
what he might have wished to be, neither poor nor rich: his simple
unostentatious economy went on without embarrassment: and this was all
that he required. To avoid pecuniary perplexities was constantly
among his aims: to amass wealth, never. We ought also to add that, in
1802, by the voluntary solicitation of the Duke, he was ennobled; a
fact which we mention, for his sake by whose kindness this honour was
procured; not for the sake of Schiller, who accepted it with
gratitude, but had neither needed nor desired it.

The official services expected of him in return for so much kindness
seem to have been slight, if any. Chiefly or altogether of his own
accord, he appears to have applied himself to a close inspection of
the theatre, and to have shared with Goethe the task of superintending
its concerns. The rehearsals of new pieces commonly took place at the
house of one of these friends; they consulted together on all such
subjects, frankly and copiously. Schiller was not slow to profit by
the means of improvement thus afforded him; in the mechanical details
of his art he grew more skilful: by a constant observation of the
stage, he became more acquainted with its capabilities and its laws.
It was not long till, with his characteristic expansiveness of
enterprise, he set about turning this new knowledge to account. In
conjunction with Goethe, he remodelled his own _Don Carlos_ and his
friend's _Count Egmont_, altering both according to his latest views
of scenic propriety. It was farther intended to treat, in the same
manner, the whole series of leading German plays, and thus to produce
a national stock of dramatic pieces, formed according to the best
rules; a vast project, in which some progress continued to be made,
though other labours often interrupted it. For the present, Schiller
was engaged with his _Maria Stuart_: it appeared in 1800.

This tragedy will not detain us long. It is upon a subject, the
incidents of which are now getting trite, and the moral of which has
little that can peculiarly recommend it. To exhibit the repentance of
a lovely but erring woman, to show us how her soul may be restored to
its primitive nobleness, by sufferings, devotion and death, is the
object of _Maria Stuart_. It is a tragedy of sombre and mournful
feelings; with an air of melancholy and obstruction pervading it; a
looking backward on objects of remorse, around on imprisonment, and
forward on the grave. Its object is undoubtedly attained. We are
forced to pardon and to love the heroine; she is beautiful, and
miserable, and lofty-minded; and her crimes, however dark, have been
expiated by long years of weeping and woe. Considering also that they
were the fruit not of calculation, but of passion acting on a heart
not dead, though blinded for a time, to their enormity, they seem less
hateful than the cold premeditated villany of which she is the victim.
Elizabeth is selfish, heartless, envious; she violates no law, but she
has no virtue, and she lives triumphant: her arid, artificial
character serves by contrast to heighten our sympathy with her
warm-hearted, forlorn, ill-fated rival. These two Queens, particularly
Mary, are well delineated: their respective qualities are vividly
brought out, and the feelings they were meant to excite arise within
us. There is also Mortimer, a fierce, impetuous, impassioned lover;
driven onward chiefly by the heat of his blood, but still interesting
by his vehemence and unbounded daring. The dialogue, moreover, has
many beauties; there are scenes which have merited peculiar
commendation. Of this kind is the interview between the Queens; and
more especially the first entrance of Mary, when, after long
seclusion, she is once more permitted to behold the cheerful sky. In
the joy of a momentary freedom, she forgets that she is still a
captive; she addresses the clouds, the 'sailors of the air, who 'are
not subjects of Elizabeth,' and bids them carry tidings of her to the
hearts that love her in other lands. Without doubt, in all that he
intended, Schiller has succeeded; _Maria Stuart_ is a beautiful
tragedy; it would have formed the glory of a meaner man, but it cannot
materially alter his. Compared with _Wallenstein_, its purpose is
narrow, and its result is common. We have no manners or true
historical delineation. The figure of the English court is not given;
and Elizabeth is depicted more like one of the French Medici, than
like our own politic, capricious, coquettish, imperious, yet on the
whole true-hearted, 'good Queen Bess.' With abundant proofs of genius,
this tragedy produces a comparatively small effect, especially on
English readers. We have already wept enough for Mary Stuart, both
over prose and verse; and the persons likely to be deeply touched with
the moral or the interest of her story, as it is recorded here, are
rather a separate class than men in general. Madame de Staël, we
observe, is her principal admirer.


Next year, Schiller took possession of a province more peculiarly his
own: in 1801, appeared his _Maid of Orleans_ (_Jungfrau von Orleans_);
the first hint of which was suggested to him by a series of documents,
relating to the sentence of Jeanne d'Arc, and its reversal, first
published about this time by De l'Averdy of the _Académie des
Inscriptions_. Schiller had been moved in perusing them: this tragedy
gave voice to his feelings.

Considered as an object of poetry or history, Jeanne d'Arc, the most
singular personage of modern times, presents a character capable of
being viewed under a great variety of aspects, and with a
corresponding variety of emotions. To the English of her own age,
bigoted in their creed, and baffled by her prowess, she appeared
inspired by the Devil, and was naturally burnt as a sorceress. In this
light, too, she is painted in the poems of Shakspeare. To Voltaire,
again, whose trade it was to war with every kind of superstition, this
child of fanatic ardour seemed no better than a moonstruck zealot; and
the people who followed her, and believed in her, something worse than
lunatics. The glory of what she had achieved was forgotten, when the
means of achieving it were recollected; and the Maid of Orleans was
deemed the fit subject of a poem, the wittiest and most profligate for
which literature has to blush. Our illustrious _Don Juan_ hides his
head when contrasted with Voltaire's _Pucelle_: Juan's biographer,
with all his zeal, is but an innocent, and a novice, by the side of
this arch-scorner.

Such a manner of considering the Maid of Orleans is evidently not the
right one. Feelings so deep and earnest as hers can never be an object
of ridicule: whoever pursues a purpose of any sort with such fervid
devotedness, is entitled to awaken emotions, at least of a serious
kind, in the hearts of others. Enthusiasm puts on a different shape in
every different age: always in some degree sublime, often it is
dangerous; its very essence is a tendency to error and exaggeration;
yet it is the fundamental quality of strong souls; the true nobility
of blood, in which all greatness of thought or action has its rise.
_Quicquid vult valdè vult_ is ever the first and surest test of mental
capability. This peasant girl, who felt within her such fiery
vehemence of resolution, that she could subdue the minds of kings and
captains to her will, and lead armies on to battle, conquering, till
her country was cleared of its invaders, must evidently have possessed
the elements of a majestic character. Benevolent feelings, sublime
ideas, and above all an overpowering will, are here indubitably
marked. Nor does the form, which her activity assumed, seem less
adapted for displaying these qualities, than many other forms in which
we praise them. The gorgeous inspirations of the Catholic religion are
as real as the phantom of posthumous renown; the love of our native
soil is as laudable as ambition, or the principle of military honour.
Jeanne d'Arc must have been a creature of shadowy yet far-glancing
dreams, of unutterable feelings, of 'thoughts that wandered through
Eternity.' Who can tell the trials and the triumphs, the splendours
and the terrors, of which her simple spirit was the scene! 'Heartless,
sneering, god-forgetting French!' as old Suwarrow called them,—they
are not worthy of this noble maiden. Hers were errors, but errors
which a generous soul alone could have committed, and which generous
souls would have done more than pardon. Her darkness and delusions
were of the understanding only; they but make the radiance of her
heart more touching and apparent; as clouds are gilded by the orient
light into something more beautiful than azure itself.

It is under this aspect that Schiller has contemplated the Maid of
Orleans, and endeavoured to make us contemplate her. For the latter
purpose, it appears that more than one plan had occurred to him. His
first idea was, to represent Joanna, and the times she lived in, as
they actually were: to exhibit the superstition, ferocity, and
wretchedness of the period, in all their aggravation; and to show us
this patriotic and religious enthusiast beautifying the tempestuous
scene by her presence; swaying the fierce passions of her countrymen;
directing their fury against the invaders of France; till at length,
forsaken and condemned to die, she perished at the stake, retaining
the same steadfast and lofty faith, which had ennobled and redeemed
the errors of her life, and was now to glorify the ignominy of her
death. This project, after much deliberation, he relinquished, as too
difficult. By a new mode of management, much of the homeliness and
rude horror, that defaced and encumbered the reality, is thrown away.
The Dauphin is not here a voluptuous weakling, nor is his court the
centre of vice and cruelty and imbecility: the misery of the time is
touched but lightly, and the Maid of Arc herself is invested with a
certain faint degree of mysterious dignity, ultimately represented as
being in truth a preternatural gift; though whether preternatural, and
if so, whether sent from above or from below, neither we nor she,
except by faith, are absolutely sure, till the conclusion.

The propriety of this arrangement is liable to question; indeed, it
has been more than questioned. But external blemishes are lost in the
intrinsic grandeur of the piece: the spirit of Joanna is presented to
us with an exalting and pathetic force sufficient to make us blind to
far greater improprieties. Joanna is a pure creation, of
half-celestial origin, combining the mild charms of female loveliness
with the awful majesty of a prophetess, and a sacrifice doomed to
perish for her country. She resembled, in Schiller's view, the
Iphigenia of the Greeks; and as such, in some respects, he has treated
her.

The woes and desolation of the land have kindled in Joanna's keen and
fervent heart a fire, which the loneliness of her life, and her deep
feelings of religion, have nourished and fanned into a holy flame. She
sits in solitude with her flocks, beside the mountain chapel of the
Virgin, under the ancient Druid oak, a wizard spot, the haunt of evil
spirits as well as of good; and visions are revealed to her such as
human eyes behold not. It seems the force of her own spirit,
expressing its feelings in forms which react upon itself. The
strength of her impulses persuades her that she is called from on high
to deliver her native France; the intensity of her own faith persuades
others; she goes forth on her mission; all bends to the fiery
vehemence of her will; she is inspired because she thinks herself so.
There is something beautiful and moving in the aspect of a noble
enthusiasm, fostered in the secret soul, amid obstructions and
depressions, and at length bursting forth with an overwhelming force
to accomplish its appointed end: the impediments which long hid it are
now become testimonies of its power; the very ignorance, and meanness,
and error, which still in part adhere to it, increase our sympathy
without diminishing our admiration; it seems the triumph, hardly
contested, and not wholly carried, but still the triumph, of Mind over
Fate, of human volition over material necessity.

All this Schiller felt, and has presented with even more than his
usual skill. The secret mechanism of Joanna's mind is concealed from
us in a dim religious obscurity; but its active movements are
distinct; we behold the lofty heroism of her feelings; she affects us
to the very heart. The quiet, devout innocence of her early years,
when she lived silent, shrouded in herself, meek and kindly though not
communing with others, makes us love her: the celestial splendour
which illuminates her after-life adds reverence to our love. Her words
and actions combine an overpowering force with a calm unpretending
dignity: we seem to understand how they must have carried in their
favour the universal conviction. Joanna is the most noble being in
tragedy. We figure her with her slender lovely form, her mild but
spirit-speaking countenance; 'beautiful and terrible;' bearing the
banner of the Virgin before the hosts of her country; travelling in
the strength of a rapt soul; irresistible by faith; 'the lowly
herdsmaid,' greater in the grandeur of her simple spirit than the
kings and queens of this world. Yet her breast is not entirely
insensible to human feeling, nor her faith never liable to waver. When
that inexorable vengeance, which had shut her ear against the voice of
mercy to the enemies of France, is suspended at the sight of Lionel,
and her heart experiences the first touch of mortal affection, a
baleful cloud overspreads the serene of her mind; it seems as if
Heaven had forsaken her, or from the beginning permitted demons or
earthly dreams to deceive her. The agony of her spirit, involved in
endless and horrid labyrinths of doubt, is powerfully portrayed. She
has crowned the king at Rheims; and all is joy, and pomp, and jubilee,
and almost adoration of Joanna: but Joanna's thoughts are not of joy.
The sight of her poor but kind and true-hearted sisters in the crowd,
moves her to the soul. Amid the tumult and magnificence of this royal
pageant, she sinks into a reverie; her small native dale of Arc,
between its quiet hills, rises on her mind's eye, with its
straw-roofed huts, and its clear greensward; where the sun is even
then shining so brightly, and the sky is so blue, and all is so calm
and motherly and safe. She sighs for the peace of that sequestered
home; then shudders to think that she shall never see it more. Accused
of witchcraft, by her own ascetic melancholic father, she utters no
word of denial to the charge; for her heart is dark, it is tarnished
by earthly love, she dare not raise her thoughts to Heaven. Parted
from her sisters; cast out with horror by the people she had lately
saved from despair, she wanders forth, desolate, forlorn, not knowing
whither. Yet she does not sink under this sore trial: as she suffers
from without, and is forsaken of men, her mind grows clear and strong,
her confidence returns. She is now more firmly fixed in our admiration
than before; tenderness is united to our other feelings; and her
faith has been proved by sharp vicissitudes. Her countrymen recognise
their error; Joanna closes her career by a glorious death; we take
farewell of her in a solemn mood of heroic pity.

Joanna is the animating principle of this tragedy; the scenes employed
in developing her character and feelings constitute its great charm.
Yet there are other personages in it, that leave a distinct and
pleasing impression of themselves in our memory. Agnes Sorel, the
soft, languishing, generous mistress of the Dauphin, relieves and
heightens by comparison the sterner beauty of the Maid. Dunois, the
Bastard of Orleans, the lover of Joanna, is a blunt, frank, sagacious
soldier, and well described. And Talbot, the gray veteran, delineates
his dark, unbelieving, indomitable soul, by a few slight but
expressive touches: he sternly passes down to the land, as he thinks,
of utter nothingness, contemptuous even of the fate that destroys him,
and

    'On the soil of France he sleeps, as does
     A hero on the shield he would not quit.'

A few scattered extracts may in part exhibit some of these inferior
personages to our readers, though they can afford us no impression of
the Maid herself. Joanna's character, like every finished piece of
art, to be judged of must be seen in all its bearings. It is not in
parts, but as a whole, that the delineation moves us; by light and
manifold touches, it works upon our hearts, till they melt before it
into that mild rapture, free alike from the violence and the
impurities of Nature, which it is the highest triumph of the Artist to
communicate.


ACT III. SCENE IV.

[_The_ Dauphin Charles, _with his suite: afterwards_ Joanna. _She is
in armour, but without her helmet; and wears a garland in her hair._

DUNOIS [_steps forward_].
My heart made choice of her while she was lowly;
This new honour raises not her merit
Or my love. Here, in the presence of my King
And of this holy Archbishop, I offer her
My hand and princely rank, if she regard me
As worthy to be hers.

CHARLES.              Resistless Maid,
Thou addest miracle to miracle!
Henceforward I believe that nothing is
Impossible to thee. Thou hast subdued
This haughty spirit, that till now defied
Th' omnipotence of Love.

LA HIRE [_steps forward_]. If I mistake not
Joanna's form of mind, what most adorns her
Is her modest heart. The rev'rence of the great
She merits; but her thoughts will never rise
So high. She strives not after giddy splendours:
The true affection of a faithful soul
Contents her, and the still, sequester'd lot
Which with this hand I offer her.

CHARLES.                          Thou too,
La Hire? Two valiant suitors, equal in
Heroic virtue and renown of war!
—Wilt thou, that hast united my dominions,
Soften'd my opposers, part my firmest friends?
Both may not gain thee, each deserving thee:
Speak, then! Thy heart must here be arbiter.

AGNES SOREL [_approaches_].
Joanna is embarrass'd and surprised;
I see the bashful crimson tinge her cheeks.
Let her have time to ask her heart, to open
Her clos'd bosom in trustful confidence
With me. The moment is arriv'd when I
In sisterly communion also may
Approach the rigorous Maid, and offer her
The solace of my faithful, silent breast.
First let us women sit in secret judgment
On this matter that concerns us; then expect
What we shall have decided.

CHARLES [_about to go_].     Be it so, then!

JOANNA. Not so, Sire! 'Twas not the embarrassment
Of virgin shame that dy'd my cheeks in crimson:
To this lady I have nothing to confide,
Which I need blush to speak of before men.
Much am I honour'd by the preference
Of these two noble Knights; but it was not
To chase vain worldly grandeurs, that I left
The shepherd moors; not in my hair to bind
The bridal garland, that I girt myself
With warlike armour. To far other work
Am I appointed: and the spotless virgin
Alone can do it. I am the soldier
Of the God of Battles; to no living man
Can I be wife.

ARCHBISHOP. As kindly help to man
Was woman born; and in obeying Nature
She best obeys and reverences Heaven.
When the command of God who summon'd thee
To battle is fulfull'd, thou wilt lay down
Thy weapons, and return to that soft sex
Which thou deny'st, which is not call'd to do
The bloody work of war.

JOANNA.                 Father, as yet
I know not how the Spirit will direct me:
When the needful time comes round, His voice
Will not be silent, and I will obey it.
For the present, I am bid complete the task.
He gave me. My sov'reign's brow is yet uncrown'd,
His head unwetted by the holy oil,
He is not yet a King.

CHARLES.              We are journeying
Towards Rheims.

JOANNA.         Let us not linger by the way.
Our foes are busy round us, shutting up
Thy passage: I will lead thee through them all.

DUNOIS. And when the work shall be fulfill'd, when we
Have marched in triumph into Rheims,
Will not Joanna then—

JOANNA.                If God see meet
That I return with life and vict'ry from
These broils, my task is ended, and the herdsmaid
Has nothing more to do in her King's palace.

CHARLES [_taking her hand_].
It is the Spirit's voice impels thee now,
And Love is mute in thy inspired bosom.
Believe me, it will not be always mute!
Our swords will rest; and Victory will lead
Meek Peace by th' hand, and Joy will come again
To ev'ry breast, and softer feelings waken
In every heart: in thy heart also waken;
And tears of sweetest longing wilt thou weep,
Such as thine eyes have never shed. This heart,
Now fill'd by Heav'n, will softly open
To some terrestrial heart. Thou hast begun
By blessing thousands; but thou wilt conclude
By blessing one.

JOANNA.          Dauphin! Art thou weary
Of the heavenly vision, that thou seekest
To deface its chosen vessel, wouldst degrade
To common dust the Maid whom God has sent thee?
Ye blind of heart! O ye of little faith!
Heaven's brightness is about you, before your eyes
Unveils its wonders; and ye see in me
Nought but a woman. Dare a woman, think ye,
Clothe herself in iron harness, and mingle
In the wreck of battle? Woe, woe to me,
If bearing in my hand th' avenging sword
Of God, I bore in my vain heart a love
To earthly man! Woe to me! It were better
That I never had been born. No more,
No more of this! Unless ye would awake the wrath
Of HIM that dwells in me! The eye of man
Desiring me is an abomination
And a horror.

CHARLES.      Cease! 'Tis vain to urge her.

JOANNA. Bid the trumpets sound! This loit'ring grieves
And harasses me. Something chases me
From sloth, and drives me forth to do my mission,
Stern beck'ning me to my appointed doom.


SCENE V.

A KNIGHT [_in haste_].

CHARLES. How now?

KNIGHT.          The enemy has pass'd the Marne;
Is forming as for battle.

JOANNA [_as if inspired_].   Arms and battle!
My soul has cast away its bonds! To arms!
Prepare yourselves, while I prepare the rest!      [_She hastens out_

       *       *       *       *       *

[_Trumpets sound with a piercing tone, and while the scene is changing
pass into a wild tumultuous sound of battle._]


SCENE VI.

[_The scene changes to an open space encircled with trees. During the
music, soldiers are seen hastily retreating across the background._]

TALBOT, _leaning upon_ FASTOLF, _and accompanied by_ Soldiers. _Soon
after_, LIONEL.

TALBOT. Here set me down beneath this tree, and you
Betake yourselves again to battle: quick!
I need no help to die.

FASTOLF.               O day of woe!      [_Lionel enters._
Look, what a sight awaits you, Lionel!
Our General expiring of his wounds!

LIONEL. Now God forbid! Rise, noble Talbot! This
Is not a time for you to faint and sink.
Yield not to Death; force faltering Nature
By your strength of soul, that life depart not!

TALBOT. In vain! The day of Destiny is come
That prostrates with the dust our power in France.
In vain, in the fierce clash of desp'rate battle,
Have I risk'd our utmost to withstand it:
The bolt has smote and crush'd me, and I lie
To rise no more forever. Rheims is lost;
Make haste to rescue Paris.

LIONEL.                     Paris has surrender'd
To the Dauphin: an express is just arriv'd
With tidings.

TALBOT [_tears away his bandages_].
              Then flow out, ye life-streams;
I am grown to loathe this Sun.

LIONEL.                        They want me!
Fastolf, bear him to a place of safety:
We can hold this post few instants longer,
The coward knaves are giving way on all sides,
Irresistible the Witch is pressing on.

TALBOT. Madness, thou conquerest, and I must yield:
Stupidity can baffle the very gods.
High Reason, radiant Daughter of God's Head,
Wise Foundress of the system of the Universe,
Conductress of the stars, who art thou, then,
If, tied to th' tail o' th' wild horse Superstition,
Thou must plunge, eyes open, vainly shrieking,
Sheer down with that drunk Beast to the Abyss?
Cursed who sets his life upon the great
And dignified; and with forecasting spirit
Forms wise projects! The Fool-king rules this world.

LIONEL. O, Death is near you! Think of your Creator!

TALBOT. Had we as brave men been defeated
By brave men, we might have consoled ourselves
With common thoughts of Fortune's fickleness:
But that a sorry farce should be our ruin!—
Did our earnest toilsome struggle merit
No graver end than this?

LIONEL [_grasps his hand_]. Talbot, farewell!
The meed of bitter tears I'll duly pay you,
When the fight is done, should I outlive it.
Now Fate calls me to the field, where yet
She wav'ring sits, and shakes her doubtful urn.
Farewell! we meet beyond the unseen shore.
Brief parting for long friendship! God be with you!      [_Exit._

TALBOT. Soon it is over, and to th' Earth I render,
To the everlasting Sun, the atoms,
Which for pain and pleasure join'd to form me;
And of the mighty Talbot, whose renown
Once fill'd the world, remains nought but a handful
Of light dust. Thus man comes to his end;
And our one conquest in this fight of life
Is the conviction of life's nothingness,
And deep disdain of all that sorry stuff
We once thought lofty and desirable.


SCENE VII.

_Enter_ CHARLES; BURGUNDY; DUNOIS; DU CHATEL; _and_ Soldiers.

BURGUN. The trench is storm'd.

DUNOIS.                        The victory is ours.

CHARLES [_observing Talbot_].
Ha! who is this that to the light of day
Is bidding his constrained and sad farewell?
His bearing speaks no common man: go, haste,
Assist him, if assistance yet avail.

[_Soldiers from the Dauphin's suite step forward._

FASTOLF. Back! Keep away! Approach not the Departing,
Whom in life ye never wish'd too near you.

BURGUN. What do I see? Lord Talbot in his blood!

[_He goes towards him. Talbot gazes fixedly at him, and dies._

FASTOLF. Off, Burgundy! With th' aspect of a traitor
Poison not the last look of a hero.

DUNOIS. Dreaded Talbot! stern, unconquerable!
Dost thou content thee with a space so narrow,
And the wide domains of France once could not
Stay the striving of thy giant spirit?—
Now for the first time, Sire, I call you King:
The crown but totter'd on your head, so long
As in this body dwelt a soul.

CHARLES [_after looking at the dead in silence_]. It was
A higher hand that conquer'd him, not we.
Here on the soil of France he sleeps, as does
A hero on the shield he would not quit.
Bring him away.      [_Soldiers lift the corpse, and carry it off._
                And peace be with his dust!
A fair memorial shall arise to him
I' th' midst of France: here, where the hero's course
And life were finished, let his bones repose.
Thus far no other foe has e'er advanced.
His epitaph shall be the place he fell on.

       *       *       *       *       *


SCENE IX.

_Another empty space in the field of battle. In the distance are seen
the towers of Rheims illuminated by the sun._

_A Knight, cased in black armour, with his visor shut._ JOANNA
_follows him to the front of the scene, where he stops and awaits
her._

JOANNA. Deceiver! Now I see thy craft. Thou hast,
By seeming flight, enticed me from the battle,
And warded death and destiny from off the head
Of many a Briton. Now they reach thy own.

KNIGHT. Why dost thou follow me, and track my stops
With murd'rous fury? I am not appointed
To die by thee.

JOANNA.            Deep in my lowest soul
I hate thee as the Night, which is thy colour.
To sweep thee from the face of Earth, I feel
Some irresistible desire impelling me.
Who art thou? Lift thy visor: had not I
Seen Talbot fall, I should have named thee Talbot.

KNIGHT. Speaks not the prophesying Spirit in thee?

JOANNA. It tells me loudly, in my inmost bosom,
That Misfortune is at hand.

KNIGHT.                     Joanna d'Arc!
Up to the gates of Rheims hast thou advanced,
Led on by victory. Let the renown
Already gain'd suffice thee! As a slave
Has Fortune serv'd thee: emancipate her,
Ere in wrath she free herself; fidelity
She hates; no one obeys she to the end.

JOANNA. How say'st thou, in the middle of my course,
That I should pause and leave my work unfinish'd?
I will conclude it, and fulfil my vow.

KNIGHT. Nothing can withstand thee; thou art most strong;
In ev'ry battle thou prevailest. But go
Into no other battle. Hear my warning!

JOANNA. This sword I quit not, till the English yield.

KNIGHT. Look! Yonder rise the towers of Rheims, the goal
And purpose of thy march; thou seest the dome
Of the cathedral glittering in the sun:
There wouldst thou enter in triumphal pomp,
To crown thy sov'reign and fulfil thy vow.
Enter not there. Turn homewards. Hear my warning!

JOANNA. Who art thou, false, double-tongued betrayer,
That wouldst frighten and perplex me? Dar'st thou
Utter lying oracles to me?

[_The Black Knight attempts to go; she steps in his way._

                            No!
Thou shalt answer me, or perish by me!

[_She lifts her arm to strike him._

KNIGHT [_touches her with his hand: she stands immovable_].
Kill what is mortal!

[_Darkness, lightning and thunder. The Knight sinks._

JOANNA [_stands at first amazed: but soon recovers herself_].
                      It was nothing earthly.
Some delusive form of Hell, some spirit
Of Falsehood, sent from th' everlasting Pool
To tempt and terrify my fervent soul!
Bearing the sword of God, what do I fear?
Victorious will I end my fated course;
Though Hell itself with all its fiends assail me,
My heart and faith shall never faint or fail me.      [_She is going._


SCENE X.

LIONEL, JOANNA.

LIONEL. Accursed Sorceress, prepare for battle:
Not both of us shall leave the place alive.
Thou hast destroyed the chosen of my host;
Brave Talbot has breath'd out his mighty spirit
In my bosom. I will avenge the Dead,
Or share his fate. And wouldst thou know the man
Who brings thee glory, let him die or conquer,
I am Lionel, the last survivor
Of our chiefs; and still unvanquish'd is this arm.

[_He rushes towards her; after a short contest, she strikes the sword
from his hand._

Faithless fortune!      [_He struggles with her._

JOANNA        [_seizes him by the plume from behind, and tears his helmet
      violently down, so that his face is exposed: at
      the same time she lifts her sword with the right
      hand_].
                   Suffer what thou soughtest!
The Virgin sacrifices thee through me!

[_At this moment she looks in his face; his aspect touches her; she
stands immovable, and then slowly drops her arm._

LIONEL. Why lingerest thou, and stayest the stroke of death?
My honour thou hast taken, take my life:
'Tis in thy hands to take it; I want not mercy.
       [_She gives him a sign with her hand to depart._
Fly from _thee_? Owe _thee_ my life? Die rather!

JOANNA [_her face turned away_].
I will not remember that thou owedst
Thy life to me.

LIONEL.         I hate thee and thy gift.
I want not mercy. Kill thy enemy,
Who meant to kill thee, who abhors thee!

JOANNA. Kill me, and fly!

LIONEL.                    Ha! How is this?

JOANNA [_hides her face_].                  Woe's me!

LIONEL [_approaches her_].
Thou killest every Briton, I have heard,
Whom thou subdu'st in battle: why spare me?

JOANNA      [_lifts her sword with a rapid movement against him,
but quickly lets it sink again, when she observes his
face_].
O Holy Virgin!

LIONEL.       Wherefore namest thou
The Virgin? _She_ knows nothing of thee; Heaven
Has nought to say to thee.

JOANNA [_in violent anguish_]. What have I done!
My vow, my vow is broke!       [_Wrings her hands in despair._

LIONEL [_looks at her with sympathy, and comes nearer_].
                           Unhappy girl!
I pity thee; thou touchest me; thou showedst
Mercy to me alone. My hate is going:
I am constrain'd to feel for thee. Who art thou?
Whence comest thou?

JOANNA.             Away! Begone!

LIONEL.                           Thy youth,
Thy beauty melt and sadden me; thy look
Goes to my heart: I could wish much to save thee;
Tell me how I may! Come, come with me! Forsake
This horrid business; cast away those arms!

JOANNA. I no more deserve to bear them!

LIONEL.                                 Cast them
Away, then, and come with me!

JOANNA [_with horror_].         Come with thee!

LIONEL. Thou mayst be sav'd: come with me! I will save thee.
But delay not. A strange sorrow for thee
Seizes me, and an unspeakable desire
To save thee.      [_Seizes her arm._

JOANNA.       Ha! Dunois! 'Tis they!
If they should find thee!—

LIONEL.                     Fear not; I will guard thee.

JOANNA. I should die, were they to kill thee.

LIONEL.                                       Am I
Dear to thee?

JOANNA.        Saints of Heaven!

LIONEL.                          Shall I ever
See thee, hear of thee, again?

JOANNA.                        Never! Never!

LIONEL. This sword for pledge that I will see thee!

[_He wrests the sword from her._

JOANNA.                                            Madman!
Thou dar'st?

LIONEL.      I yield to force; again I'll see thee.      [_Exit._


The introduction of supernatural agency in this play, and the final
aberration from the truth of history, have been considerably censured
by the German critics: Schlegel, we recollect, calls Joanna's end a
'rosy death.' In this dramaturgic discussion, the mere reader need
take no great interest. To require our belief in apparitions and
miracles, things which we cannot now believe, no doubt for a moment
disturbs our submission to the poet's illusions: but the miracles in
this story are rare and transient, and of small account in the general
result: they give our reason little trouble, and perhaps contribute to
exalt the heroine in our imaginations. It is still the mere human
grandeur of Joanna's spirit that we love and reverence; the lofty
devotedness with which she is transported, the generous benevolence,
the irresistible determination. The heavenly mandate is but the means
of unfolding these qualities, and furnishing them with a proper
passport to the minds of her age. To have produced, without the aid of
fictions like these, a Joanna so beautified and exalted, would
undoubtedly have yielded greater satisfaction: but it may be
questioned whether the difficulty would not have increased in a still
higher ratio. The sentiments, the characters, are not only accurate,
but exquisitely beautiful; the incidents, excepting the very last, are
possible, or even probable: what remains is but a very slender evil.

After all objections have been urged, and this among others has
certainly a little weight, the _Maid of Orleans_ will remain one of
the very finest of modern dramas. Perhaps, among all Schiller's plays,
it is the one which evinces most of that quality denominated _genius_
in the strictest meaning of the word. _Wallenstein_ embodies more
thought, more knowledge, more conception; but it is only in parts
illuminated by that ethereal brightness, which shines over every part
of this. The spirit of the romantic ages is here imaged forth; but the
whole is exalted, embellished, ennobled. It is what the critics call
idealised. The heart must be cold, the imagination dull, which the
_Jungfrau von Orleans_ will not move.

In Germany this case did not occur: the reception of the work was
beyond example flattering. The leading idea suited the German mind;
the execution of it inflamed the hearts and imaginations of the
people; they felt proud of their great poet, and delighted to
enthusiasm with his poetry. At the first exhibition of the play in
Leipzig, Schiller being in the theatre, though not among the
audience, this feeling was displayed in a rather singular manner. When
the curtain dropped at the end of the first act, there arose on all
sides a shout of "_Es lebe Friedrich Schiller!_" accompanied by the
sound of trumpets and other military music: at the conclusion of the
piece, the whole assembly left their places, went out, and crowded
round the door through which the poet was expected to come; and no
sooner did he show himself, than his admiring spectators, uncovering
their heads, made an avenue for him to pass; and as he waited along,
many, we are told, held up their children, and exclaimed, "_That is
he!_"[36]

    [Footnote 36: Doering (p. 176);—who adds as follows:
    'Another testimony of approval, very different in its nature,
    he received at the first production of the play in Weimar.
    Knowing and valuing, as he did, the public of that city, it
    could not but surprise him greatly, when a certain young
    Doctor S—-- called out to him, "_Bravo, Schiller!_" from the
    gallery, in a very loud tone of voice. Offended at such
    impertinence, the poet hissed strongly, in which the audience
    joined him. He likewise expressed in words his displeasure at
    this conduct; and the youthful sprig of medicine was, by
    direction of the Court, farther punished for his indiscreet
    applause, by some admonitions from the police.']

This must have been a proud moment for Schiller; but also an
agitating, painful one; and perhaps on the whole, the latter feeling,
for the time, prevailed. Such noisy, formal, and tumultuous plaudits
were little to his taste: the triumph they confer, though plentiful,
is coarse; and Schiller's modest nature made him shun the public gaze,
not seek it. He loved men, and did not affect to despise their
approbation; but neither did this form his leading motive. To him art,
like virtue, was its own reward; he delighted in his tasks for the
sake of the fascinating feelings which they yielded him in their
performance. Poetry was the chosen gift of his mind, which his
pleasure lay in cultivating: in other things he wished not that his
habits or enjoyments should be different from those of other men.

At Weimar his present way of life was like his former one at Jena: his
business was to study and compose; his recreations were in the circle
of his family, where he could abandon himself to affections, grave or
trifling, and in frank and cheerful intercourse with a few friends. Of
the latter he had lately formed a social club, the meetings of which
afforded him a regular and innocent amusement. He still loved solitary
walks: in the Park at Weimar he might frequently be seen wandering
among the groves and remote avenues, with a note-book in his hand; now
loitering slowly along, now standing still, now moving rapidly on; if
any one appeared in sight, he would dart into another alley, that his
dream might not be broken.[37] 'One of his favourite resorts,' we are
told, 'was the thickly-overshadowed rocky path which leads to the
_Römische Haus_, a pleasure-house of the Duke's, built under the
direction of Goethe. There he would often sit in the gloom of the
crags, overgrown with cypresses and boxwood; shady hedges before him;
not far from the murmur of a little brook, which there gushes in a
smooth slaty channel, and where some verses of Goethe are cut upon a
brown plate of stone, and fixed in the rock.' He still continued to
study in the night: the morning was spent with his children and his
wife, or in pastimes such as we have noticed; in the afternoon he
revised what had been last composed, wrote letters, or visited his
friends. His evenings were often passed in the theatre; it was the
only public place of amusement which he ever visited; nor was it for
the purpose of amusement that he visited this: it was his observatory,
where he watched the effect of scenes and situations; devised new
schemes of art, or corrected old ones. To the players he was kind,
friendly: on nights when any of his pieces had been acted successfully
or for the first time, he used to invite the leaders of the company to
a supper in the Stadthaus, where the time was spent in mirthful
diversions, one of which was frequently a recitation, by Genast, of
the Capuchin's sermon in _Wallenstein's Camp_. Except on such rare
occasions, he returned home directly from the theatre, to light his
midnight lamp, and commence the most earnest of his labours.

    [Footnote 37: 'Whatever he intended to write, he first
    composed in his head, before putting down a line of it on
    paper. He used to call a work _ready_ so soon as its
    existence in his spirit was complete: hence in the public
    there often were reports that such and such a piece of his
    was finished, when, in the common sense, it was not even
    begun.'—_Jördens Lexicon_, § SCHILLER.]

The assiduity, with which he struggled for improvement in dramatic
composition, had now produced its natural result: the requisitions of
his taste no longer hindered the operation of his genius; art had at
length become a second nature. A new proof at once of his fertility,
and of his solicitude for farther improvement, appeared in 1803. The
_Braut von Messina_ was an experiment; an attempt to exhibit a modern
subject and modern sentiments in an antique garb. The principle on
which the interest of this play rests is the Fatalism of the ancients:
the plot is of extreme simplicity; a Chorus also is introduced, an
elaborate discussion of the nature and uses of that accompaniment
being prefixed by way of preface. The experiment was not successful:
with a multitude of individual beauties this _Bride of Messina_ is
found to be ineffectual as a whole: it does not move us; the great
object of every tragedy is not attained. The Chorus, which Schiller,
swerving from the Greek models, has divided into two contending parts,
and made to enter and depart with the principals to whom they are
attached, has in his hands become the medium of conveying many
beautiful effusions of poetry; but it retards the progress of the
plot; it dissipates and diffuses our sympathies; the interest we
should take in the fate and prospects of Manuel and Cæsar, is
expended on the fate and prospects of man. For beautiful and touching
delineations of life; for pensive and pathetic reflections,
sentiments, and images, conveyed in language simple but nervous and
emphatic, this tragedy stands high in the rank of modern compositions.
There is in it a breath of young tenderness and ardour, mingled
impressively with the feelings of gray-haired experience, whose
recollections are darkened with melancholy, whose very hopes are
chequered and solemn. The implacable Destiny which consigns the
brothers to mutual enmity and mutual destruction, for the guilt of a
past generation, involving a Mother and a Sister in their ruin,
spreads a sombre hue over all the poem; we are not unmoved by the
characters of the hostile Brothers, and we pity the hapless and
amiable Beatrice, the victim of their feud. Still there is too little
action in the play; the incidents are too abundantly diluted with
reflection; the interest pauses, flags, and fails to produce its full
effect. For its specimens of lyrical poetry, tender, affecting,
sometimes exquisitely beautiful, the _Bride of Messina_ will long
deserve a careful perusal; but as exemplifying a new form of the
drama, it has found no imitators, and is likely to find none.


The slight degree of failure or miscalculation which occurred in the
present instance, was next year abundantly redeemed. _Wilhelm Tell_,
sent out in 1804, is one of Schiller's very finest dramas; it exhibits
some of the highest triumphs which his genius, combined with his art,
ever realised. The first descent of Freedom to our modern world, the
first unfurling of her standard on the rocky pinnacle of Europe, is
here celebrated in the style which it deserved. There is no false
timsel-decoration about _Tell_, no sickly refinement, no declamatory
sentimentality. All is downright, simple, and agreeable to Nature;
yet all is adorned and purified and rendered beautiful, without losing
its resemblance. An air of freshness and wholesomeness breathes over
it; we are among honest, inoffensive, yet fearless peasants, untainted
by the vices, undazzled by the theories, of more complex and perverted
conditions of society. The opening of the first scene sets us down
among the Alps. It is 'a high rocky shore of the Luzern Lake, opposite
to Schwytz. The lake makes a little bight in the land, a hut stands at
a short distance from the bank, the fisher-boy is rowing himself about
in his boat. Beyond the lake, on the other side, we see the green
meadows, the hamlets and farms of Schwytz, lying in the clear
sunshine. On our left are observed the peaks of the Hacken surrounded
with clouds: to the right, and far in the distance, appear the
glaciers. We hear the _rance des vaches_ and the tinkling of
cattle-bells.' This first impression never leaves us; we are in a
scene where all is grand and lovely; but it is the loveliness and
grandeur of unpretending, unadulterated Nature. These Switzers are not
Arcadian shepherds or speculative patriots; there is not one crook or
beechen bowl among them, and they never mention the Social Contract,
or the Rights of Man. They are honest people, driven by oppression to
assert their privileges; and they go to work like men in earnest, bent
on the despatch of business, not on the display of sentiment. They are
not philosophers or tribunes; but frank, stalwart landmen: even in the
field of Rütli, they do not forget their common feelings; the party
that arrive first indulge in a harmless little ebullition of parish
vanity: "_We_ are first here!" they say, "we Unterwaldeners!" They
have not charters or written laws to which they can appeal; but they
have the traditionary rights of their fathers, and bold hearts and
strong arms to make them good. The rules by which they steer are not
deduced from remote premises, by a fine process of thought; they are
the accumulated result of experience, transmitted from peasant sire to
peasant son. There is something singularly pleasing in this exhibition
of genuine humanity; of wisdom, embodied in old adages and practical
maxims of prudence; of magnanimity, displayed in the quiet
unpretending discharge of the humblest every-day duties. Truth is
superior to Fiction: we feel at home among these brave good people;
their fortune interests us more than that of all the brawling, vapid,
sentimental heroes in creation. Yet to make them interest us was the
very highest problem of art; it was to copy lowly Nature, to give us a
copy of it embellished and refined by the agency of genius, yet
preserving the likeness in every lineament. The highest quality of art
is to conceal itself: these peasants of Schiller's are what every one
imagines he could imitate successfully; yet in the hands of any but a
true and strong-minded poet they dwindle into repulsive coarseness or
mawkish insipidity. Among our own writers, who have tried such
subjects, we remember none that has succeeded equally with Schiller.
One potent but ill-fated genius has, in far different circumstances
and with far other means, shown that he could have equalled him: the
_Cotter's Saturday Night_ of Burns is, in its own humble way, as
quietly beautiful, as _simplex munditiis_, as the scenes of _Tell_. No
other has even approached them; though some gifted persons have
attempted it. Mr. Wordsworth is no ordinary man; nor are his pedlars,
and leech-gatherers, and dalesmen, without their attractions and their
moral; but they sink into whining drivellers beside _Rösselmann the
Priest_, _Ulric the Smith_, _Hans of the Wall_, and the other sturdy
confederates of Rütli.

The skill with which the events are concatenated in this play
corresponds to the truth of its delineation of character. The
incidents of the Swiss Revolution, as detailed in Tschudi or Müller,
are here faithfully preserved, even to their minutest branches. The
beauty of Schiller's descriptions all can relish; their fidelity is
what surprises every reader who has been in Switzerland. Schiller
never saw the scene of his play; but his diligence, his quickness and
intensity of conception, supplied this defect. Mountain and
mountaineer, conspiracy and action, are all brought before us in their
true forms, all glowing in the mild sunshine of the poet's fancy. The
tyranny of Gessler, and the misery to which it has reduced the land;
the exasperation, yet patient courage of the people; their characters,
and those of their leaders, Fürst, Stauffacher, and Melchthal; their
exertions and ultimate success, described as they are here, keep up a
constant interest in the piece. It abounds in action, as much as the
_Bride of Messina_ is defective in that point.

But the finest delineation is undoubtedly the character of Wilhelm
Tell, the hero of the Swiss Revolt, and of the present drama. In Tell
are combined all the attributes of a great man, without the help of
education or of great occasions to develop them. His knowledge has
been gathered chiefly from his own experience, and this is bounded by
his native mountains: he has had no lessons or examples of splendid
virtue, no wish or opportunity to earn renown: he has grown up to
manhood, a simple yeoman of the Alps, among simple yeomen; and has
never aimed at being more. Yet we trace in him a deep, reflective,
earnest spirit, thirsting for activity, yet bound in by the wholesome
dictates of prudence; a heart benevolent, generous, unconscious alike
of boasting or of fear. It is this salubrious air of rustic,
unpretending honesty that forms the great beauty in Tell's character:
all is native, all is genuine; he does not declaim: he dislikes to
talk of noble conduct, he exhibits it. He speaks little of his
freedom, because he has always enjoyed it, and feels that he can
always defend it. His reasons for destroying Gessler are not drawn
from jurisconsults and writers on morality, but from the everlasting
instincts of Nature: the Austrian Vogt must die; because if not, the
wife and children of Tell will be destroyed by him. The scene, where
the peaceful but indomitable archer sits waiting for Gessler in the
hollow way among the rocks of Küssnacht, presents him in a striking
light. Former scenes had shown us Tell under many amiable and
attractive aspects; we knew that he was tender as well as brave, that
he loved to haunt the mountain tops, and inhale in silent dreams the
influence of their wild and magnificent beauty: we had seen him the
most manly and warm-hearted of fathers and husbands; intrepid, modest,
and decisive in the midst of peril, and venturing his life to bring
help to the oppressed. But here his mind is exalted into stern
solemnity; its principles of action come before us with greater
clearness, in this its fiery contest. The name of murder strikes a
damp across his frank and fearless spirit; while the recollection of
his children and their mother proclaims emphatically that there is no
remedy. Gessler must perish: Tell swore it darkly in his secret soul,
when the monster forced him to aim at the head of his boy; and he will
keep his oath. His thoughts wander to and fro, but his volition is
unalterable; the free and peaceful mountaineer is to become a shedder
of blood: woe to them that have made him so!

Travellers come along the pass; the unconcern of their every-day
existence is strikingly contrasted with the dark and fateful purposes
of Tell. The shallow innocent garrulity of Stüssi the Forester, the
maternal vehemence of Armgart's Wife, the hard-hearted haughtiness of
Gessler, successively presented to us, give an air of truth to the
delineation, and deepen the impressiveness of the result.


ACT IV. SCENE III.

_The hollow way at Küssnacht. You descend from behind amid rocks; and
travellers, before appearing on the scene, are seen from the height
above. Rocks encircle the whole space; on one of the foremost is a
projecting crag overgrown with brushwood._

TELL [_enters with his bow_].

Here through the hollow way he'll pass; there is
No other road to Küssnacht: here I'll do it!
The opportunity is good; the bushes
Of alder there will hide me; from that point
My arrow hits him; the strait pass prevents
Pursuit. Now, Gessler, balance thy account
With Heaven! Thou must be gone: thy sand is run.

  Remote and harmless I have liv'd; my bow
Ne'er bent save on the wild beast of the forest;
My thoughts were free of murder. Thou hast scar'd me
From my peace; to fell asp-poison hast thou
Changed the milk of kindly temper in me;
Thou hast accustom'd me to horrors. Gessler!
The archer who could aim at his boy's head
Can send an arrow to his enemy's heart.

  Poor little boys! My kind true wife! I will
Protect them from thee, Landvogt! When I drew
That bowstring, and my hand was quiv'ring,
And with devilish joy thou mad'st me point it
At the child, and I in fainting anguish
Entreated thee in vain; then with a grim
Irrevocable oath, deep in my soul,
I vow'd to God in Heav'n, that the _next_ aim
I took should be thy heart. The vow I made
In that despairing moment's agony
Became a holy debt; and I will pay it.

  Thou art my master, and my Kaiser's Vogt;
Yet would the Kaiser not have suffer'd thee
To do as thou hast done. He sent thee hither
To judge us; rigorously, for he is angry;
But not to glut thy savage appetite
With murder, and thyself be safe, among us:
There is a God to punish them that wrong us.

  Come forth, thou bringer once of bitter sorrow,
My precious jewel now, my trusty yew!
A mark I'll set thee, which the cry of woe
Could never penetrate: to _thee_ it shall not
Be impenetrable. And, good bowstring!
Which so oft in sport hast serv'd me truly,
Forsake me not in this last awful earnest;
Yet once hold fast, thou faithful cord; thou oft
For me hast wing'd the biting arrow;
Now send it sure and piercing, now or never!
Fail this, there is no second in my quiver.

                                 [_Travellers cross the scene._

  Here let me sit on this stone bench, set up
For brief rest to the wayfarer; for here
There is no home. Each pushes on quick, transient,
Regarding not the other or his sorrows.
Here goes the anxious merchant, and the light
Unmoneyed pilgrim; the pale pious monk,
The gloomy robber, and the mirthful showman;
The carrier with his heavy-laden horse,
Who comes from far-off lands; for every road
Will lead one to the end o' th' World.
They pass; each hastening forward on his path,
Pursuing his own business: mine is death!      [_Sits down._

  Erewhile, my children, were your father out,
There was a merriment at his return;
For still, on coming home, he brought you somewhat,
Might be an Alpine flower, rare bird, or elf-bolt,
Such as the wand'rer finds upon the mountains:
Now he is gone in quest of other spoil
On the wild way he sits with thoughts of murder:
'Tis for his enemy's life he lies in wait
And yet on you, dear children, you alone
He thinks as then: for your sake is he here;
To guard you from the Tyrant's vengeful mood,
He bends his peaceful bow for work of blood.      [_Rises._

  No common game I watch for. Does the hunter
Think it nought to roam the livelong day,
In winter's cold; to risk the desp'rate leap
From crag to crag, to climb the slipp'ry face
O' th' dizzy steep, glueing his steps in's blood;
And all to catch a pitiful chamois?
Here is a richer prize afield: the heart
Of my sworn enemy, that would destroy me.

[_A sound of gay music is heard in the distance; it approaches._

  All my days, the bow has been my comrade,
I have trained myself to archery; oft
Have I took the bull's-eye, many a prize
Brought home from merry shooting; but today
I will perform my master-feat, and win me
The best prize in the circuit of the hills.

[_A wedding company crosses the scene, and mounts up through the Pass.
Tell looks at them, leaning on his bow; Stüssi the Forester joins
him._

STÜSSI. 'Tis Klostermey'r of Morlischachen holds
His bridal feast today: a wealthy man;
Has half a score of glens i' th' Alps. They're going
To fetch the bride from Imisee; tonight
There will be mirth and wassail down at Küssnacht.
Come you! All honest people are invited.

TELL. A serious guest befits not bridal feasts.

STÜSSI. If sorrow press you, dash it from your heart!
Seize what you can: the times are hard; one needs
To snatch enjoyment nimbly while it passes.
Here 'tis a bridal, there 'twill be a burial.

TELL. And oftentimes the one leads to the other.

STÜSSI. The way o' th' world at present! There is nought
But mischief everywhere: an avalanche
Has come away in Glarus; and, they tell me,
A side o' th' Glarnish has sunk under ground.

TELL. Do, then, the very hills give way! On earth
Is nothing that endures.

STÜSSI.                  In foreign parts, too,
Are strange wonders. I was speaking with a man
From Baden: a Knight, it seems, was riding
To the King; a swarm of hornets met him
By the way, and fell on's horse, and stung it
Till it dropt down dead of very torment,
And the poor Knight was forced to go afoot.

TELL. Weak creatures too have stings.

[_Armgart's Wife enters with several children, and places herself at
the entrance of the Pass._

STÜSSI.                              'Tis thought to bode
Some great misfortune to the land; some black
Unnatural action.

TELL.             Ev'ry day such actions
Occur in plenty: needs no sign or wonder
To foreshow them.

STÜSSI.         Ay, truly! Well for him
That tills his field in peace, and undisturb'd
Sits by his own fireside!

TELL.                     The peacefulest
Dwells not in peace, if wicked neighbours hinder.

[_Tell looks often, with restless expectation, towards the top of the
Pass._

STÜSSI. Too true.—Good b'ye!—You're waiting here for some one?

TELL. That am I.

STÜSSI.           Glad meeting with your friends!
You are from Uri? His Grace the Landvogt
Is expected thence today.

TRAVELLER [_enters_]. Expect not
The Landvogt now. The waters, from the rain,
Are flooded, and have swept down all the bridges.     [_Tell stands up._

ARMGART [_coming forward_].

The Vogt not come!

STÜSSI.     Did you want aught with him?

ARMGART. Ah! yes, indeed!

STÜSSI.                    Why have you placed yourself
In this strait pass to meet him?

ARMGART.                 In the pass
He cannot turn aside from me, must hear me.

FRIESSHARDT [_comes hastily down the Pass, and calls into the Scene_].

Make way! make way! My lord the Landvogt
Is riding close at hand.

ARMGART.        The Landvogt coming!

[_She goes with her children to the front of the Scene. Gessler and
Rudolph der Harras appear on horseback at the top of the Pass._

STÜSSI [_to Friesshardt_].
How got you through the water, when the flood
Had carried down the bridges?

FRIESS.               We have battled
With the billows, friend; we heed no Alp-flood.

STÜSSI. Were you o' board i' th' storm?

FRIESS.                                 That were we;
While I live, I shall remember 't.

STÜSSI.                   Stay, stay!
O, tell me!

FRIESS. Cannot; must run on t' announce
His lordship in the Castle.                          [_Exit._

STÜSSI.            Had these fellows
I' th' boat been honest people, 't would have sunk
With ev'ry soul of them. But for such rakehells,
Neither fire nor flood will kill them. [_He looks round._] Whither
Went the Mountain-man was talking with me?           [_Exit._

GESSLER _and_ RUDOLPH DER HARRAS _on horseback_.

GESSLER. Say what you like, I am the Kaiser's servant,
And must think of pleasing him. He sent me
Not to caress these hinds, to soothe or nurse them:
Obedience is the word! The point at issue is
Shall Boor or Kaiser here be lord o' th' land.

ARMGART. Now is the moment! Now for my petition!

                                                     [_Approaches timidly._

GESSLER. This Hat at Aldorf, mark you, I set up
Not for the joke's sake, or to try the hearts
O' th' people; these I know of old: but that
They might be taught to bend their necks to me,
Which are too straight and stiff: and in the way
Where they are hourly passing, I have planted
This offence, that so their eyes may fall on't,
And remind them of their lord, whom they forget.

RUDOLPH. But yet the people have some rights—

GESSLER.                                      Which now
Is not a time for settling or admitting.
Mighty things are on the anvil. The house
Of Hapsburg must wax powerful; what the Father
Gloriously began, the Son must forward:
This people is a stone of stumbling, which
One way or t'other must be put aside.

[_They are about to pass along. The Woman throws herself before the
Landvogt._

ARMGART. Mercy, gracious Landvogt! Justice! Justice!

GESSLER. Why do you plague me here, and stop my way,
I' th' open road? Off! Let me pass!

ARMGART.                            My husband
Is in prison; these orphans cry for bread.
Have pity, good your Grace, have pity on us!

RUDOLPH. Who or what are you, then? Who is your husband?

ARMGART. A poor wild-hay-man of the Rigiberg,
Whose trade is, on the brow of the abyss,
To mow the common grass from craggy shelves
And nooks to which the cattle dare not climb.

RUDOLPH [_to Gessler_]. By Heaven, a wild and miserable life!
Do now! do let the poor drudge free, I pray you!
Whatever be his crime, that horrid trade
Is punishment enough.
             [_To the Woman_] You shall have justice:
In the Castle there, make your petition;
This is not the place.

ARMGART.               No, no! I stir not
From the spot till you give up my husband!
'Tis the sixth month he has lain i' th' dungeon,
Waiting for the sentence of some judge, in vain.

GESSLER. Woman! Wouldst' lay hands on me? Begone!

ARMGART. Justice, Landvogt! thou art judge o' th' land here,
I' th' Kaiser's stead and God's. Perform thy duty!
As thou expectest justice from above,
Show it to us.

GESSLER.        Off! Take the mutinous rabble
From my sight.

ARMGART [_catches the bridle of the horse_].
              No, no! I now have nothing
More to lose. Thou shalt not move a step, Vogt,
Till thou hast done me right. Ay, knit thy brows,
And roll thy eyes as sternly as thou wilt;
We are so wretched, wretched now, we care not
Aught more for thy anger.

GESSLER.                  Woman, make way!
Or else my horse shall crush thee.

ARMGART.                           Let it! there—


[_She pulls her children to the ground, and throws herself along with
them in his way._

Here am I with my children: let the orphans
Be trodden underneath thy horse's hoofs!
'Tis not the worst that thou hast done.

RUDOLPH. Woman! Art' mad?

ARMGART [_with still greater violence_].
                        'Tis long that thou hast trodden.
The Kaiser's people under foot. Too long!
O, I am but a woman; were I a man,
I should find something else to do than lie
Here crying in the dust.

[_The music of the Wedding is heard again, at the top of the Pass, but
softened by distance._

GESSLER.                 Where are my servants?
Quick! Take her hence! I may forget myself,
And do the thing I shall repent.

RUDOLPH.                         My lord,
The servants cannot pass; the place above
Is crowded by a bridal company.

GESSLER. I've been too mild a ruler to this people;
They are not tamed as they should be; their tongues
Are still at liberty. This shall be alter'd!
I will break that stubborn humour; Freedom
With its pert vauntings shall no more be heard of:
I will enforce a new law in these lands;
There shall not—

[_An arrow pierces him; he claps his hand upon his heart, and is about
to sink. With a faint voice_

                 God be merciful to me!

RUDOLPH. Herr Landvogt—God! What is it? Whence came it?

ARMGART [_springing up_].
Dead! dead! He totters, sinks! 'T has hit him!

RUDOLPH [_springs from his horse_].
Horrible!—O God of Heaven!—Herr Ritter,
Cry to God for mercy! You are dying.

GESSLER. 'Tis Tell's arrow.

[_Has slid down from his horse into Rudolph's arms, who sets him on
the stone bench._

TELL [_appears above, on the point of the rock_].
                          Thou hast found the archer;
Seek no other. Free are the cottages,
Secure is innocence from thee; thou wilt
Torment the land no more.

[_Disappears from the height. The people rush in._

STÜSSI [_foremost_].        What? What has happen'd?

ARMGART. The Landvogt shot, kill'd by an arrow.

PEOPLE [_rushing in_].                           Who?
Who is shot?

[_Whilst the foremost of the wedding company enter on the Scene, the
hindmost are still on the height, and the music continues._

RUDOLPH.     He's bleeding, bleeding to death.
Away! Seek help; pursue the murderer!
Lost man! Must it so end with thee? Thou wouldst not
Hear my warning!

STÜSSI.          Sure enough! There lies he
Pale and going fast.

MANY VOICES.           Who was it killed him?

RUDOLPH. Are the people mad, that they make music
Over murder? Stop it, I say!

[_The music ceases suddenly; more people come crowding round._

                             Herr Landvogt,
Can you not speak to me? Is there nothing
You would entrust me with?

[_Gessler makes signs with his hand, and vehemently repeats them, as
they are not understood._

                           Where shall I run?
To Küssnacht! I cannot understand you:
O, grow not angry! Leave the things of Earth,
And think how you shall make your peace with Heaven!

[_The whole bridal company surround the dying man with an expression
of unsympathising horror._

STÜSSI. Look there! How pale he grows! Now! Death is coming
Round his heart: his eyes grow dim and fixed.

ARMGART [_lifts up one of her children_].
See, children, how a miscreant departs!

RUDOLPH. Out on you, crazy hags! Have ye no touch
Of feeling in you, that ye feast your eyes
On such an object? Help me, lend your hands!
Will no one help to pull the tort'ring arrow
From his breast?

WOMEN [_start back_]. _We_ touch him whom God has smote!

RUDOLPH. My curse upon you!      [_Draws his sword._

STÜSSI [_lays his hand on Rudolph's arm_]. Softly, my good Sir!
Your government is at an end. The Tyrant
Is fallen: we will endure no farther violence:
We are free.

ALL [_tumultuously_]. The land is free!

RUDOLPH.                               Ha! runs it so?
Are rev'rence and obedience gone already?

[_To the armed Attendants, who press in._

You see the murd'rous deed that has been done.
Our help is vain, vain to pursue the murd'rer;
Other cares demand us. On! To Küssnacht!
To save the Kaiser's fortress! For at present
All bonds of order, duty, are unloosed,
No man's fidelity is to be trusted.

[_Whilst he departs with the Attendants, appear six Fratres
Misericordiæ._

ARMGART. Room! Room! Here come the Friars of Mercy.

STÜSSI. The victim slain, the ravens are assembling!

FRATRES MISERICORDIÆ [_form a half-circle round the dead body,
             and sing in a deep tone_].

        With noiseless tread death comes on man,
          No plea, no prayer delivers him;
        From midst of busy life's unfinished plan,
          With sudden hand, it severs him:
        And ready or not ready,—no delay,
          Forth to his Judge's bar he must away!


The death of Gessler, which forms the leading object of the plot,
happens at the end of the fourth act; the fifth, occupied with
representing the expulsion of his satellites, and the final triumph
and liberation of the Swiss, though diversified with occurrences and
spectacles, moves on with inferior animation. A certain want of unity
is, indeed, distinctly felt throughout all the piece; the incidents do
not point one way; there is no connexion, or a very slight one,
between the enterprise of Tell and that of the men of Rütli. This is
the principal, or rather sole, deficiency of the present work; a
deficiency inseparable from the faithful display of the historical
event, and far more than compensated by the deeper interest and the
wider range of action and delineation, which a strict adherence to the
facts allows. By the present mode of management, Alpine life in all
its length and breadth is placed before us: from the feudal halls of
Attinghausen to Ruodi the Fisher of the Luzern Lake, and Armgart,—

    The poor wild-hay-man of the Rigiberg,
    Whose trade is, on the brow of the abyss,
    To mow the common grass from craggy shelves
    And nooks to which the cattle dare not climb,—

we stand as if in presence of the Swiss, beholding the achievement of
their freedom in its minutest circumstances, with all its simplicity
and unaffected greatness. The light of the poet's genius is upon the
Four Forest Cantons, at the opening of the Fourteenth Century: the
whole time and scene shine as with the brightness, the truth, and more
than the beauty, of reality.

The tragedy of _Tell_ wants unity of interest and of action; but in
spite of this, it may justly claim the high dignity of ranking with
the very best of Schiller's plays. Less comprehensive and ambitious
than _Wallenstein_, less ethereal than the _Jungfrau_, it has a look
of nature and substantial truth, which neither of its rivals can boast
of. The feelings it inculcates and appeals to are those of universal
human nature, and presented in their purest, most unpretending form.
There is no high-wrought sentiment, no poetic love. Tell loves his
wife as honest men love their wives; and the episode of Bertha and
Rudenz, though beautiful, is very brief, and without effect on the
general result. It is delightful and salutary to the heart to wander
among the scenes of _Tell_: all is lovely, yet all is real. Physical
and moral grandeur are united; yet both are the unadorned grandeur of
Nature. There are the lakes and green valleys beside us, the
Schreckhorn, the Jungfrau, and their sister peaks, with their
avalanches and their palaces of ice, all glowing in the southern sun;
and dwelling among them are a race of manly husbandmen, heroic without
ceasing to be homely, poetical without ceasing to be genuine.


We have dwelt the longer on this play, not only on account of its
peculiar fascinations, but also—as it is our last! Schiller's
faculties had never been more brilliant than at present: strong in
mature age, in rare and varied accomplishments, he was now reaping the
full fruit of his studious vigils; the rapidity with which he wrote
such noble poems, at once betokened the exuberant riches of his mind
and the prompt command which he enjoyed of them. Still all that he had
done seemed but a fraction of his appointed task: a bold imagination
was carrying him forward into distant untouched fields of thought and
poetry, where triumphs yet more glorious were to be gained. Schemes of
new writings, new kinds of writing, were budding in his fancy; he was
yet, as he had ever been, surrounded by a multitude of projects, and
full of ardour to labour in fulfilling them. But Schiller's labours
and triumphs were drawing to a close. The invisible Messenger was
already near, which overtakes alike the busy and the idle, which
arrests man in the midst of his pleasures or his occupations, _and
changes his countenance and sends him away_.

In 1804, having been at Berlin witnessing the exhibition of his
_Wilhelm Tell_, he was seized, while returning, with a paroxysm of
that malady which for many years had never wholly left him. The attack
was fierce and violent; it brought him to the verge of the grave; but
he escaped once more; was considered out of danger, and again resumed
his poetical employments. Besides various translations from the French
and Italian, he had sketched a tragedy on the history of Perkin
Warbeck, and finished two acts of one on that of a kindred but more
fortunate impostor, Dimitri of Russia. His mind, it would appear, was
also frequently engaged with more solemn and sublime ideas. The
universe of human thought he had now explored and enjoyed; but he
seems to have found no permanent contentment in any of its provinces.
Many of his later poems indicate an incessant and increasing longing
for some solution of the mystery of life; at times it is a gloomy
resignation to the want and the despair of any. His ardent spirit
could not satisfy itself with things seen, though gilded with all the
glories of intellect and imagination; it soared away in search of
other lands, looking with unutterable desire for some surer and
brighter home beyond the horizon of this world. Death he had no reason
to regard as probably a near event; but we easily perceive that the
awful secrets connected with it had long been familiar to his
contemplation. The veil which hid them from his eyes was now shortly,
when he looked not for it, to be rent asunder.

The spring of 1805, which Schiller had anticipated with no ordinary
hopes of enjoyment and activity, came on in its course, cold, bleak,
and stormy; and along with it his sickness returned. The help of
physicians was vain; the unwearied services of trembling affection
were vain: his disorder kept increasing; on the 9th of May it reached
a crisis. Early in the morning of that day, he grew insensible, and by
degrees delirious. Among his expressions, the word _Lichtenberg_ was
frequently noticed; a word of no import; indicating, as some thought,
the writer of that name, whose works he had lately been reading;
according to others, the castle of Leuchtenberg, which, a few days
before his sickness, he had been proposing to visit. The poet and the
sage was soon to lie low; but his friends were spared the farther pain
of seeing him depart in madness. The fiery canopy of physical
suffering, which had bewildered and blinded his thinking faculties,
was drawn aside; and the spirit of Schiller looked forth in its wonted
serenity, once again before it passed away forever. After noon his
delirium abated; about four o'clock he fell into a soft sleep, from
which he ere long awoke in full possession of his senses. Restored to
consciousness in that hour, when the soul is cut off from human help,
and man must front the King of Terrors on his own strength, Schiller
did not faint or fail in this his last and sharpest trial. Feeling
that his end was come, he addressed himself to meet it as became him;
not with affected carelessness or superstitious fear, but with the
quiet unpretending manliness which had marked the tenor of his life.
Of his friends and family he took a touching but a tranquil farewell:
he ordered that his funeral should be private, without pomp or parade.
Some one inquiring how he felt, he said "_Calmer and calmer_;" simple
but memorable words, expressive of the mild heroism of the man. About
six he sank into a deep sleep; once for a moment he looked up with a
lively air, and said, "_Many things were growing plain and clear to
him!_" Again he closed his eyes; and his sleep deepened and deepened,
till it changed into the sleep from which there is no awakening; and
all that remained of Schiller was a lifeless form, soon to be mingled
with the clods of the valley.


The news of Schiller's death fell cold on many a heart: not in Germany
alone, but over Europe, it was regarded as a public loss, by all who
understood its meaning. In Weimar especially, the scene of his noblest
efforts, the abode of his chosen friends, the sensation it produced
was deep and universal. The public places of amusement were shut; all
ranks made haste to testify their feelings, to honour themselves and
the deceased by tributes to his memory. It was Friday when Schiller
died; his funeral was meant to be on Sunday; but the state of his
remains made it necessary to proceed before. Doering thus describes
the ceremony:

'According to his own directions, the bier was to be borne by private
burghers of the city; but several young artists and students, out of
reverence for the deceased, took it from them. It was between midnight
and one in the morning, when they approached the churchyard. The
overclouded heaven threatened rain. But as the bier was set down
beside the grave, the clouds suddenly split asunder, and the moon,
coming forth in peaceful clearness, threw her first rays on the coffin
of the Departed. They lowered him into the grave; and the moon again
retired behind her clouds. A fierce tempest of wind began to howl, as
if it were reminding the bystanders of their great, irreparable loss.
At this moment who could have applied without emotion the poet's own
words:

    Alas, the ruddy morning tinges
        A silent, cold, sepulchral stone;
    And evening throws her crimson fringes
        But round his slumber dark and lone!'

So lived and so died Friedrich Schiller; a man on whose history other
men will long dwell with a mingled feeling of reverence and love. Our
humble record of his life and writings is drawing to an end: yet we
still linger, loth to part with a spirit so dear to us. From the
scanty and too much neglected field of his biography, a few slight
facts and indications may still be gleaned; slight, but distinctive of
him as an individual, and not to be despised in a penury so great and
so unmerited.

Schiller's age was forty-five years and a few months when he died.[38]
Sickness had long wasted his form, which at no time could boast of
faultless symmetry. He was tall and strongly boned; but unmuscular and
lean: his body, it might be perceived, was wasting under the energy of
a spirit too keen for it. His face was pale, the cheeks and temples
rather hollow, the chin somewhat deep and slightly projecting, the
nose irregularly aquiline, his hair inclined to auburn. Withal his
countenance was attractive, and had a certain manly beauty. The lips
were curved together in a line, expressing delicate and honest
sensibility; a silent enthusiasm, impetuosity not unchecked by
melancholy, gleamed in his softly kindled eyes and pale cheeks, and
the brow was high and thoughtful. To judge from his portraits,
Schiller's face expressed well the features of his mind: it is
mildness tempering strength; fiery ardour shining through the clouds
of suffering and disappointment, deep but patiently endured. Pale was
its proper tint; the cheeks and temples were best hollow. There are
few faces that affect us more than Schiller's; it is at once meek,
tender, unpretending, and heroic.

    [Footnote 38: 'He left a widow, two sons, and two daughters,'
    of whom we regret to say that we have learned nothing. 'Of
    his three sisters, the youngest died before him; the eldest
    is married to the Hofrath Reinwald, in Meinungen; the second
    to Herr Frankh, the clergyman of Meckmuhl, in Würtemberg.'
    _Doering._]

In his dress and manner, as in all things, he was plain and
unaffected. Among strangers, something shy and retiring might
occasionally be observed in him: in his own family, or among his
select friends, he was kind-hearted, free, and gay as a little child.
In public, his external appearance had nothing in it to strike or
attract. Of an unpresuming aspect, wearing plain apparel, his looks as
he walked were constantly bent on the ground; so that frequently, as
we are told, 'he failed to notice the salutation of a passing
acquaintance; but if he heard it, he would catch hastily at his hat,
and give his cordial "_Guten Tag_."' Modesty, simplicity, a total want
of all parade or affectation were conspicuous in him. These are the
usual concomitants of true greatness, and serve to mitigate its
splendour. Common things he did as a common man. His conduct in such
matters was uncalculated, spontaneous; and therefore natural and
pleasing.

Concerning his mental character, the greater part of what we had to
say has been already said, in speaking of his works. The most cursory
perusal of these will satisfy us that he had a mind of the highest
order; grand by nature, and cultivated by the assiduous study of a
lifetime. It is not the predominating force of any one faculty that
impresses us in Schiller; but the general force of all. Every page of
his writings bears the stamp of internal vigour; new truths, new
aspects of known truth, bold thought, happy imagery, lofty emotion.
Schiller would have been no common man, though he had altogether
wanted the qualities peculiar to poets. His intellect is clear, deep,
and comprehensive; its deductions, frequently elicited from numerous
and distant premises, are presented under a magnificent aspect, in the
shape of theorems, embracing an immense multitude of minor
propositions. Yet it seems powerful and vast, rather than quick or
keen; for Schiller is not notable for wit, though his fancy is ever
prompt with its metaphors, illustrations, comparisons, to decorate and
point the perceptions of his reason. The earnestness of his temper
farther disqualified him for this: his tendency was rather to adore
the grand and the lofty than to despise the little and the mean.
Perhaps his greatest faculty was a half-poetical, half-philosophical
imagination: a faculty teeming with magnificence and brilliancy; now
adorning, or aiding to erect, a stately pyramid of scientific
speculation; now brooding over the abysses of thought and feeling,
till thoughts and feelings, else unutterable, were embodied in
expressive forms, and palaces and landscapes glowing in ethereal
beauty rose like exhalations from the bosom of the deep.

Combined and partly of kindred with these intellectual faculties was
that vehemence of temperament which is necessary for their full
development. Schiller's heart was at once fiery and tender; impetuous,
soft, affectionate, his enthusiasm clothed the universe with grandeur,
and sent his spirit forth to explore its secrets and mingle warmly in
its interests. Thus poetry in Schiller was not one but many gifts. It
was not the 'lean and flashy song' of an ear apt for harmony, combined
with a maudlin sensibility, or a mere animal ferocity of passion, and
an imagination creative chiefly because unbridled: it was, what true
poetry is always, the quintessence of general mental riches, the
purified result of strong thought and conception, and of refined as
well as powerful emotion. In his writings, we behold him a moralist, a
philosopher, a man of universal knowledge: in each of these capacities
he is great, but also in more; for all that he achieves in these is
brightened and gilded with the touch of another quality; his maxims,
his feelings, his opinions are transformed from the lifeless shape of
didactic truths, into living shapes that address faculties far finer
than the understanding.

The gifts by which such transformation is effected, the gift of pure,
ardent, tender sensibility, joined to those of fancy and imagination,
are perhaps not wholly denied to any man endowed with the power of
reason; possessed in various degrees of strength, they add to the
products of mere intellect corresponding tints of new attractiveness;
in a degree great enough to be remarkable they constitute a poet. Of
this peculiar faculty how much had fallen to Schiller's lot, we need
not attempt too minutely to explain. Without injuring his reputation,
it may be admitted that, in general, his works exhibit rather
extraordinary strength than extraordinary fineness or versatility. His
power of dramatic imitation is perhaps never of the very highest, the
Shakspearean kind; and in its best state, it is farther limited to a
certain range of characters. It is with the grave, the earnest, the
exalted, the affectionate, the mournful, that he succeeds: he is not
destitute of humour, as his _Wallenstein's Camp_ will show, but
neither is he rich in it; and for sprightly ridicule in any of its
forms he has seldom shown either taste or talent. Chance principally
made the drama his department; he might have shone equally in many
others. The vigorous and copious invention, the knowledge of life, of
men and things, displayed in his theatrical pieces, might have been
available in very different pursuits; frequently the charm of his
works has little to distinguish it from the charm of intellectual and
moral force in general; it is often the capacious thought, the vivid
imagery, the impetuous feeling of the orator, rather than the wild
pathos and capricious enchantment of the poet. Yet that he was capable
of rising to the loftiest regions of poetry, no reader of his _Maid of
Orleans_, his character of Thekla, or many other of his pieces, will
hesitate to grant. Sometimes we suspect that it is the very grandeur
of his general powers which prevents us from exclusively admiring his
poetic genius. We are not lulled by the syren song of poetry, because
her melodies are blended with the clearer, manlier tones of serious
reason, and of honest though exalted feeling.

Much laborious discussion has been wasted in defining genius,
particularly by the countrymen of Schiller, some of whom have narrowed
the conditions of the term so far, as to find but three _men of
genius_ since the world was created: Homer, Shakspeare, and Goethe!
From such rigid precision, applied to a matter in itself indefinite,
there may be an apparent, but there is no real, increase of accuracy.
The creative power, the faculty not only of imitating given forms of
being, but of imagining and representing new ones, which is here
attributed with such distinctness and so sparingly, has been given by
nature in complete perfection to no man, nor entirely denied to any.
The shades of it cannot be distinguished by so loose a scale as
language. A definition of genius which excludes such a mind as
Schiller's will scarcely be agreeable to philosophical correctness,
and it will tend rather to lower than to exalt the dignity of the
word. Possessing all the general mental faculties in their highest
degree of strength, an intellect ever active, vast, powerful,
far-sighted; an imagination never weary of producing grand or
beautiful forms; a heart of the noblest temper, sympathies
comprehensive yet ardent, feelings vehement, impetuous, yet full of
love and kindliness and tender pity; conscious of the rapid and fervid
exercise of all these powers within him, and able farther to present
their products refined and harmonised, and 'married to immortal
verse,' Schiller may or may not be called a man of genius by his
critics; but his mind in either case will remain one of the most
enviable which can fall to the share of a mortal.

In a poet worthy of that name, the powers of the intellect are
indissolubly interwoven with the moral feelings, and the exercise of
his art depends not more on the perfection of the one than of the
other. The poet, who does not feel nobly and justly, as well as
passionately, will never permanently succeed in making others feel:
the forms of error and falseness, infinite in number, are transitory
in duration; truth, of thought and sentiment, but chiefly of
sentiment, truth alone is eternal and unchangeable. But, happily, a
delight in the products of reason and imagination can scarcely ever be
divided from, at least, a love for virtue and genuine greatness. Our
feelings are in favour of heroism; we _wish_ to be pure and perfect.
Happy he whose resolutions are so strong, or whose temptations are so
weak, that he can convert these feelings into action! The severest
pang, of which a proud and sensitive nature can be conscious, is the
perception of its own debasement. The sources of misery in life are
many: vice is one of the surest. Any human creature, tarnished with
guilt, will in general be wretched; a man of genius in that case will
be doubly so, for his ideas of excellence are higher, his sense of
failure is more keen. In such miseries, Schiller had no share. The
sentiments, which animated his poetry, were converted into principles
of conduct; his actions were as blameless as his writings were pure.
With his simple and high predilections, with his strong devotedness to
a noble cause, he contrived to steer through life, unsullied by its
meanness, unsubdued by any of its difficulties or allurements. With
the world, in fact, he had not much to do; without effort, he dwelt
apart from it; its prizes were not the wealth which could enrich him.
His great, almost his single aim, was to unfold his spiritual
faculties, to study and contemplate and improve their intellectual
creations. Bent upon this, with the steadfastness of an apostle, the
more sordid temptations of the world passed harmlessly over him.
Wishing not to seem, but to be, envy was a feeling of which he knew
but little, even before he rose above its level. Wealth or rank he
regarded as a means, not an end; his own humble fortune supplying him
with all the essential conveniences of life, the world had nothing
more that he chose to covet, nothing more that it could give him. He
was not rich; but his habits were simple, and, except by reason of his
sickness and its consequences, unexpensive. At all times he was far
above the meanness of self-interest, particularly in its meanest
shape, a love of money. Doering tells us, that a bookseller having
travelled from a distance expressly to offer him a higher price for
the copyright of _Wallenstein_, at that time in the press, and for
which he was on terms with Cotta of Tübingen, Schiller answering,
"Cotta deals steadily with me, and I with him," sent away this new
merchant, without even the hope of a future bargain. The anecdote is
small; but it seems to paint the integrity of the man, careless of
pecuniary concerns in comparison with the strictest uprightness in his
conduct. In fact, his real wealth lay in being able to pursue his
darling studies, and to live in the sunshine of friendship and
domestic love. This he had always longed for; this he at last enjoyed.
And though sickness and many vexations annoyed him, the intrinsic
excellence of his nature chequered the darkest portions of their gloom
with an effulgence derived from himself. The ardour of his feelings,
tempered by benevolence, was equable and placid: his temper, though
overflowing with generous warmth, seems almost never to have shown any
hastiness or anger. To all men he was humane and sympathising; among
his friends, open-hearted, generous, helpful; in the circle of his
family, kind, tender, sportive. And what gave an especial charm to all
this was, the unobtrusiveness with which it was attended: there was no
parade, no display, no particle of affectation; rating and conducting
himself simply as an honest man and citizen, he became greater by
forgetting that he was great.

Such were the prevailing habits of Schiller. That in the mild and
beautiful brilliancy of their aspect there must have been some specks
and imperfections, the common lot of poor humanity, who knows not?
That these were small and transient, we judge from the circumstance
that scarcely any hint of them has reached us: nor are we anxious to
obtain a full description of them. For practical uses, we can
sufficiently conjecture what they were; and the heart desires not to
dwell upon them. This man is passed away from our dim and tarnished
world: let him have the benefit of departed friends; let him be
transfigured in our thoughts, and shine there without the little
blemishes that clung to him in life.

Schiller gives a fine example of the German character: he has all its
good qualities in a high degree, with very few of its defects. We
trace in him all that downrightness and simplicity, that sincerity of
heart and mind, for which the Germans are remarked; their enthusiasm,
their patient, long-continuing, earnest devotedness; their
imagination, delighting in the lofty and magnificent; their intellect,
rising into refined abstractions, stretching itself into comprehensive
generalisations. But the excesses to which such a character is liable
are, in him, prevented by a firm and watchful sense of propriety. His
simplicity never degenerates into ineptitude or insipidity; his
enthusiasm must be based on reason; he rarely suffers his love of the
vast to betray him into toleration of the vague. The boy Schiller was
extravagant; but the man admits no bombast in his style, no inflation
in his thoughts or actions. He is the poet of truth; our
understandings and consciences are satisfied, while our hearts and
imaginations are moved. His fictions are emphatically nature copied
and embellished; his sentiments are refined and touchingly beautiful,
but they are likewise manly and correct; they exalt and inspire, but
they do not mislead. Above all, he has no cant; in any of its thousand
branches, ridiculous or hateful, none. He does not distort his
character or genius into shapes, which he thinks more becoming than
their natural one: he does not hang out principles which are not his,
or harbour beloved persuasions which he half or wholly knows to be
false. He did not often speak of wholesome prejudices; he did not
'embrace the Roman Catholic religion because it was the grandest and
most comfortable.' Truth with Schiller, or what seemed such, was an
indispensable requisite: if he but suspected an opinion to be false,
however dear it may have been, he seems to have examined it with rigid
scrutiny, and if he found it guilty, to have plucked it out, and
resolutely cast it forth. The sacrifice might cause him pain,
permanent pain; real damage, he imagined, it could hardly cause him.
It is irksome and dangerous to travel in the dark; but better so, than
with an _Ignis-fatuus_ to guide us. Considering the warmth of his
sensibilities, Schiller's merit on this point is greater than we might
at first suppose. For a man with whom intellect is the ruling or
exclusive faculty, whose sympathies, loves, hatreds, are comparatively
coarse and dull, it may be easy to avoid this half-wilful
entertainment of error, and this cant which is the consequence and
sign of it. But for a man of keen tastes, a large fund of innate
probity is necessary to prevent his aping the excellence which he
loves so much, yet is unable to attain. Among persons of the latter
sort, it is extremely rare to meet with one completely unaffected.
Schiller's other noble qualities would not have justice, did we
neglect to notice this, the truest proof of their nobility. Honest,
unpretending, manly simplicity pervades all parts of his character and
genius and habits of life. We not only admire him, we trust him and
love him.

'The character of child-like simplicity,' he has himself observed,[39]
'which genius impresses on its works, it shows also in its private
life and manners. It is bashful, for nature is ever so; but it is not
prudish, for only corruption is prudish. It is clear-sighted, for
nature can never be the contrary; but it is not cunning, for this only
art can be. It is faithful to its character and inclinations; but not
so much because it is directed by principles, as because after all
vibrations nature constantly reverts to her original position,
constantly renews her primitive demand. It is modest, nay timid, for
genius is always a secret to itself; but it is not anxious, for it
knows not the dangers of the way which it travels. Of the private
habits of the persons who have been peculiarly distinguished by their
genius, our information is small; but the little that has been
recorded for us of the chief of them,—of Sophocles, Archimedes,
Hippocrates; and in modern times, of Dante and Tasso, of Rafaelle,
Albrecht Dürer, Cervantes, Shakspeare, Fielding, and others,—confirms
this observation.' Schiller himself confirms it; perhaps more strongly
than most of the examples here adduced. No man ever wore his faculties
more meekly, or performed great works with less consciousness of their
greatness. Abstracted from the contemplation of himself, his eye was
turned upon the objects of his labour, and he pursued them with the
eagerness, the entireness, the spontaneous sincerity, of a boy
pursuing sport. Hence this 'child-like simplicity,' the last
perfection of his other excellencies. His was a mighty spirit
unheedful of its might. He walked the earth in calm power: 'the staff
of his spear was like a weaver's beam;' but he wielded it like a wand.

    [Footnote 39: _Naive und sentimentalische Dichtung._]


Such, so far as we can represent it, is the form in which Schiller's
life and works have gradually painted their character in the mind of a
secluded individual, whose solitude he has often charmed, whom he has
instructed, and cheered, and moved. The original impression, we know,
was faint and inadequate, the present copy of it is still more so; yet
we have sketched it as we could: the figure of Schiller, and of the
figures he conceived and drew are there; himself, 'and in his hand a
glass which shows us many more.' To those who look on him as we have
wished to make them, Schiller will not need a farther panegyric. For
the sake of Literature, it may still be remarked, that his merit was
peculiarly due to her. Literature was his creed, the dictate of his
conscience; he was an Apostle of the Sublime and Beautiful, and this
his calling made a hero of him. For it was in the spirit of a true man
that he viewed it, and undertook to cultivate it; and its inspirations
constantly maintained the noblest temper in his soul. The end of
Literature was not, in Schiller's judgment, to amuse the idle, or to
recreate the busy, by showy spectacles for the imagination, or quaint
paradoxes and epigrammatic disquisitions for the understanding: least
of all was it to gratify in any shape the selfishness of its
professors, to minister to their malignity, their love of money, or
even of fame. For persons who degrade it to such purposes, the deepest
contempt of which his kindly nature could admit was at all times in
store. 'Unhappy mortal!' says he to the literary tradesman, the man
who writes for gain, 'Unhappy mortal, who with science and art, the
noblest of all instruments, effectest and attemptest nothing more than
the day-drudge with the meanest; who, in the domain of perfect
Freedom, bearest about in thee the spirit of Slave!' As Schiller
viewed it, genuine Literature includes the essence of philosophy,
religion, art; whatever speaks to the immortal part of man. The
daughter, she is likewise the nurse of all that is spiritual and
exalted in our character. The boon she bestows is truth; truth not
merely physical, political, economical, such as the sensual man in us
is perpetually demanding, ever ready to reward, and likely in general
to find; but truth of moral feeling, truth of taste, that inward truth
in its thousand modifications, which only the most ethereal portion of
our nature can discern, but without which that portion of it
languishes and dies, and we are left divested of our birthright,
thenceforward 'of the earth earthy,' machines for earning and
enjoying, no longer worthy to be called the Sons of Heaven. The
treasures of Literature are thus celestial, imperishable, beyond all
price: with her is the shrine of our best hopes, the palladium of pure
manhood; to be among the guardians and servants of this is the noblest
function that can be intrusted to a mortal. Genius, even in its
faintest scintillations, is 'the inspired gift of God;' a solemn
mandate to its owner to go forth and labour in his sphere, to keep
alive 'the sacred fire' among his brethren, which the heavy and
polluted atmosphere of this world is forever threatening to
extinguish. Woe to him if he neglect this mandate, if he hear not its
small still voice! Woe to him if he turn this inspired gift into the
servant of his evil or ignoble passions; if he offer it on the altar
of vanity, if he sell it for a piece of money!

'The Artist, it is true,' says Schiller, 'is the son of his age; but
pity for him if he is its pupil, or even its favourite! Let some
beneficent Divinity snatch him when a suckling from the breast of his
mother, and nurse him with the milk of a better time; that he may
ripen to his full stature beneath a distant Grecian sky. And having
grown to manhood, let him return, a foreign shape, into his century;
not, however, to delight it by his presence; but terrible, like the
Son of Agamemnon, to purify it. The Matter of his works he will take
from the present; but their Form he will derive from a nobler time,
nay from beyond all time, from the absolute unchanging unity of his
nature. Here from the pure æther of his spiritual essence, flows down
the Fountain of Beauty, uncontaminated by the pollutions of ages and
generations, which roll to and fro in their turbid vortex far beneath
it. His Matter caprice can dishonour as she has ennobled it; but the
chaste Form is withdrawn from her mutations. The Roman of the first
century had long bent the knee before his Cæsars, when the statues of
Rome were still standing erect; the temples continued holy to the eye,
when their gods had long been a laughing-stock; and the abominations
of a Nero and a Commodus were silently rebuked by the style of the
edifice which lent them its concealment. Man has lost his dignity, but
Art has saved it, and preserved it for him in expressive marbles.
Truth still lives in fiction, and from the copy the original will be
restored.

'But how is the Artist to guard himself from the corruptions of his
time, which on every side assail him? By despising its decisions. Let
him look upwards to his dignity and his mission, not downwards to his
happiness and his wants. Free alike from the vain activity, that longs
to impress its traces on the fleeting instant; and from the
discontented spirit of enthusiasm, that measures by the scale of
perfection the meagre product of reality, let him leave to _common
sense_, which is here at home, the province of the actual; while _he_
strives from the union of the possible with the necessary to bring out
the ideal. This let him imprint and express in fiction and truth,
imprint it in the sport of his imagination and the earnest of his
actions, imprint it in all sensible and spiritual forms, and cast it
silently into everlasting Time.'[40]

    [Footnote 40: _Über die æsthetische Erziehung des Menschen._]

Nor were these sentiments, be it remembered, the mere boasting
manifesto of a hot-brained inexperienced youth, entering on literature
with feelings of heroic ardour, which its difficulties and temptations
would soon deaden or pervert: they are the calm principles of a man,
expressed with honest manfulness, at a period when the world could
compare them with a long course of conduct. In this just and lofty
spirit, Schiller undertook the business of literature; in the same
spirit he pursued it with unflinching energy all the days of his life.
The common, and some uncommon, difficulties of a fluctuating and
dependent existence could not quench or abate his zeal: sickness
itself seemed hardly to affect him. During his last fifteen years, he
wrote his noblest works; yet, as it has been proved too well, no day
of that period could have passed without its load of pain.[41] Pain
could not turn him from his purpose, or shake his equanimity: in death
itself he was _calmer and calmer_. Nor has he gone without his
recompense. To the credit of the world it can be recorded, that their
suffrages, which he never courted, were liberally bestowed on him:
happier than the mighty Milton, he found 'fit hearers,' even in his
lifetime, and they were not 'few.' His effect on the mind of his own
country has been deep and universal, and bids fair to be abiding: his
effect on other countries must in time be equally decided; for such
nobleness of heart and soul shadowed forth in beautiful imperishable
emblems, is a treasure which belongs not to one nation, but to all. In
another age, this Schiller will stand forth in the foremost rank among
the master-spirits of his century; and be admitted to a place among
the chosen of all centuries. His works, the memory of what he did and
was, will rise afar off like a towering landmark in the solitude of
the Past, when distance shall have dwarfed into invisibility the
lesser people that encompassed him, and hid him from the near
beholder.

    [Footnote 41: On a surgical inspection of his body after
    death, the most vital organs were found totally deranged.
    'The structure of the lungs was in great part destroyed, the
    cavities of the heart were nearly grown up, the liver had
    become hard, and the gall-bladder was extended to an
    extraordinary size.' _Doering._]

On the whole, we may pronounce him happy. His days passed in the
contemplation of ideal grandeurs, he lived among the glories and
solemnities of universal Nature; his thoughts were of sages and
heroes, and scenes of elysian beauty. It is true, he had no rest, no
peace; but he enjoyed the fiery consciousness of his own activity,
which stands in place of it for men like him. It is true, he was long
sickly; but did he not even then conceive and body-forth Max
Piccolomini, and Thekla, and the Maid of Orleans, and the scenes of
_Wilhelm Tell_? It is true, he died early; but the student will
exclaim with Charles XII. in another case, "Was it not enough of life
when he had conquered kingdoms?" These kingdoms which Schiller
conquered were not for one nation at the expense of suffering to
another; they were soiled by no patriot's blood, no widow's, no
orphan's tear: they are kingdoms conquered from the barren realms of
Darkness, to increase the happiness, and dignity, and power, of all
men; new forms of Truth, new maxims of Wisdom, new images and scenes
of Beauty, won from the 'void and formless Infinite;' a κτημα ες αιει,
'a possession forever,' to all the generations of the Earth.



                          SUPPLEMENT OF 1872.



                          HERR SAUPE'S BOOK.

                      [NOTE IN PEOPLE'S EDITION.]


In the end of Autumn last a considerately kind old Friend of mine
brought home to me, from his Tour in Germany, a small Book by a Herr
Saupe, one of the Head-masters of Gera High-School,—Book entitled
'Schiller and His Father's Household,'[42]—of which, though it has
been before the world these twenty years and more, I had not heard
till then. The good little Book,—an altogether modest, lucid, exact
and amiable, though not very lively performance, offering new little
facts about the Schiller world, or elucidations and once or twice a
slight correction of the old,—proved really interesting and
instructive; awoke, in me especially, multifarious reflections,
mournfully beautiful old memories;—and led to farther readings in
other Books touching on the same subject, particularly in these three
mentioned below,[43]—the first two of them earlier than Saupe's, the
third later and slightly corrective of him once or twice;—all which
agreeably employed me for some weeks, and continued to be rather a
pious recreation than any labour.

    [Footnote 42: _Schiller und sein Väterliches Haus._ Von Ernst
    Julius Saupe, Subconrector am Gymnasium zu Gera. Leipzig:
    Verlagsbuchhandlung von J. J. Weber, 1851.]

    [Footnote 43: _Schiller's Leben von Gustav Schwab_
    (Stuttgart, 1841).

    _Schiller's Leben, verfasst aus_, &c. By Caroline von
    Wolzogen, _born_ von Lengefeld (Schiller's Sister-in-law):
    Stuttgart und Tübingen, 1845.

    _Schiller's Beziehungen zu Eltern, Geschwistern und der
    Familie von Wolzogen, aus den Familien-Papieren._ By Baroness
    von Gleichen (Schiller's youngest Daughter) and Baron von
    Wolzogen (her Cousin): Stuttgart, 1859.]

To this accident of Saupe's little Book there was, meanwhile, added
another not less unexpected: a message, namely, from Bibliopolic
Head-quarters that my own poor old Book on Schiller was to be
reprinted, and that in this "_People's Edition_" it would want (on
deduction of the German Piece by Goethe, which had gone into the
"_Library Edition_," but which had no fitness here) some sixty or
seventy pages for the proper size of the volume. _Saupe_, which I was
still reading, or idly reading-about, offered the ready
expedient:—and here accordingly _Saupe_ is. I have had him faithfully
translated, and with some small omissions or abridgments, slight
transposals here and there for clearness' sake, and one or two
elucidative patches, gathered from the three subsidiary Books already
named, all duly distinguished from Saupe's text;—whereby the gap or
deficit of pages is well filled up, almost of its own accord. And thus
I can now certify that, in all essential respects, the authentic
_Saupe_ is here made accessible to English readers as to German; and
hope that to many lovers of Schiller among us, who are likely to be
lovers also of humbly beautiful Human Worth, and of such an
unconsciously noble scene of Poverty made _richer_ than any
California, as that of the elder Schiller Household here manifests, it
may be a welcome and even profitable bit of reading.

Chelsea, Nov. 1872.

T. C.



                                SAUPE'S

                "SCHILLER AND HIS FATHER'S HOUSEHOLD."


                            I. THE FATHER.

'Schiller's Father, Johann Caspar Schiller, was born at Bittenfeld, a
parish hamlet in the ancient part of Würtemberg, a little north of
Waiblingen, on the 27th October 1723. He had not yet completed his
tenth year when his Father, Johannes Schiller, _Schultheiss_, "Petty
Magistrate," of the Village, and by trade a Baker, died, at the age of
fifty-one. Soon after which the fatherless Boy, hardly fitted out with
the most essential elements of education, had to quit school, and was
apprenticed to a Surgeon; with whom, according to the then custom, he
was to learn the art of "Surgery;" but in reality had little more to
do than follow the common employment of a Barber.

'After completing his apprenticeship and proof-time, the pushing young
lad, eager to get forward in the world, went, during the
Austrian-Succession War, in the year 1745, with a Bavarian Hussar
Regiment, as "Army-Doctor," into the Netherlands. Here, as his active
mind found no full employment in the practice of his Art, he willingly
undertook, withal, the duties of a sub-officer in small military
enterprises. On the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, 1748, when a part of
this Regiment was disbanded, and Schiller with them, he returned to
his homeland; and set himself down in Marbach, a pleasant little
country town on the Neckar, as practical Surgeon there. Here, in
1749, he married the Poet's Mother; then a young girl of sixteen:
Elisabetha Dorothea, born at Marbach in the year 1733, the daughter of
a respectable townsman, Georg Friedrich Kodweis, who, to his trade of
Baker adding that of Innkeeper and Woodmeasurer, had gathered a little
fortune, and was at this time counted well-off, though afterwards, by
some great inundation of the Neckar,' date not given, 'he was again
reduced to poverty. The brave man by this unavoidable mischance came,
by degrees, so low that he had to give-up his house in the
Market-Place, and in the end to dwell in a poor hut, as Porter at one
of the Toll-Gates of Marbach. Elisabetha was a comely girl to look
upon; slender, well-formed, without quite being tall; the neck long,
hair high-blond, almost red, brow broad, eyes as if a little sorish,
face covered with freckles; but with all these features enlivened by a
soft expression of kindliness and good-nature.

'This marriage, for the first eight years, was childless; after that,
they gradually had six children, two of whom died soon after birth;
the Poet Schiller was the second of these six, and the only Boy. The
young couple had to live in a very narrow, almost needy condition, as
neither of them had any fortune; and the Husband's business could
hardly support a household. There is still in existence a legal
Marriage Record and Inventory, such as is usual in these cases, which
estimates the money and money's worth brought together by the young
people at a little over 700 gulden (70_l._). Out of the same
Inventory, one sees, by the small value put upon the surgical
instruments, and the outstanding debts of patients, distinctly enough,
that Caspar Schiller's practice, at that point of time, did not much
exceed that of a third-class Surgeon, and was scarcely adequate, as
above stated, to support the thriftiest household. And therefore it is
not surprising that Schiller, intent on improving so bare a position,
should, at the breaking-out of the Seven-Years War, have anew sought a
military appointment, as withal more fit for employing his young
strength and ambitions.

'In the beginning of the year 1757 he went, accordingly, as Ensign and
Adjutant, into the Würtemberg Regiment Prince Louis; which in several
of the campaigns in the Seven-Years War belonged to an auxiliary corps
of the Austrian Army.'—Was he at the _Ball of Fulda_, one wonders?
Yes, for certain! He was at the Ball of Fulda (tragi-comical Explosion
of a Ball, _not_ yet got to the dancing-point); and had to run for
life, as his Duke, in a highly-ridiculous manner, had already done.
And, again, tragically, it is certain that he stood on the fated
Austrian left-wing at the _Battle of Leuthen_; had his horse shot
under him there, and was himself nearly drowned in a quagmire,
struggling towards Breslau that night.[44]

    [Footnote 44: See _Life of Friedrich_ (Book xix. chap. 8;
    Book xviii. chap. 10), and Schiller Senior's rough bit of
    Autobiography, called '_Meine Lebensgeschichte_,' in
    _Schiller's Beziehungen zu Eltern, Geschwistern und der
    Familie von Wolzogen_ (mentioned above), p. 1 et seqq.]

'In Bohemia this Corps was visited by an infectious fever, and
suffered by the almost pestilential disorder a good deal of loss. In
this bad time, Schiller, who by his temperance and frequent movement
in the open air had managed to retain perfect health, showed himself
very active and helpful; and cheerfully undertook every kind of
business in which he could be of use. He attended the sick, there
being a scarcity of Doctors; and served at the same time as Chaplain
to the Regiment, so far as to lead the Psalmody, and read the
Prayers. When, after this, he was changed into another Würtemberg
Regiment, which served in Hessen and Thüringen, he employed every free
hour in filling up, by his own industrious study, the many deeply-felt
defects in his young schooling; and was earnestly studious. By his
perseverant zeal and diligence, he succeeded in the course of these
war-years in acquiring not only many medical, military and
agricultural branches of knowledge, but also, as his Letters prove, in
amassing a considerable amount of general culture. Nor did his
praiseworthy efforts remain without recognition and external reward.
At the end of the Seven-Years War, he had risen to be a Captain, and
had even saved a little money.

'His Wife, who, during these War-times, lived, on money sent by him,
in her Father's house at Marbach, he could only visit seldom, and for
short periods in winter-quarters, much as he longed for his faithful
Wife; who, after the birth of a Daughter, in September 1757, was
dearer to him than ever. But never had the rigid fetters of
War-discipline appeared more oppressive than when, two years later, in
November 1759, a Son, the Poet, was born. With joyful thanks to God,
he saluted this dear Gift of Heaven; in daily prayer commended Mother
and Child to "the Being of all Beings;" and waited now with impatience
the time when he should revisit his home, and those that were his
there. Yet there still passed four years before Father Schiller, on
conclusion of the Hubertsburg Peace, 1763, could return home from the
War, and again take up his permanent residence in his home-country.
Where, on his return, his first Garrison quarters were, whether at
Ludwigsburg, Cannstadt or what other place, is not known. On the other
hand, all likelihoods are, that, so soon as he could find it
possible, he carried over his Wife and his two Children, the little
Daughter Christophine six, and the little Friedrich now four, out of
Marbach to his own quarters, wherever these were.'

There is no date to the Neckar Inundation above mentioned; but we have
elsewhere evidence that the worthy Father Kodweis with his Wife, at
this time, still dwelt in their comfortable house in the Market-Place.
We know also, though it is not mentioned in the text, that their pious
Daughter struggled zealously to the last to alleviate their sore
poverty; and the small effect, so far as money goes, may testify how
poor and straitened the Schiller Family itself then was.

'With the Father's return out of War, there came a new element into
the Family, which had so long been deprived of its natural Guardian
and Counsellor. To be House-Father in the full sense of the word was
now all the more Captain Schiller's need and duty, the longer his
War-service had kept him excluded from the sacred vocation of Husband
and Father. For he was throughout a rational and just man, simple,
strong, expert, active for practical life, if also somewhat quick and
rough. This announced itself even in the outward make and look of him;
for he was of short stout stature and powerful make of limbs; the brow
high-arched, eyes sharp and keen. Withal, his erect carriage, his firm
step, his neat clothing, as well as his clear and decisive mode of
speech, all testified of strict military training; which also extended
itself over his whole domestic life, and even over the daily devotions
of the Family. For although the shallow Illuminationism of that period
had produced some influence on his religious convictions, he held fast
by the pious principles of his forebears; read regularly to his
household out of the Bible; and pronounced aloud, each day, the
Morning and Evening Prayer. And this was, in his case, not merely an
outward decorous bit of discipline, but in fact the faithful
expression of his Christian conviction, that man's true worth and true
happiness can alone be found in the fear of the Lord, and the moral
purity of his heart and conduct. He himself had even, in the manner of
those days, composed a long Prayer, which he in later years addressed
to God every morning, and which began with the following lines:

    True Watcher of Israel!
    To Thee be praise, thanks and honour.
    Praying aloud I praise Thee,
    That earth and Heaven may hear.[45]

    [Footnote 45:

    'Treuer Wächter Israels!
     Dir sei Preis und Dank und Ehren;
     Laut betend lob' ich Dich,
     Dass es Erd' und Himmel hören' &c.]

'If, therefore, a certain otherwise accredited Witness calls him a
kind of crotchety, fantastic person, mostly brooding over strange
thoughts and enterprises, this can only have meant that Caspar
Schiller in earlier years appeared such, namely at the time when, as
incipient Surgeon at Marbach, he saw himself forced into a circle of
activity which corresponded neither to his inclination, strength nor
necessities.


'On the spiritual development of his Son this conscientious Father
employed his warmest interest and activities; and appears to have been
for some time assisted herein by a near relation, a certain Johann
Friedrich Schiller from Bittenfeld; the same who, as _Studiosus
Philosophiæ_, was, in 1759, Godfather to the Boy. He is said to have
given the little Godson Fritz his first lessons in Writing,
Natural-History and Geography. A more effective assistance in this
matter the Father soon after met with on removing to Lorch.

'In the year 1765, the reigning Duke, Karl of Würtemberg, sent Captain
Schiller as Recruiting Officer to the Imperial Free-Town
Schwäbish-Gmünd; with permission to live with his Family in the
nearest Würtemberg place, the Village and Cloister of Lorch. Lorch
lies in a green meadow-ground, surrounded by beech-woods, at the foot
of a hill, which is crowned by the weird buildings of the Cloister,
where the Hohenstaufen graves are; opposite the Cloister and Hamlet,
rise the venerable ruins of Hohenstaufen itself, with a series of
hills; at the bottom winds the Rems,' a branch of the Neckar, 'towards
still fruitfuler regions. In this attractive rural spot the Schiller
Family resided for several years; and found from the pious and kindly
people of the Hamlet, and especially from a friend of the house,
Moser, the worthy Parish-Parson there, the kindliest reception. The
Schiller children soon felt themselves at home and happy in Lorch,
especially Fritz did, who, in the Parson's Son, Christoph Ferdinand
Moser, a soft gentle child, met with his first boy-friend. In this
worthy Parson's house he also received, along with the Parson's own
Sons, the first regular and accurate instruction in reading and
writing, as also in the elements of Latin and Greek. This arrangement
pleased and comforted Captain Schiller not a little: for the more
distinctly he, with his clear and candid character, recognised the
insufficiency of his own instruction and stock of knowledge, the more
impressively it lay on him that his Son should early acquire a good
foundation in Languages and Science, and learn something solid and
effective. What he could himself do in that particular he faithfully
did; bringing out, with this purpose, partly the grand historical
memorials of that neighbourhood, partly his own life-experiences, in
instructive and exciting dialogues with his children. He would point
out to the listening little pair the venerable remains of the
Hohenstaufen Ancestral Castle, or tell them of his own soldier-career.
He took the Boy with him into the Exercise Camp, to the Woodmen in the
Forest, and even into the farther-distant pleasure-castle of
Hohenheim; and thereby led their youthful imagination into many
changeful imaginings of life.[46]

    [Footnote 46: _Saupe_, p. 11.]

'Externally little Fritz and his Sister were not like; Christophine
more resembling the Father, whilst Friedrich was the image of the
Mother. On the other hand, they had internally very much in common;
both possessed a lively apprehension for whatever was true, beautiful
or good. Both had a temper capable of enthusiasm, which early and
chiefly turned towards the sublime and grand: in short, the strings of
their souls were tuned on a cognate tone. Add to this, that both, in
the beautifulest, happiest period of their life, had been under the
sole care and direction of the pious genial Mother; and that Fritz, at
least till his sixth year, was exclusively limited to Christophine's
society, and had no other companion. They two had to be, and were, all
to each other. Christophine on this account stood nearer to her
Brother throughout all his life than the Sisters who were born later.

'In rural stillness, and in almost uninterrupted converse with
out-door nature, flowed by for Fritz and her the greatest part of
their childhood and youth. Especially dear to them was their abode in
this romantic region. Every hour that was free from teaching or other
task, they employed in roaming about in the neighbourhood; and they
knew no higher joy than a ramble into the neighbouring hills. In
particular they liked to make pilgrimages together to a chapel on the
Calvary Hill at Gmünd, a few miles off, to which the way was still
through the old monkish grief-stations, on to the Cloister of Lorch
noticed above. Often they would sit with closely-grasped hands, under
the thousand-years-old Linden, which stood on a projection before the
Cloister-walls, and seemed to whisper to them long-silent tales of
past ages. On these walks the hearts of the two clasped each other
ever closer and more firmly, and they faithfully shared their little
childish joys and sorrows. Christophine would bitterly weep when her
vivacious Brother had committed some small misdeed and was punished
for it. In such cases, she often enough confessed Fritz's faults as
her own, and was punished when she had in reality had no complicity in
them. It was with great sorrow that they two parted from their little
Paradise; and both of them always retained a great affection for Lorch
and its neighbourhood. Christophine, who lived to be ninety, often
even in her latter days looked back with tender affection to their
abode there.[47]

    [Footnote 47: _Saupe_, pp. 106-108.]


'In his family-circle, the otherwise hard-mannered Father showed
always to Mother and Daughters the tenderest respect and the
affectionate tone which the heart suggests. Thus, if at table a dish
had chanced to be especially prepared for him, he would never eat of
it without first inviting the Daughters to be helped. As little could
he ever, in the long-run, withstand the requests of his gentle Wife;
so that not seldom she managed to soften his rough severity. The
Children learned to make use of this feature in his character; and
would thereby save themselves from the first outburst of his anger.
They confessed beforehand to the Mother their bits of misdoings, and
begged her to inflict the punishment, and prevent their falling into
the heavier paternal hand. Towards the Son again, whose moral
development his Father anxiously watched over, his wrath was at times
disarmed by touches of courage and fearlessness on the Boy's part.
Thus little Fritz, once on a visit at Hohenheim, in the house where
his Father was calling, and which formed part of the side-buildings of
the Castle, whilst his Father followed his business within doors, had,
unobserved, clambered out of a saloon-window, and undertaken a voyage
of discovery over the roofs. The Boy, who had been missed and
painfully sought after, was discovered just on the point of trying to
have a nearer view of the Lion's Head, by which one of the
roof-gutters discharges itself, when the terrified Father got eye on
him, and called out aloud. Cunning Fritz, however, stood motionless
where he was on the roof, till his Father's anger had stilled itself,
and pardon was promised him.'—Here farther is a vague anecdote made
authentic: 'Another time the little fellow was not to be found at the
evening meal, while, withal, there was a heavy thunderstorm in the
sky, and fiery bolts were blazing through the black clouds. He was
searched for in vain, all over the house; and at every new
thunder-clap the misery of his Parents increased. At last they found
him, not far from the house, on the top of the highest lime-tree,
which he was just preparing to descend, under the crashing of a very
loud peal. "In God's name, what hast thou been doing there?" cried the
agitated Father. "I wanted to know," answered Fritz, "where all that
fire in the sky was coming from!"


'Three full years the Schiller Family lived at Lorch; and this in
rather narrow circumstances, as the Father, though in the service of
his Prince, could not, during the whole of this time, receive the
smallest part of his pay, but had to live on the little savings he had
made during War-time. Not till 1768, after the most impressive
petitioning to the Duke, was he at last called away from his post of
Recruiting Officer, and transferred to the Garrison of Ludwigsburg,
where he, by little and little, squeezed out the pay owing him.

'Upon his removal, the Father's first care was to establish his little
Boy, now nine years old,—who, stirred-on probably by the impressions
he had got in the Parsonage at Lorch, and the visible wish of his
Parents, had decided for the Clerical Profession,—in the Latin school
at Ludwigsburg. This done, he made it his chief care that his Son's
progress should be swift and satisfying there. But on that side, Fritz
could never come up to his expectations, though the Teachers were well
enough contented. But out of school-time, Fritz was not so zealous and
diligent as could be wished; liked rather to spring about and sport in
the garden. The arid, stony, philological instruction of his teacher,
Johann Friedrich Jahn, who was a solid Latiner, and nothing more, was
not calculated to make a specially alluring impression on the clever
and lively Boy; thus it was nothing but the reverence and awe of his
Father that could drive him on to diligence.

'To this time belongs the oldest completely preserved Poem of
Schiller's; it is in the form of a little Hymn, in which, on
New-year's day 1769, the Boy, now hardly over nine years old, presents
to his Parents the wishes of the season. It may stand here by way of
glimpse into the position of the Son towards his Parents, especially
towards his Father.


        MUCH-LOVED PARENTS.[48]

    Parents, whom I lovingly honour,
    Today my heart is full of thankfulness!
    This Year may a gracious God increase
    What is at all times your support!

    The Lord, the Fountain of all joy,
    Remain always your comfort and portion;
    His Word be the nourishment of your heart,
    And Jesus your wished-for salvation.

    I thank you for all your proofs of love,
    For all your care and patience;
    My heart shall praise all your goodness,
    And ever comfort itself in your favour.

    Obedience, diligence and tender love
    I promise you for this Year.
    God send me only good inclinations,
    And make true all my wishes! Amen.

1 January 1769. JOHANN FRIEDRICH SCHILLER.

    [Footnote 48:

         HERZGELIEBTE ELTERN.

    _Eltern, die ich zärtlich ehre,
    Mein Herz ist heut' voll Dankbarkeit!
    Der treue Gott dies Jahr vermehre
    Was Sie erquickt zu jeder Zeit!_

    _Der Herr, die Quelle aller Freude,
    Verbleibe stets Ihr Trost und Theil;_
    _Sein Wort sei Ihres Herzens Weide,
    Und Jesus Ihr erwunschtes Heil._

    _Ich dank' von alle Liebes-Proben,
    Von alle Sorgfalt und Geduld,
    Mein Herz soll alle Güte loben,
    Und trösten sich stets Ihrer Huld._

    _Gehorsam, Fleiss und zarte Liebe
    Verspreche ich auf dieses Jahr.
    Der Herr schenk' mir nur gute Treibe,
    Und mache all' mein Wunschen wahr. Amen._

    JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER.

    _Den 1 Januarii Anno 1769._]

'According to the pious wish of their Son, this year, 1769, did bring
somewhat which "comforted" them. Captain Schiller, from of old a lover
of rural occupations, and skilful in gardening and nursery affairs,
had, at Ludwigsburg, laid-out for himself a little Nursery. It was
managed on the same principles which he afterwards made public in his
Book, _Die Baumzucht im Grossen_ (Neustrelitz, 1795, and second
edition, Giessen, 1806); and was prospering beautifully. The Duke, who
had noticed this, signified satisfaction in the thing; and he
appointed him, in 1770, to shift to his beautiful Forest-Castle, Die
Solitüde, near Stuttgart, as overseer of all his Forest operations
there. Hereby to the active man was one of his dearest wishes
fulfilled; and a sphere of activity opened, corresponding to his
acquirements and his inclination. At Solitüde, by the Duke's order, he
laid-out a Model Nursery for all Würtemberg, which he managed with
perfect care and fidelity; and in this post he so completely satisfied
the expectations entertained of him, that his Prince by and by raised
him to the rank of Major.' He is reckoned to have raised from seeds,
and successfully planted, 60,000 trees, in discharge of this
function, which continued for the rest of his life.

'His Family, which already at Lorch, in 1766, had been increased by
the birth of a Daughter, Luise, waited but a short time in Ludwigsburg
till the Father brought them over to the new dwelling at Solitüde.
Fritz, on the removal of his Parents, was given over as boarder to his
actual Teacher, the rigorous pedant Jahn; and remained yet two years
at the Latin school in Ludwigsburg. During this time, the lively, and
perhaps also sometimes mischievous Boy, was kept in the strictest
fetters; and, by the continual admonitions, exhortations, and manually
practical corrections of Father and of Teacher, not a little held down
and kept in fear. The fact, for instance, that he liked more the
potent Bible-words and pious songs of a Luther, a Paul Gerhard, and
Gellert, than he did the frozen lifeless catechism-drill of the
Ludwigsburg Institute, gave surly strait-laced Jahn occasion to lament
from time to time to the alarmed Parents, that "their Son had no
feeling whatever for religion." In this respect, however, the
otherwise so irritable Father easily satisfied himself, not only by
his own observations of an opposite tendency, but chiefly by stricter
investigation of one little incident that was reported to him. The
teacher of religion in the Latin school, Superintendent Zilling, whose
name is yet scornfully remembered, had once, in his dull awkwardness,
introduced even Solomon's Song as an element of nurture for his class;
and was droning out, in an old-fashioned way, his interpretation of it
as symbolical of the Christian Church and its Bridegroom Christ, when
he was, on the sudden, to his no small surprise and anger, interrupted
by the audible inquiry of little Schiller, "But was this Song, then,
actually sung to the Church?" Schiller Senior took the little heretic
to task for this rash act; and got as justification the innocent
question, "Has the Church really got teeth of ivory?" The Father was
enlightened enough to take the Boy's opposition for a natural
expression of sound human sense; nay, he could scarcely forbear a
laugh; whirled swiftly round, and murmured to himself, "Occasionally
she has Wolf's teeth." And so the thing was finished.[49]

    [Footnote 49: _Saupe_, p. 18.]

'At Ludwigsburg Schiller and Christophine first saw a Theatre; where
at that time, in the sumptuous Duke's love of splendour, only pompous
operas and ballets were given. The first effect of this new enjoyment,
which Fritz and his Sister strove to repeat as often as they could,
was that at home, with little clipped and twisted paper dolls, they
set about representing scenes; and on Christophine's part it had the
more important result of awakening and nourishing, at an early age,
her æsthetic taste. Schiller considered her, ever after these youthful
sports, as a true and faithful companion in his poetic dreams and
attempts; and constantly not only told his Sister, whose silence on
such points could be perfect, of all that he secretly did in the way
of verse-making in the Karl's School,—which, as we shall see, he
entered in 1773,—but if possible brought it upon the scene with her.
Scenes from the lyrical operetta of _Semele_ were acted by Schiller
and Christophine, on those terms; which appears in a complete shape
for the first time in Schiller's _Anthology_, printed 1782.[50]

    [Footnote 50: Ibid. p. 109.]


'So soon as Friedrich had gone through the Latin school at
Ludwigsburg, which was in 1772, he was, according to the standing
regulation, to enter one of the four Lower Cloister-schools; and go
through the farther curriculum for a Würtemberg clergyman. But now
there came suddenly from the Duke to Captain Schiller an offer to take
his Son, who had been represented to him as a clever boy, into the new
Military Training-School, founded by his Highness at Solitüde, in
1771; where he would be brought up, and taken charge of, free of cost.

'In the Schiller Family this offer caused great consternation and
painful embarrassment. The Father was grieved to be obliged to
sacrifice a long-cherished paternal plan to the whim of an arbitrary
ruler; and the Son felt himself cruelly hurt to be torn away so rudely
from his hope and inclination. Accordingly, how dangerous soever for
the position of the Family a declining of the Ducal grace might seem,
the straightforward Father ventured nevertheless to lay open to the
Duke, in a clear and distinct statement, how his purpose had always
been to devote his Son, in respect both of his inclination and his
hitherto studies, to the Clerical Profession; for which in the new
Training-School he could not be prepared. The Duke showed no anger at
this step of the elder Schiller's; but was just as little of intention
to let a capable and hopeful scholar, who was also the Son of one of
his Officers and Dependents, escape him. He simply, with brevity,
repeated his wish, and required the choice of another study, in which
the Boy would have a better career and outlook than in the Theological
Department. Nill they, will they, there was nothing for the Parents
but compliance with the so plainly intimated will of this Duke, on
whom their Family's welfare so much depended.

'Accordingly, 17th January 1773, Friedrich Schiller, then in his
fourteenth year, stept over to the Military Training-School at
Solitüde.

'In September of the following year, Schiller's Parents had,
conformably to a fundamental law of the Institution, to acknowledge
and engage by a written Bond, "That their Son, in virtue of his
entrance into this Ducal Institution, did wholly devote himself to the
service of the Würtemberg Ducal House; that he, without special Ducal
permission, was not empowered to go out of it; and that he had, with
his best care, to observe not only this, but all other regulations of
the Institute." By this time, indeed directly upon signature of this
strict Bond, young Schiller had begun to study Jurisprudence;—which,
however, when next year, 1775, the Training-School, raised now to be a
"Military Academy," had been transferred to Stuttgart, he either of
his own accord, or in consequence of a discourse and interview of the
Duke with his Father, exchanged for the Study of Medicine.

'From the time when Schiller entered this "Karl's School"' (Military
Academy, in official style), 'he was nearly altogether withdrawn from
any tutelage of his Father; for it was only to Mothers, and to Sisters
still under age, that the privilege of visiting their Sons and
Brothers, and this on the Sunday only, was granted: beyond this, the
Karl's Scholars, within their monastic cells, were cut off from family
and the world, by iron-doors and sentries guarding them. This rigorous
seclusion from actual life and all its friendly impressions, still
more the spiritual constraint of the Institution, excluding every free
activity, and all will of your own, appeared to the Son in a more
hateful light than to the Father, who, himself an old soldier, found
it quite according to order that the young people should be kept in
strict military discipline and subordination. What filled the Son with
bitter discontent and indignation, and at length brought him to a kind
of poetic outburst of revolution in the _Robbers_, therein the Father
saw only a wholesome regularity, and indispensable substitute for
paternal discipline. Transient complaints of individual teachers and
superiors little disturbed the Father's mind; for, on the whole, the
official testimonies concerning his Son were steadily favourable. The
Duke too treated young Schiller, whose talents had not escaped his
sharpness of insight, with particular goodwill, nay distinction. To
this Prince, used to the accurate discernment of spiritual gifts, the
complaints of certain Teachers, that Schiller's slow progress in
Jurisprudence proceeded from want of head, were of no weight whatever;
and he answered expressly, "Leave me that one alone; he will come to
something yet!" But that Schiller gave his main strength to what in
the Karl's School was a strictly forbidden object, to poetry namely,
this I believe was entirely hidden from his Father, or appeared to
him, on occasional small indications, the less questionable, as he saw
that, in spite of this, the Marketable-Sciences were not neglected.


'At the same age, viz. about twenty-two, at which Captain Schiller had
made his first military sally into the Netherlands and the
Austrian-Succession War, his Son issued from the Karl's School, 15th
December 1780; and was immediately appointed Regimental-Doctor at
Stuttgart; with a monthly pay of twenty-three gulden' (_2l. 6s.=11s._
and a fraction per week). 'With this appointment, Schiller had, as it
were, openly altogether outgrown all special paternal guardianship or
guidance; and was, from this time, treated by his Father as come to
majority, and standing on his own feet. If he came out, as frequently
happened, with a comrade to Solitüde, he was heartily welcome there,
and the Father's looks often dwelt on him with visible satisfaction.
If in the conscientious and rigorous old man, with his instructive and
serious experiences of life, there might yet various anxieties and
doubts arise when he heard of the exuberantly genial ways of his
hopeful Son at Stuttgart, he still looked upon him with joyful pride,
in remarking how those so promising Karl's Scholars, who had entered
into the world along with him, recognised his superiority of mind, and
willingly ranked themselves under him. Nor could it be otherwise than
highly gratifying to his old heart to remark always with what deep
love the gifted Son constantly regarded his Parents and
Sisters.'[51]—Of Schiller's first procedures in Stuttgart, after his
emancipation from the Karl's School, and appointment as
Regimental-Surgeon, or rather of his general behaviour and way of life
there, which are said to have been somewhat wild, genially, or even
_un_genially extravagant, and to have involved him in many paltry
entanglements of debts, as one bad consequence,—there will be some
notice in the next Section, headed "_The Mother_." His Regimental
Doctorship, and stay in Stuttgart altogether, lasted twenty-two
months.

    [Footnote 51: _Saupe_, p. 25.]

This is Schiller's bodily appearance, as it first presented itself to
an old School-fellow, who, after an interval of eighteen months, saw
him again on Parade, as Doctor of the Regiment Augé,—more to his
astonishment than admiration.

'Crushed into the stiff tasteless Old-Prussian Uniform; on each of
his temples three stiff rolls as if done with gypsum; the tiny
three-cocked hat scarcely covering his crown; so much the thicker the
long pigtail, with the slender neck crammed into a very narrow
horsehair stock; the felt put under the white spatterdashes, smirched
by traces of shoe-blacking, giving to the legs a bigger diameter than
the thighs, squeezed into their tight-fitting breeches, could boast
of. Hardly, or not at all, able to bend his knees, the whole man moved
like a stork.'

'The Poet's form,' says this Witness elsewhere, a bit of a dilettante
artist it seems, 'had somewhat the following appearance: Long straight
stature; long in the legs, long in the arms; pigeon-breasted; his neck
very long; something rigorously stiff; in gait and carriage not the
smallest elegance. His brow was broad; the nose thin, cartilaginous,
white of colour, springing out at a notably sharp angle, much bent,—a
parrot-nose, and very sharp in the point (according to Dannecker the
Sculptor, Schiller, who took snuff, had pulled it out so with his
hand). The red eyebrows, over the deep-lying dark-gray eyes, were bent
too close together at the nose, which gave him a pathetic expression.
The lips were thin, energetic; the under-lip protruding, as if pushed
forward by the inspiration of his feelings; the chin strong; cheeks
pale, rather hollow than full, freckly; the eyelids a little inflamed;
the bushy hair of the head dark red; the whole head rather ghostlike
than manlike, but impressive even in repose, and all expression when
Schiller declaimed. Neither the features nor the somewhat shrieky
voice could he subdue. Dannecker,' adds the satirical Witness, 'has
unsurpassably cut this head in marble for us.'[52]

    [Footnote 52: Schwab, _Schiller's Leben_ (Stuttgart, 1841),
    p. 68.]

'The publication of the _Robbers_' (Autumn 1781),—'which Schiller,
driven on by rage and desperation, had composed in the fetters of the
Karl's School,—raised him on the sudden to a phenomenon on which all
eyes in Stuttgart were turned. What, with careless exaggeration, he
had said to a friend some months before, on setting forth his _Elegy
on the Death of a Young Man_, "The thing has made my name hereabouts
more famous than twenty years of practice would have done; but it is a
name like that of him who burnt the Temple of Ephesus: God be merciful
to me a sinner!" might now with all seriousness be said of the
impression his _Robbers_ made on the harmless townsfolk of Stuttgart.
But how did Father Schiller at first take up this eccentric product of
his Son, which openly declared war on all existing order? Astonishment
and terror, anger and detestation, boundless anxiety, with touches of
admiration and pride, stormed alternately through the solid honest
man's paternal breast, as he saw the frank picture of a Prodigal Son
rolled out before him; and had to gaze into the most revolting deeps
of the passions and vices. Yet he felt himself irresistibly dragged
along by the uncommon vivacity of action in this wild Drama; and at
the same time powerfully attracted by the depth, the tenderness and
fulness of true feeling manifested in it: so that, at last, out of
those contradictory emotions of his, a clear admiration and pride for
his Son's bold and rich spirit maintained the upper hand. By
Schiller's friends and closer connections, especially by his Mother
and Sisters, all pains were of course taken to keep up this favourable
humour in the Father, and carefully to hide from him all
disadvantageous or disquieting tidings about the Piece and its
consequences and practical effects. Thus he heard sufficiently of the
huge excitement and noise which the _Robbers_ was making all over
Germany, and of the seductive approval which came streaming-in on the
youthful Poet, even out of distant provinces; but heard nothing either
of the Duke's offended and angry feelings over the _Robbers_, a
production horrible to him; nor of the Son's secret journeys to
Mannheim, and the next consequences of these' (his brief arrest,
namely), 'nor of the rumour circulating in spiteful quarters, that
this young Doctor was neglecting his own province of medicine, and
meaning to become a play-actor. How could the old man, in these
circumstances, have a thought that the _Robbers_ would be the loss of
Family and Country to his poor Fritz! And yet so it proved.

'Excited by all kinds of messagings, informings and insinuations, the
imperious Prince, in spite of his secret pleasure in this sudden
renown of his Pupil, could in no wise be persuaded to revoke or soften
his harsh Order, which "forbade the Poet henceforth, under pain of
military imprisonment, either to write anything poetic or to
communicate the same to foreign persons"' (non-Würtembergers). In vain
were all attempts of Schiller to obtain his discharge from Military
Service and his "_Entschwäbung_" (Un-_Swabian_-ing); such petitions
had only for result new sharper rebukes and hard threatening
expressions, to which the mournful fate of Schubart in the Castle of
Hohenasperg[53] formed a too questionable background.

    [Footnote 53: See Appendix ii. _infrà_.]

'Thus by degrees there ripened in the strong soul of this young man
the determination to burst these laming fetters of his genius, by
flight from despotic Würtemberg altogether; and, in some friendlier
country, gain for himself the freedom without which his spiritual
development was impossible. Only to one friend, who clung to him with
almost enthusiastic devotion, did he impart his secret. This was
Johann Andreas Streicher of Stuttgart, who intended to go next year to
Hamburg, and there, under Bach's guidance, study music; but declared
himself ready to accompany Schiller even now, since it had become
urgent. Except to this trustworthy friend, Schiller had imparted his
plan to his elder Sister Christophine alone; and she had not only
approved of the sad measure, but had undertaken also to prepare their
Mother for it. The Father naturally had to be kept dark on the
subject; all the more that, if need were, he might pledge his word as
an Officer that he had known nothing of his Son's intention.

'Schiller went out, in company of Madam Meier, Wife of the _Regisseur_
(Theatre-manager) at Mannheim, a native of Stuttgart, and of this
Streicher, one last time to Solitüde, to have one more look of it and
of his dear ones there; especially to soothe and calm his Mother. On
the way, which they travelled on foot, Schiller kept up a continual
discourse about the Mannheim Theatre and its interests, without
betraying his secret to Madam Meier. The Father received these welcome
guests with frank joy; and gave to the conversation, which at first
hung rather embarrassed, a happy turn by getting into talk, with
cheery circumstantiality, of the grand Pleasure-Hunt, of the Play and
of the Illumination, which were to take place, in honour of the
Russian Grand-Prince, afterwards Czar Paul, and his Bride, the Duke of
Würtemberg's Niece, on the 17th September instant, at Solitüde. Far
other was the poor Mother's mood; she was on the edge of betraying
herself, in seeing the sad eyes of her Son; and she could not speak
for emotion. The presence of Streicher and a Stranger with whom the
elder Schiller was carrying on a, to him, attractive conversation,
permitted Mother and Son to withdraw speedily and unremarked. Not till
after an hour did Schiller reappear, alone now, to the company;
neither this circumstance, nor Schiller's expression of face, yet
striking the preoccupied Father. Though to the observant Streicher,
his wet red eyes betrayed how painful the parting must have been.
Gradually on the way back to Stuttgart, amid general talk of the
three, Schiller regained some composure and cheerfulness.

'The bitter sorrow of this hour of parting renewed itself yet once in
Schiller's soul, when on the flight itself, about midnight of the
17th. In effect it was these same festivities that had decided the
young men's time and scheme of journey; and under the sheltering noise
of which their plan was luckily executed. Towards midnight of the
above-said day, when the Castle of Solitüde, with all its
surroundings, was beaming in full splendour of illumination, there
rolled past, almost rubbing elbows with it, the humble Schiller
Vehicle from Stuttgart, which bore the fugitive Poet with his true
Friend on their way. Schiller pointed out to his Friend the spot where
his Parents lived, and, with a half-suppressed sigh and a woe-begone
exclamation, "Oh, my Mother!" sank back upon his seat.'

Mannheim, the goal of their flight, is in Baden-Baden, under another
Sovereign; lies about 80 miles to N.W. of Stuttgart. Their dreary
journey lasted two days,—arrival not till deep in the night of the
second. Their united stock of money amounted to 51 gulden,—Schiller
23, Streicher 28,—5_l._ 6_s._ in all. Streicher subsequently squeezed
out from home 3_l._ more; and that appears to have been their
sum-total.[54]

    [Footnote 54: Schwab, _Schiller's Leben_.]

'Great was the astonishment and great the wrath of the Father, when at
length he understood that his Son had broken the paternal, written
Bond, and withdrawn himself by flight from the Ducal Service. He
dreaded, not without reason, the heavy consequences of so rash an
action; and a thousand gnawing anxieties bestormed the heart of the
worthy man. Might not the Duke, in the first outburst of his
indignation, overwhelm forever the happiness of their Family, which
there was nothing but the income of his post that supported in humble
competence? And what a lot stood before the Son himself, if he were
caught in flight, or if, what was nowise improbable, his delivery back
was required and obtained? Sure enough, there had risen on the
otherwise serene heaven of the Schiller Family a threatening
thundercloud; which, any day, might discharge itself, bringing
destruction on their heads.

'The thing, however, passed away in merciful peace. Whatever may have
been the Duke's motives or inducements to let the matter, in spite of
his embitterment, silently drop,—whether his bright festal humour in
presence of those high kinsfolk, or the noble frankness with which the
Runaway first of all, to save his Family, had in a respectful missive,
dated from Mannheim, explained to his Princely Educator the necessity
of his flight; or the expectation, flattering to the Ducal pride, that
the future greatness of his Pupil might be a source of glory to him
and his Karl's-School: enough, on his part, there took place no kind
of hostile step against the Poet, and still less against his Family.
Captain Schiller again breathed freer when he saw himself delivered
from his most crushing anxiety on this side; but there remained still
a sharp sting in his wounded heart. His military feeling of honour was
painfully hurt by the thought that they might now look upon his Son
as a deserter; and withal the future of this voluntary Exile appeared
so uncertain and wavering, that it did not offer the smallest
justification of so great a risk. By degrees, however, instead of
anger and blame there rose in him the most sympathetic anxiety for the
poor Son's fate; to whom, from want of a free, firm and assuring
position in life, all manner of contradictions and difficulties must
needs arise.

'And Schiller did actually, at Mannheim, find himself in a bad and
difficult position. The Superintendent of the celebrated Mannheim
Theatre, the greatly powerful Imperial Baron von Dalberg, with whom
Schiller, since the bringing out of his _Robbers_, had stood in lively
correspondence, drew back when Schiller himself was here; and kept the
Poet at a distance as a political Fugitive; leaving him to shift as he
could. In vain had Schiller explained to him, in manly open words, his
economic straits, and begged from him a loan of 300 gulden' (30_l._)
'to pay therewith a pressing debt in Stuttgart, and drag himself
along, and try to get started in the world. Dalberg returned the
_Fiesco_, Schiller's new republican Tragedy, which had been sent him,
with the declaration that he could advance no money on the _Fiesco_ in
its present form; the Piece must first be remodelled to suit the
stage. During this remodelling, which the otherwise so passionately
vivid and hopeful Poet began without murmur, he lived entirely on the
journey-money that had been saved up by the faithful Streicher, who
would on no account leave him.'

What became of this good Streicher afterwards, I have inquired
considerably, but with very little success. On the total exhaustion of
their finance, Schiller and he had to part company,—Schiller for
refuge at Bauerbach, as will soon be seen. Streicher continued about
Mannheim, not as Schiller's fellow-lodger any longer, but always at
his hand, passionately eager to serve him with all his faculties by
night or by day; and they did not part finally till Schiller quitted
Mannheim, two years hence, for Leipzig. After which they never met
again. Streicher, in Mannheim, seems to have subsisted by his musical
talent; and to have had some connection with the theatre in that
capacity. In similar dim positions, with what shiftings, adventures
and vicissitudes is quite unknown to me, he long survived Schiller,
and, at least fifty years after these Mannheim struggles, wrote some
Book of bright and loving Reminiscences concerning him, the exact
_title_ of which I can nowhere find,—though passages from it are
copied by Biographer Schwab here and there. His affection for Schiller
is of the nature of worship rather, of constant adoration; and
probably formed the sunshine to poor Streicher's life. Schiller
nowhere mentions him in his writings or correspondences, after that
final parting at Mannheim, 1784.

'The necessities of the two Friends reached by and by such a height
that Schiller had to sell his Watch, although they had already for
several weeks been subsisting on loans. To all which now came
Dalberg's overwhelming message, that even this Remodelling of _Fiesco_
could not be serviceable; and of course could not have money paid for
it. Schiller thereupon, at once resolute what to do, walked off to the
worthy Bookseller Schwann,' with whom he was already on a trustful,
even grateful footing; 'and sold him his MS. at one louis-d'or the
sheet. At the same time, too, he recognised the necessity of quitting
Mannheim, and finding a new asylum in Saxony; seeing, withal, his
farther continuance here might be as dangerous for him as it was a
matter of apprehension to his Friends. For although the Duke of
Würtemberg undertook nothing that was hostile to him, and his Family
at Solitüde experienced no annoyance, yet the impetuous Prince might,
any day, take it into his head to have him put in prison. In the ever
livelier desire after a securely-hidden place of abode, where he might
execute in peace his poetic plans and enterprises, Schiller suddenly
took up an earlier purpose, which had been laid aside.

'In the Stuttgart time he had known Wilhelm von Wolzogen, by and by
his Brother-in-law' (they married two sisters), 'who, with three
Brothers, had been bred in the Karl's School. The two had, indeed,
during the academic time, Wolzogen being some years younger, had few
points of contact, and were not intimate. But now on the appearance of
the _Robbers_, Wolzogen took a cordial affection and enthusiasm for
the widely-celebrated Poet, and on closer acquaintance with Schiller,
also affected his Mother,—who, as Widow, for her three Sons' sake,
lived frequently at Stuttgart,—with a deep and zealous sympathy in
Schiller's fate. Schiller had, with a truly childlike trust, confided
himself to this excellent Lady, and after his Arrest,—a bitter
consequence of his secret visit to Mannheim,—had confessed to her his
purpose to run away. Frau von Wolzogen, who feared no sacrifice when
the question was of the fortune of her friends, had then offered him
her family mansion, Bauerbach, near Meiningen, as a place of refuge.
Schiller's notion had also been to fly thither; though, deceived by
false hopes, he changed that purpose. He now wrote at once to
Stuttgart, and announced to Frau von Wolzogen his wish to withdraw
for 'some time to Bauerbach.' To which, as is well known, the assent
was ready and zealous.

'Before quitting Mannheim, Schiller could not resist the longing wish,
to see his Parents yet one time; and wrote to them accordingly, 19
Nov. 1782, in visible haste and excitement:

     "Best Parents,—As I am at present in Mannheim, and am to go
     away forever in five days, I wished to prepare for myself
     and you the one remaining satisfaction of seeing one another
     once more. Today is the 19th, on the 21st you receive this
     Letter;—if you therefore, without the least delay (that is
     indispensable), leave Stuttgart, you might on the 22d be at
     the Post-house in Bretten, which is about half way from
     Mannheim, and where you would find me. I think it would be
     best if Mamma and Christophine, under the pretext of going
     to Ludwigsburg to Wolzogen, should make this journey. Take
     the Frau Vischerin" (a Captain's Widow, sung of under the
     name of "Laura," with whom he had last lodged in Stuttgart)
     "and also Wolzogen with you, as I wish to speak with both of
     them, perhaps for the last time, Wolzogen excepted. I will
     give you a Karolin as journey-money; but not till I see you
     at Bretten. By the prompt fulfilment of my Prayer, I will
     perceive whether is still dear to you,

     Your ever-grateful Son,

     SCHILLER."'


From Mannheim, Bauerbach or Meiningen lies about 120 miles N.E.; and
from Stuttgart almost as far straight North. Bretten, 'a little town
on a hill, celebrated as Melancthon's Birthplace, his Father's house
still standing there,' is some 35 miles S.E. of Mannheim, and as far
N.W. from Stuttgart. From Mannheim, in this wise, it is not at all on
the road to Meiningen, though only a few miles more remote in direct
distance. Schiller's purpose had been, after this affectionate
interview, to turn at once leftward and make for Meiningen, by what
road or roads there were from Bretten thither. Schiller's poor guinea
(Karolin) was not needed on this occasion; the rendezvous at Bretten
being found impossible or inexpedient at the Stuttgart end of it. Our
Author continues:

'Although this meeting, on which the loving Son and Brother wished to
spend his last penny, did not take effect; yet this mournful longing
of his, evident from the Letter, and from the purpose itself, must
have touched the Father's heart with somewhat of a reconciliatory
feeling. Schiller Senior writes accordingly, 8 December 1782, the very
day after his Son's arrival at Bauerbach, to Bookseller Schwan in
Mannheim: "I have not noticed here the smallest symptom that his Ducal
Durchlaucht has any thought of having my Son searched for and
prosecuted; and indeed his post here has long since been filled up; a
circumstance which visibly indicates that they can do without him."
This Letter to Schwan concludes in the following words, which are
characteristic: "He (my Son) has, by his untimely withdrawal, against
the advice of his true friends, plunged himself into this difficult
position; and it will profit him in soul and body that he feel the
pain of it, and thereby become wiser for the future. I am not afraid,
however, that want of actual necessaries should come upon him, for in
such case I should feel myself obliged to lend a hand."

'And in effect Schiller, during his abode in Bauerbach, did once or
twice receive little subventions of money from his Father, although
never without earnest and not superfluous admonition to become more
frugal, and take better heed in laying-out his money. For economics
were, by Schiller's own confession, "not at all his talent; it cost
him less," he says, "to execute a whole conspiracy and tragedy-plot
than to adjust his scheme of housekeeping."—At this time it was never
the Father himself who wrote to Schiller, but always Christophine, by
his commission; and on the other hand, Schiller too never risked
writing directly to his Father, as he felt but too well how little on
his part had been done to justify the flight in his Father's eyes. He
writes accordingly, likewise on that 8th December 1782, to his
Publisher Schwan: "If you can accelerate the printing of my _Fiesco_,
you will very much oblige me by doing so. You know that nothing but
the prohibition to become an Author drove me out of the Würtemberg
service. If I now, on this side, don't soon let my native country hear
of me, they will say the step I took was useless and without real
motive."

'In Bauerbach Schiller lived about eight months, under the name of
Doctor Ritter, unknown to everybody; and only the Court-Librarian,
Reinwald, in Meiningen, afterwards his Brother-in-law,' as we shall
see, 'in whom he found a solid friend, had been trusted by Frau von
Wolzogen with the name and true situation of the mysterious stranger.
The most of Schiller's time here was spent in dramatic labours,
enterprises and dreams. The outcome of all these were his third civic
Tragedy, _Louise Miller_, or _Kabale und Liebe_, which was finished in
February 1783, and the settling on _Don Carlos_ as a new tragic
subject. Many reasons, meanwhile, in the last eight months, had been
pushing Schiller into the determination to leave his asylum, and anew
turn towards Mannheim. A passionate, though unreturned attachment to
Charlotte von Wolzogen at that time filled Schiller's soul; and his
removal therefore must both to Frau von Wolzogen for her own and her
Daughter's sake, and to Schiller himself, have appeared desirable. It
was Frau von Wolzogen's own advice to him to go for a short time to
Mannheim, there to get into clear terms with Dalberg, who had again
begun corresponding with him: so, in July 1783, Schiller bade his
solitary, and, by this time dear and loved, abode a hasty adieu; and,
much contrary to fond hope, never saw it again.

'In September 1783, his bargainings with Dalberg had come to this
result, That for a fixed salary of 500 gulden,' 50_l._ a year, 'he was
appointed Theatre-Poet here. By this means, to use his own words, the
way was open to him gradually to pay-off a considerable portion of his
debts, and so escape from the drowning whirlpool, and remain an honest
man. Now, furthermore, he thought it permissible to show himself to
his Family with a certain composure of attitude; and opened
straightway a regular correspondence with his Parents again. And
Captain Schiller volunteers a stiff-starched but true and earnest
Letter to the Baron Dalberg himself; most humbly thanking that
gracious nobleman for such beneficent favour shown my poor Son; and
begs withal the far stranger favour that Dalberg would have the
extreme goodness to appoint the then inexperienced young man some true
friend who might help him to arrange his housekeeping, and in moral
things might be his Mentor!

'Soon after this, an intermittent fever threw the Poet on a sick-bed;
and lamed him above five weeks from all capacity of mental labour. Not
even in June of the following year was the disease quite overcome.
Visits, acquaintanceships, all kinds of amusements, and more than
anything else, over-hasty attempts at work, delayed his cure;—so that
his Father had a perfect right to bring before him his, Schiller's,
own blame in the matter: "That thou"' (_Er_, He; the then usual tone
towards servants and children) '"for eight whole months hast weltered
about with intermittent fever, surely that does little honour to thy
study of medicine; and thou wouldst, with great justice, have poured
the bitterest reproaches on any Patient who, in a case like thine, had
not held himself to the diet and regimen that were prescribed to
him!"—

'In Autumn 1783, there seized Schiller so irresistible a longing to
see his kindred again, that he repeatedly expressed to his Father the
great wish he had for a meeting, either at Mannheim or some other
place outside the Würtemberg borders. To the fulfilment of this scheme
there were, however, in the sickness which his Mother had fallen into,
in the fettered position of the Father, and in the rigorously frugal
economies of the Family, insuperable obstacles. Whereupon his Father
made him the proposal, that he, Friedrich, either himself or by him,
the Captain, should apply to the Duke Karl's Serene Highness; and
petition him for permission to return to his country and kindred. As
Schiller to this answered nothing, Christophine time after time
pressingly repeated to him the Father's proposal. At the risk of again
angering his Father, Schiller gave, in his answer to Christophine, of
1st January 1784, the decisive declaration that his honour would
frightfully suffer if he, without connection with any other Prince,
without character and lasting means of support, after his forceful
withdrawal from Würtemberg, should again show face there. "That my
Father," adds he, as ground of this refusal, "give his name to such a
petition can help me little; for every one will at once, so long as I
cannot make it plain that I no longer need the Duke of Würtemberg,
suspect in a return, obtained on petition (by myself or by another is
all one), a desire to get settled in Würtemberg again. Sister,
consider with serious attention these circumstances; for the happiness
of thy Brother may, by rash haste in this matter, suffer an incurable
wound. Great part of Germany knows of my relations to your Duke and of
the way I left him. People have interested themselves for me at the
expense of this Duke; how horribly would the respect of the public
(and on this depends my whole future fortune), how miserably would my
own honour sink by the suspicion that I had sought this return; that
my circumstances had forced me to repent my former step; that the
support which I had sought in the wide world had misgone, and I was
seeking it anew in my Birthland! The open manlike boldness, which I
showed in my forceful withdrawal, would get the name of a childish
outburst of mutiny, a stupid bit of impotent bluster, if I do not make
it good. Love for my dear ones, longing for my Fatherland might
perhaps excuse me in the heart of this or the other candid man; but
the world makes no account of all that.

"For the rest, if my Father is determined to do it, I cannot hinder
him; only this I say to thee, Sister, that in case even the Duke would
permit it, I will not show myself on Würtemberg ground till I have at
least a character (for which object I shall zealously labour); and
that in case the Duke refuses, I shall not be able to restrain myself
from avenging the affront thereby put upon me by open fooleries
(_sottisen_) and expressions of myself in print."

'The intended Petition to the Duke was not drawn out,—and Father
Schiller overcame his anger on the matter; as, on closer consideration
of the Son's aversion to this step, he could not wholly disapprove
him. Yet he did not hide from Schiller Junior the steadfast wish that
he would in some way or other try to draw near to the Duke; at any
rate he, Father Schiller, "hoped to God that their parting would not
last forever; and that, in fine, he might still live to see his only
Son near him again."

'In Mannheim Schiller's financial position, in spite of his earnest
purpose to manage wisely, grew by degrees worse rather than better.
Owing to the many little expenses laid upon him by his connections in
society, his income would not suffice; and the cash-box was not seldom
run so low that he had not wherewithal to support himself next day. Of
assistance from home, with the rigorous income of his Father, which
scarcely amounted to 40_l._ a year, there could nothing be expected;
and over and above, the Father himself had, in this respect, very
clearly spoken his mind. "Parents and Sisters," said Schiller Senior,
"have as just a right as they have a confidence, in cases of
necessity, to expect help and support from a Son." To fill to
overflowing the measure of the Poet's economical distress, there now
stept forth suddenly some secret creditors of his in Stuttgart,
demanding immediate payment. Whereupon, in quick succession, there
came to Captain Schiller, to his great terror, two drafts from the
Son, requiring of him, the one 10_l._, the other 5_l._ The Captain,
after stern reflection, determined at last to be good for both
demands; but wrote to the Son that he only did so in order that his,
the Son's, labour might not be disturbed; and in the confident
anticipation that the Son, regardful of his poor Sisters and their bit
of portion, would not leave him in the lurch.

'But Schiller, whom still other debts in Stuttgart, unknown to his
Father, were pressing hard, could only repay the smaller of these
drafts; and thus the worthy Father saw himself compelled to pay the
larger, the 10_l._, out of the savings he had made for outfit of his
Daughters. Whereupon, as was not undeserved, he took his Son tightly
to task, and wrote to him: "As long as thou, my Son, shalt make thy
reckoning on resources that are still to come, and therefore are still
subject to chance and mischance, so long wilt thou continue in thy
mess of embarrassments. Furthermore, as long as thou thinkest, This
gulden or batzen (shilling or farthing) can't help me to get over it;
so long will thy debts become never the smaller: and, what were a
sorrow to me, thou wilt not be able, after a heavy labour of head got
done, to recreate thyself in the society of other good men. But,
withal, to make recreation-days of that kind more numerous than
work-days, that surely will not turn out well. Best Son, thy abode in
Bauerbach has been of that latter kind. _Hinc illæ lacrymæ!_ For these
thou art now suffering, and that not by accident. The embarrassment
thou now art in is verily a work of Higher Providence, to lead thee
off from too great trust in thy own force; to make thee soft and
contrite; that, laying aside all self-will, thou mayest follow more
the counsel of thy Father and other true friends; must meet every one
with due respectful courtesy and readiness to oblige; and become ever
more convinced that our most gracious Duke, in his restrictive plans,
meant well with thee; and that altogether thy position and outlooks
had now been better, hadst thou complied, and continued in thy
country. Many a time I find thou hast wayward humours, that make thee
to thy truest friend scarcely endurable; stiff ways which repel the
best-wishing man;—for example, when I sent thee my excellent old
friend Herr Amtmann Cramer from Altdorf near Speier, who had come to
Herr Hofrath Schwan's in the end of last year, thy reception of him
was altogether dry and stingy, though by my Letter I had given thee so
good an opportunity to seek the friendship of this honourable,
rational and influential man (who has no children of his own), and to
try whether he might not have been of help to thee. Thou wilt do well,
I think, to try and make good this fault on another opportunity."

'At the same time the old man repeatedly pressed him to return to
Medicine, and graduate in Heidelberg: "a theatre-poet in Germany," he
signified, "was but a small light; and as he, the Son, with all his
Three Pieces, had not made any footing for himself, what was to be
expected of the future ones, which might not be of equal strength!
Doctorship, on the other hand, would give him a sure income and
reputation as well."—Schiller himself was actually determined to
follow his Father's advice as to Medicine; but this project and others
of the same, which were sometimes taken up, went to nothing, now and
always, for want of money to begin with.

'Amid these old tormenting hindrances, affronts and embarrassments,
Schiller had also many joyful experiences, to which even his Father
was not wholly indifferent. To these belong, besides many others, his
reception into the _Kurpfälzische Deutsche Gesellschaft_', German
Society of the Electoral Palatinate, 'of this year; which he himself
calls a great step for his establishment; as well as the stormy
applause with which his third Piece, _Kabale und Liebe_, came upon the
boards, in March following. His Father acknowledged receipt of this
latter Work with the words, "That I possess a copy of thy new Tragedy
I tell nobody; for I dare not, on account of certain passages, let any
one notice that it has pleased me." Nevertheless the Piece, as already
the _Robbers_ had done, came in Stuttgart also to the acting point;
and was received with loud approval. Schiller now, with new pleasure
and inspiration, laid hands on his _Don Carlos_; and with the happy
progress of this Work, there began for him a more confident temper of
mind, and a clearing-up of horizon and outlook; which henceforth only
transiently yielded to embarrassments in his outer life.

'Soon after this, however, there came upon him an unexpected event so
suddenly and painfully that, in his extremest excitement and misery,
he fairly hurt the feelings of his Father by unreasonable requirements
of him, and reproaches on their being refused. A principal Stuttgart
Cautioner of his, incessantly pressed upon by the stringent measures
of the creditors there, had fairly run off, saved himself by flight,
from Stuttgart, and been seized in Mannheim, and there put in jail.
Were not this Prisoner at once got out, Schiller's honour and peace of
conscience were at stake. And so, before his (properly Streicher's)
Landlord, the Architect Hölzel, could get together the required 300
gulden, and save this unlucky friend, the half-desperate Poet had
written home, and begged from his Father that indispensable sum. And
on the Father's clear refusal, had answered him with a very unfilial
Letter. Not till after the lapse of seven weeks, did the Father reply;
in a Letter, which, as a luminous memorial of his faithful honest
father-heart and of his considerate just character as a man, deserves
insertion here:

"Very unwilling," writes he, "am I to proceed to the answering of thy
last Letter, 21st November of the past year; which I could rather wish
never to have read than now to taste again the bitterness contained
there. Not enough that thou, in the beginning of the said Letter, very
undeservedly reproachest me, as if I could and should have raised the
300 gulden for thee,—thou continuest to blame me, in a very painful
way, for my inquiries about thee on this occasion. Dear Son, the
relation between a good Father and his Son fallen into such a strait,
who, although gifted with many faculties of mind, is still, in all
that belongs to true greatness and contentment, much mistaken and
astray, can never justify the Son in taking up as an injury what the
Father has said out of love, out of consideration and experience of
his own, and meant only for his Son's good. As to what concerns those
300 gulden, every one, alas, who knows my position here, knows that it
cannot be possible for me to have even 50 gulden, not to speak of 300,
before me in store; and that I should borrow such a sum, to the still
farther disadvantage of my other children, for a Son, who of the much
that he has promised me has been able to perform so little,—there,
for certain, were I an unjust Father." Farther on, the old man takes
him up on another side, a private family affair. Schiller had,
directly and through others, in reference to the prospect of a
marriage between his elder Sister Christophine and his friend Reinwald
the Court Librarian of Meiningen, expressed himself in a doubting
manner, and thereby delayed the settlement of this affair. In regard
to which his Father tells him:

"And now I have something to remark in respect of thy Sister. As thou,
my Son, partly straight out, and partly through Frau von Kalb, hast
pictured Reinwald in a way to deter both me and thy Sister in
counselling and negotiating in the way we intended, the affair seems
to have become quite retrograde: for Reinwald, these two months past,
has not written a word more. Whether thou, my Son, didst well to
hinder a match not unsuitable for the age, and the narrow pecuniary
circumstances of thy Sister, God, who sees into futurity, knows. As I
am now sixty-one years of age, and can leave little fortune when I
die; and as thou, my Son, how happily soever thy hopes be fulfilled,
wilt yet have to struggle, years long, to get out of these present
embarrassments, and arrange thyself suitably; and as, after that, thy
own probable marriage will always require thee to have more thy own
advantages in view, than to be able to trouble thyself much about
those of thy Sisters;—it would not, all things considered, have been
ill if Christophine had got a settlement. She would quite certainly,
with her apparent regard for Reinwald, have been able to fit herself
into his ways and him; all the better as she, God be thanked, is not
yet smit with ambition, and the wish for great things, and can suit
herself to all conditions."

The Reinwald marriage did take place by and by, in spite of Schiller
Junior's doubts; and had not Christophine been the paragon of Wives,
might have ended very ill for all parties.

'After these incidents, Schiller bent his whole strength to disengage
himself from the crushing burden of his debts, and to attain the goal
marked out for him by his Parents' wishes,—an enduring settlement and
steady way of life. Two things essentially contributed to enliven his
activity, and brighten his prospects into the future. One was, the
original beginning, which falls in next June 1784, of his friendly
intimacy with the excellent Körner; in whom he was to find not only
the first founder of his outer fortune in life, but also a kindred
spirit, and cordial friend such as he had never before had. The second
was, that he made, what shaped his future lot, acquaintance with Duke
Karl August of Weimar; who, after hearing him read the first act of
_Don Carlos_ at the Court of Darmstadt, had a long conversation with
the Poet, and officially, in consequence of the same, bestowed on him
the title of Rath. This new relation to a noble German Prince gave him
a certain standing-ground for the future; and at the same time
improved his present condition, by completely securing him in respect
of any risk from Würtemberg. The now Schiller, as Court-Counsellor
(_Hofrath_) to the Duke of Weimar; distinguished in this way by a
Prince, who was acquainted with the Muses, and accustomed only to what
was excellent,—stept forth in much freer attitude, secure of his
position and himself, than the poor fugitive under ban of law had
done.

'Out of this, however, and the fact resulting from it, that he now
assumed a more decisive form of speech in the Periodical "_Thalia_"
founded by him, and therein spared the players as little as the
public, there grew for him so many and such irritating brabbles and
annoyances that he determined to quit his connection with the Theatre,
leave Mannheim altogether; and, at Leipzig with his new title of Rath,
to begin a new honourable career. So soon as the necessary moneys and
advices from his friend' (Körner) had arrived, he repaired thither,
end of March 1785; and remained there all the summer. In October of
the same year, he followed his friend Körner to Dresden; and found in
the family of this just-minded, clear-seeing man the purest and
warmest sympathy for himself and his fortunes. The year 1787 led him
at last to Weimar. But here too he had still long to struggle, under
the pressure of poverty and want of many things, while the world, in
ever-increasing admiration, was resounding with his name, till, in
1789, his longing for a civic existence, and therewith the intensest
wish of his Parents, was fulfilled.

'Inexpressible was the joy of the now elderly Father to see his
deeply-beloved Son, after so many roamings, mischances and battles, at
last settled as Professor in Jena; and soon thereafter, at the side of
an excellent Wife, happy at a hearth of his own. The economic
circumstances of the Son were now also shaped to the Father's
satisfaction. If his College salary was small, his literary labours,
added thereto, yielded him a sufficient income; his Wife moreover had
come to him quite fitted out, and her Mother had given all that
belongs to a household. "Our economical adjustment," writes Schiller
to his Father, some weeks after their marriage, "has fallen out,
beyond all my wishes, well; and the order, the dignity which I see
around me here serves greatly to exhilarate my mind. Could you but for
a moment get to me, you would rejoice at the happiness of your Son."

'Well satisfied and joyful of heart, from this time, the Father's eye
followed his Son's career of greatness and renown upon which the
admired Poet every year stepped onwards, powerfuler, and richer in
results, without ever, even transiently, becoming strange to his
Father's house and his kindred there. Quite otherwise, all letters of
the Son to Father and Mother bear the evident stamp of true-hearted,
grateful and pious filial love. He took, throughout, the heartiest
share in all, even the smallest, events that befell in his Father's
house; and in return communicated to his loved ones all of his own
history that could soothe and gratify them. Of this the following
Letter, written by him, 26th October 1791, on receipt of a case of
wine sent from home, furnishes a convincing proof:

     "Dearest Father,—I have just returned with my dear Lotte
     from Rudolstadt" (her native place), "where I was passing
     part of my holidays; and find your Letter. Thousand thanks
     for the thrice-welcome news you give me there, of the
     improving health of our dear Mother, and of the general
     welfare of you all. The conviction that it goes well with
     you, and that none of my dear loved ones is suffering,
     heightens for me the happiness which I enjoy here at the
     side of my dear Lotte.

     You are careful, even at this great distance, for your
     children, and gladden our little household with gifts.
     Heartiest thanks from us both for the Wine you have sent;
     and with the earliest carriage-post the Reinwalds shall have
     their share. Day after tomorrow we will celebrate your
     Birthday as if you were present, and with our whole heart
     drink your health.

     Here I send you a little production of my pen, which may
     perhaps give pleasure to my dear Mother and Sisters; for it
     should be at least written for ladies. In the year 1790
     Wieland edited the _Historical Calendar_, and in this of
     1791 and in the 1792 that will follow, I have undertaken the
     task. Insignificant as a _Calendar_ seems to be, it is that
     kind of book which the Publishers can circulate the most
     extensively, and which accordingly brings them the best
     payment. To the Authors also they can, accordingly, offer
     much more. For this Essay on the _Thirty-Years War_ they
     have given me 80 Louis-d'or, and I have in the middle of my
     Lectures written it in four weeks. Print, copperplates,
     binding, Author's honorarium cost the Publisher 4,500
     _reichsthaler_ (675_l._), and he counts on a sale of 7,000
     copies or more.

     "_28th._ Today," so he continues, after some remarks on a
     good old friend of his Father's, written after
     interruption,—"Today is your Birthday, dearest Father,
     which we both celebrate with a pious joy that Heaven has
     still preserved you sound and happy for us thus far. May
     Heaven still watch over your dear life and your health, and
     preserve your days to the latest age, that so your grateful
     Son may be able to spread, with all the power he has, joy
     and contentment over the evening of your life, and pay the
     debts of filial duty to you!

     "Farewell, my dearest Father; loving kisses to our dearest
     Mother and my dear Sisters. We will soon write again.

     "The Wine has arrived in good condition; once more receive
     our hearty thanks.—Your grateful and obedient Son

     "FRIEDRICH."


'In the beginning of this year (1791) the Poet had been seized with a
violent and dangerous affection of the chest. The immediate danger was
now over; but his bodily health was, for the rest of his life,
shattered to ruin, and required, for the time coming, especially for
the time just come, all manner of soft treatment and repose. The
worst, therefore, was to be feared if his friends and he could not
manage to place him, for the next few years, in a position freer from
economic cares than now. Unexpectedly, in this difficulty, help
appeared out of Denmark. Two warm admirers of Schiller's genius, the
then hereditary Prince of Holstein-Augustenburg' (Grandfather of the
Prince Christian now, 1872, conspicuous in our English Court), 'and
Count von Schimmelmann, offered the Poet a pension of 1,000 thalers'
(150_l._) 'for three years; and this with a fineness and delicacy of
manner, which touched the recipient more even than the offer itself
did, and moved him to immediate assent. The Pension was to remain a
secret; but how could Schiller prevail on himself to be silent of it
to his Parents? With tears of thankfulness the Parents received this
glad message; in their pious minds they gathered out of this the
beneficent conviction that their Son's heavy sorrows, and the danger
in which his life hung, had only been decreed by Providence to set in
its right light the love and veneration which he far and near enjoyed.
Schiller himself this altogether unexpected proof of tenderest
sympathy in his fate visibly cheered, and strengthened even in
health; at lowest, the strength of his spirit, which now felt itself
free from outward embarrassments, subdued under it the weakness of his
body.


'In the middle of the year 1793, the love of his native country, and
the longing after his kindred, became so lively in him that he
determined, with his Wife, to visit Swabia. He writes to Körner: "The
Swabian, whom I thought I had altogether got done with, stirs himself
strongly in me; but indeed I have been eleven years parted from
Swabia; and Thüringen is not the country in which I can forget it." In
August he set out, and halted first in the then _Reichstadt_'
(Imperial Free-town) 'Heilbronn, where he found the friendliest
reception; and enjoyed the first indescribable emotion in seeing again
his Parents, Sisters and early friends. "My dear ones," writes he to
Körner, 27th August, from Heilbronn, "I found well to do, and, as thou
canst suppose, greatly rejoiced to meet me again. My Father, in his
seventieth year, is the image of a healthy old age; and any one who
did not know his years would not count them above sixty. He is in
continual activity, and this it is which keeps him healthy and
youthful." In large draughts the robust old man enjoyed the pleasure,
long forborne, of gazing into the eyes of his Son, who now stood
before him a completed man. He knew not whether more to admire than
love him; for, in his whole appearance, and all his speeches and
doings, there stamped itself a powerful lofty spirit, a tender loving
heart, and a pure noble character. His youthful fire was softened, a
mild seriousness and a friendly dignity did not leave him even in
jest; instead of his old neglect in dress, there had come a dignified
elegance; and his lean figure and his pale face completed the
interest of his look. To this was yet added the almost wonderful gift
of conversation upon the objects that were dear to him, whenever he
was not borne down by attacks of illness.

'From Heilbronn, soon after his arrival, Schiller wrote to Duke Karl,
in the style of a grateful former Pupil, whom contradictory
circumstances had pushed away from his native country. He got no
answer from the Duke; but from Stuttgart friends he did get sure
tidings that the Duke, on receipt of this Letter, had publicly said,
if Schiller came into Würtemberg Territory, he, the Duke, would take
no notice. To Schiller Senior, too, he had at the same time granted
the humble petition that he might have leave to visit his Son in
Heilbronn now and then.

'Under these circumstances, Schiller, perfectly secure, visited
Ludwigsburg and even Solitüde, without, as he himself expressed it,
asking permission of the "Schwabenkönig." And, in September, in the
near prospect of his Wife's confinement, he went altogether to
Ludwigsburg, where he was a good deal nearer to his kindred; and
moreover, in the clever Court-Doctor von Hoven, a friend of his youth,
hoped to find counsel, help and enjoyment. Soon after his removal,
Schiller had, in the birth of his eldest Son, Karl, the sweet
happiness of first paternal joy; and with delight saw fulfilled what
he had written to a friend shortly before his departure from Jena: "I
shall taste the joys of a Son and of a Father, and it will, between
these two feelings of Nature, go right well with me."

'The Duke, ill of gout, and perhaps feeling that death was nigh,
seemed to make a point of strictly ignoring Schiller; and laid not
the least hindrance in his way. On the contrary, he granted Schiller
Senior, on petition, the permission to make use of a certain Bath as
long as he liked; and this Bath lay so near Ludwigsburg that he could
not but think the meaning merely was, that the Father wished to be
nearer his Son. Absence was at once granted by the Duke, useful and
necessary as the elder Schiller always was to him at home. For the old
man, now Major Schiller, still carried on his overseeing of the Ducal
Gardens and Nurseries at Solitüde, and his punctual diligence,
fidelity, intelligence and other excellences in that function had long
been recognised.

'In a few weeks after, 24th October 1793, Duke Karl died; and was, by
his illustrious Pupil, regarded as in some sort a paternal friend.
Schiller thought only of the great qualities of the deceased, and of
the good he had done him; not of the great faults which as Sovereign,
and as man, he had manifested. Only to his most familiar friend did he
write: "The death of old Herod has had no influence either on me or my
Family,—except indeed that all men who had immediately to do with
that Sovereign Herr, as my Father had, are glad now to have the
prospect of a man before them. That the new Duke is, in every good,
and also in every bad meaning of the word." Withal, however, his
Father, to whom naturally the favour of the new Duke, Ludwig Eugen,
was of importance, could not persuade Schiller to welcome him to the
Sovereignty with a poem. To Schiller's feelings it was unendurable to
awaken, for the sake of an external advantage from the new Lord, any
suspicions as if he welcomed the death of the old.'[55]

    [Footnote 55: _Saupe_, p. 60.]

Christophine, Schiller's eldest Sister, whom he always loved the most,
was not here in Swabia;—long hundred miles away, poor Christophine,
with her sickly and gloomy Husband at Meiningen, these ten years
past!—but the younger two, Luise and Nanette, were with him, the
former daily at his hand. Luise was then twenty-seven, and is
described as an excellent domestic creature, amiable affectionate,
even enthusiastic; yet who at an early period though full of
admiration about her Brother and his affairs, had turned all her
faculties and tendencies upon domestic practicality, and the
satisfaction of being useful to her loved ones in their daily life and
wants.[56] 'Her element was altogether house-management; the aim of
her endeavour to attain the virtues by which she saw her pious Mother
made happy herself, in making others happy in the narrow in-door
kingdom. This quiet household vocation with its manifold labours and
its simple joys, was Luise's world; beyond which she needed nothing
and demanded nothing. From her Father she had inherited this feeling
for the practical, and this restless activity; from the Mother her
piety, compassion and kindliness; from both, the love of order,
regularity and contentment. Luise, in the weak state of Schiller's
Wife's health, was right glad to take charge of her Brother's
housekeeping; and, first at Heilbronn and then at Ludwigsburg, did it
to the complete satisfaction both of Brother and Sister-in-law.
Schiller himself gives to Körner the grateful testimony, that she
"very well understands household management."

    [Footnote 56: _Saupe_, p. 136 et seqq.]

'In this daily relation with her delicate and loving Brother, to whom
Luise looked up with a sort of timid adoration, he became ever dearer
to her; with a silent delight, she would often look into the soft
eyes of the great and wonderful man; from whose powerful spirit she
stood so distant, and to whose rich heart so near. All-too rapidly for
her flew-by the bright days of his abode in his homeland, and long she
looked after the vanished one with sad longing; and Schiller also felt
himself drawn closer to his Sister than before; by whose silent
faithful working his abode in Swabia had been made so smooth and
agreeable.'

Nanette he had, as will by and by appear, seen at Jena, on her
Mother's visit there, the year before;—with admiration and surprise
he then saw the little creature whom he had left a pretty child of
five years old, now become a blooming maiden, beautiful to eye and
heart, and had often thought of her since. She too was often in his
house, at present; a loved and interesting object always. She had been
a great success in the foreign Jena circle, last year; and had left
bright memories there. This is what Saupe says afterwards, of her
appearance at Jena, and now in Schiller's temporary Swabian home:

'She evinced the finest faculties of mind, and an uncommon receptivity
and docility, and soon became to all that got acquainted with her a
dear and precious object. To declaim passages from her Brother's Poems
was her greatest joy; she did her recitation well; and her Swabian
accent and naïvety of manner gave her an additional charm for her new
relatives, and even exercised a beneficent influence on the Poet's own
feelings. With hearty pleasure his beaming eyes rested often on the
dear Swabian girl, who understood how to awaken in his heart the sweet
tones of childhood and home. "She is good," writes he of her to his
friend Körner, "and it seems as if something could be made of her. She
is yet much the child of nature, and that is still the best she could
be, never having been able to acquire any reasonable culture." With
Schiller's abode in Swabia, from August 1793 till May 1794, Nanette
grew still closer to his heart, and in his enlivening and inspiring
neighbourhood her spirit and character shot out so many rich blossoms,
that Schiller on quitting his Father's house felt justified in the
fairest hopes for the future.' Just before her visit to Jena, Schiller
Senior writes to his Son: "It is a great pity for Nanette that I
cannot give her a better education. She has sense and talent and the
best of hearts; much too of my dear Fritz's turn of mind, as he will
himself see, and be able to judge."[57]

    [Footnote 57: _Saupe_, pp. 149-50.]

'For the rest, on what childlike confidential terms Schiller lived
with his Parents at this time, one may see by the following Letter, of
8th November 1793, from Ludwigsburg:

     "Right sorry am I, dearest Parents, that I shall not be able
     to celebrate my Birthday, 11th November, along with you. But
     I see well that good Papa cannot rightly risk just now to
     leave Solitüde at all,—a visit from the Duke being expected
     there every day. On the whole, it does not altogether depend
     on the day on which one is to be merry with loved souls; and
     every day on which I can be where my dear Parents are shall
     be festal and welcome to me like a Birthday.

     "About the precious little one here Mamma is not to be
     uneasy." (Here follow some more precise details about the
     health of this little Gold Son; omitted.) "Of watching and
     nursing he has no lack; that you may believe; and he is
     indeed, a little leanness excepted, very lively and has a
     good appetite.

       "I have been, since I made an excursion to Stuttgart,
     tolerably well; and have employed this favourable time to get
     a little forward in my various employments which have been
     lying waste so long. For this whole week, I have been very
     diligent, and getting on briskly. This is also the cause that
     I have not written to you. I am always supremely happy when I
     am busy and my labour speeds.

     "For your so precious Portrait I thank you a thousand times,
     dearest Father: yet glad as I am to possess this memorial of
     you, much gladder still am I that Providence has granted me
     to have you yourself, and to live in your neighbourhood. But
     we must profit better by this good time, and no longer make
     such pauses before coming together again. If you once had
     seen the Duke at Solitüde and known how you stand with him,
     there would be, I think, no difficulty in a short absence of
     a few days, especially at this season of the year. I will
     send up the carriage" (hired at Jena for the visit thither
     and back) "at the very first opportunity, and leave it with
     you, to be ready always when you can come.

     "My and all our hearty and childlike salutations to you
     both, and to the good Nane" (Nanette) "my brotherly
     salutation.

     "Hoping soon for a joyful meeting,—Your obedient Son,

     "FRIEDRICH SCHILLER."


'In the new-year time 1794, Schiller spent several agreeable weeks in
Stuttgart; whither he had gone primarily on account of some family
matter which had required settling there. At least he informs his
friend Körner, on the 17th March, from Stuttgart, "I hope to be not
quite useless to my Father here, though, from the connections in which
I stand, I can expect nothing for myself."

'By degrees, however, the sickly, often-ailing Poet began to long
again for a quiet, uniform way of life; and this feeling, daily
strengthened by the want of intellectual conversation, which had
become a necessary for him, grew at length so strong, that he, with an
alleviated heart, thought of departure from his Birth-land, and of
quitting his loved ones; glad that Providence had granted him again
to possess his Parents and Sisters for months long and to live in
their neighbourhood. He gathered himself into readiness for the
journey back; and returned, first to his original quarters at
Heilbronn, and, in May 1794, with Wife and Child, to Jena.


'Major Schiller, whom the joy to see his Son and Grandson seemed to
have made young again, lived with fresh pleasure in his idyllic
calling; and in free hours busied himself with writing down his
twenty-years experiences in the domain of garden- and tree-culture,—in
a Work, the printing and publication of which were got managed for him
by his renowned Son. In November 1794 he was informed that the young
Publisher of the first _Musen-Almanach_ had accepted his MS. for an
honorarium of twenty-four Karolins; and that the same was already gone
to press. Along with this, the good old Major was valued by his
Prince, and by all who knew him. His subordinates loved him as a just
impartial man; feared him, too, however, in his stringent love of
order. Wife and children showed him the most reverent regard and
tender love; but the Son was the ornament of his old age. He lived to
see the full renown of the Poet, and his close connection with Goethe,
through which he was to attain complete mastership and lasting
composure. With hands quivering for joy the old man grasped the MSS.
of his dear Son; which from Jena, _viâ_ Cotta's Stuttgart Warehouses,
were before all things transmitted to him. In a paper from his hand,
which is still in existence, there is found a touching expression of
thanks, That God had given him such a joy in his Son. "And Thou Being
of all beings," says he in the same, "to Thee did I pray, at the birth
of my one Son, that Thou wouldst supply to him in strength of
intellect and faculty what I, from want of learning, could not
furnish; and Thou hast heard me. Thanks to Thee, most merciful Being,
that Thou hast heard the prayer of a mortal!"

'Schiller had left his loved ones at Solitüde whole and well; and with
the firm hope that he would see them all again. And the next-following
years did pass untroubled over the prosperous Family. But "ill-luck,"
as the proverb says, "comes with a long stride." In the Spring of
1796, when the French, under Jourdan and Moreau, had overrun South
Germany, there reached Schiller, on a sudden, alarming tidings from
Solitüde. In the Austrian chief Hospital, which had been established
in the Castle there, an epidemic fever had broken out; and had visited
the Schiller Family among others. The youngest Daughter Nanette had
sunk under this pestilence, in the flower of her years; and whilst the
second Daughter Luise lay like to die of the same, the Father also was
laid bedrid with gout. For fear of infection, nobody except the
Doctors would risk himself at Solitüde; and so the poor weakly Mother
stood forsaken there, and had, for months long, to bear alone the
whole burden of the household distress. Schiller felt it painfully
that he was unable to help his loved ones, in so terrible a posture of
affairs; and it cost him great effort to hide these feelings from his
friends. In his pain and anxiety, he turned himself at last to his
eldest Sister Christophine, Wife of Hofrath Reinwald in Meiningen; and
persuaded her to go to Solitüde to comfort and support her people
there. Had not the true Sister-heart at once acceded to her Brother's
wishes, he had himself taken the firm determination to go in person to
Swabia, in the middle of May, and bring his Family away from
Solitüde, and make arrangements for their nursing and accommodation.
The news of his Sister's setting-out relieved him of a great and
continual anxiety. "Heaven bless thee," writes he to her on the 6th
May, "for this proof of thy filial love." He earnestly entreats her to
prevent his dear Parents from delaying, out of thrift, any wholesome
means of improvement to their health; and declares himself ready, with
joy, to bear all costs, those of travelling included: she is to draw
on Cotta in Tübingen for whatever money she needs. Her Husband also he
thanks, in a cordial Letter, for his consent to this journey of his
Wife.


'July 11, 1796, was born to the Poet, who had been in much trouble
about his own household for some time, his second Son, Ernst. Great
fears had been entertained for the Mother; which proving groundless,
the happy event lifted a heavy burden from his heart; and he again
took courage and hope. But soon after, on the 15th August, he writes
again to the faithful Körner about his kinsfolk in Swabia: "From the
War we have not suffered so much; but all the more from the condition
of my Father, who, broken-down under an obstinate and painful disease,
is slowly wending towards death. How sad this fact is, thou mayest
think."

'Within few weeks after, 7th September 1796, the Father died; in his
seventy-third year, after a sick-bed of eight months. Though his
departure could not be reckoned other than a blessing, yet the good
Son was deeply shattered by the news of it. What his filially faithful
soul suffered, in these painful days, is touchingly imaged in two
Letters, which may here make a fitting close to this Life-sketch of
Schiller's Father. It was twelve days after his Father's death when he
wrote to his Brother-in-law, Reinwald, in Meiningen:

     "Thou hast here news, dear Brother, of the release of our
     good Father; which, much as it had to be expected, nay
     wished, has deeply affected us all. The conclusion of so
     long and withal so active a life is, even for bystanders, a
     touching object: what must it be to those whom it so nearly
     concerns? I have to tear myself away from thinking of this
     painful loss, since it is my part to help the dear remaining
     ones. It is a great comfort to thy Wife that she has been
     able to continue and fulfil her daughterly duty till her
     Father's last release. She would never have consoled
     herself, had he died a few days after her departure home.

     "Thou understandest how in the first days of this fatal
     breach among us, while so many painful things storm-in upon
     our good Mother, thy Christophine could not have left, even
     had the Post been in free course. But this still remains
     stopped, and we must wait the War-events on the Franconian,
     Swabian and Palatinate borders. How much this absence of thy
     Wife must afflict, I feel along with thee; but who can fight
     against such a chain of inevitable destinies? Alas, public
     and universal disorder rolls up into itself our private
     events too, in the fatalest way.

     "Thy Wife longs from her heart for home; and she only the
     more deserves our regard that she, against her inclination
     and her interest, resolved to be led only by the thought of
     her filial duties. Now, however, she certainly will not
     delay an hour longer with her return, the instant it can be
     entered upon without danger and impossibility. Comfort her
     too when thou writest to her; it grieves her to know thee
     forsaken, and to have no power to help thee.

     "Fare right well, dear Brother.—Thine,

     SCHILLER."


'Nearly at the same time he wrote to his Mother:

     "Grieved to the heart, I take up the pen to lament with you
     and my dear Sisters the loss we have just sustained. In
     truth, for a good while past I have expected nothing else:
     but when the inevitable actually comes, it is always a sad
     and overwhelming stroke. To think that one who was so dear
     to us, whom we hung upon with the feelings of early
     childhood, and also in later years were bound to by respect
     and love, that such an object is gone from the world, that
     with all our striving we cannot bring it back,—to think of
     this is always something frightful. And when, like you, my
     dearest best Mother, one has shared with the lost Friend and
     Husband joy and sorrow for so many long years, the parting
     is all the painfuler. Even when I look away from what the
     good Father that is gone was to myself and to us all, I
     cannot without mournful emotion contemplate the close of so
     steadfast and active a life, which God continued to him so
     long, in such soundness of body and mind, and which he
     managed so honourably and well. Yes truly, it is not a small
     thing to hold out so faithfully upon so long and toilsome a
     course; and like him, in his seventy-third year, to part
     from the world in so childlike and pure a mood. Might I but,
     if it cost me all his sorrows, pass away from my life as
     innocently as he from his! Life is so severe a trial; and
     the advantages which Providence, in some respects, may have
     granted me compared with him, are joined with so many
     dangers for the heart and for its true peace!

     "I will not attempt to comfort you and my dear Sisters. You
     all feel, like me, how much we have lost; but you feel also
     that Death alone could end these long sorrows. With our dear
     Father it is now well; and we shall all follow him ere long.
     Never shall the image of him fade from our hearts; and our
     grief for him can only unite us still closer together.

     "Five or six years ago it did not seem likely that you, my
     dear ones, should, after such a loss, find a Friend in your
     Brother,—that I should survive our dear Father. God has
     ordered it otherwise; and He grants me the joy to feel that
     I may still be something to you. How ready I am thereto, I
     need not assure you. We all of us know one another in this
     respect, and are our dear Father's not unworthy children."


This earnest and manful lamentation, which contains also a just
recognition of the object lamented, may serve to prove, think Saupe
and others, what is very evident, that Caspar Schiller, with his
stiff, military regulations, spirit of discipline and rugged, angular
ways, was, after all, the proper Father for a wide-flowing, sensitive,
enthusiastic, somewhat lawless Friedrich Schiller; and did
beneficently compress him into something of the shape necessary for
his task in this world.


                            II. THE MOTHER.

Of Schiller's Mother, Elisabetha Dorothea Kodweis, born at Marbach
1733, the preliminary particulars have been given above: That she was
the daughter of an Innkeeper, Woodmeasurer and Baker; prosperous in
the place when Schiller Senior first arrived there. We should have
added, what Saupe omits, that the young Surgeon boarded in their
house; and that by the term Woodmeasurer (_Holzmesser_, Measurer of
Wood) is signified an Official Person appointed not only to measure
and divide into portions the wood supplied as fuel from the Ducal or
Royal Forests, but to be responsible also for payment of the same. In
which latter capacity, Kodweis, as Father Schiller insinuates, was
rash, imprudent and unlucky, and at one time had like to have involved
that prudent, parsimonious Son-in-law in his disastrous economics. We
have also said what Elisabetha's comely looks were, and particular
features; pleasing and hopeful, more and more, to the strict young
Surgeon, daily observant of her and them.

'In her circle,' Saupe continues, 'she was thought by her early
playmates a kind of enthusiast; because she, with average faculties of
understanding combined deep feeling, true piety and love of Nature, a
talent for Music, nay even for Poetry. But perhaps it was the very
reverse qualities in her, the fact namely that what she wanted in
culture, and it may be also in clearness and sharpness of
understanding, was so richly compensated by warmth and lovingness of
character,—perhaps it was this which most attracted to her the heart
of her deeply-reasonable Husband. And never had he cause to repent his
choice. For she was, and remained, as is unanimously testified of her
by trustworthy witnesses, an unpretending, soft and dutiful Wife; and,
as all her Letters testify, had the tenderest mother-heart. She read a
good deal, even after her marriage, little as she had of time for
reading. Favourite Books with her were those on Natural History; but
she liked best of all to study the Biographies of famous men, or to
dwell in the spiritual poetising of an Utz, a Gellert and Klopstock.
She also liked, and in some measure had the power, to express her own
feelings in verses; which, with all their simplicity, show a sense for
rhythm and some expertness in diction. Here is one instance; her
salutation to the Husband who was her First-love, on New-year's day
1757, the ninth year of their as yet childless marriage:

    O could I but have found forget-me-not in the Valley,
    And roses beside it! Then had I plaited thee
    In fragrant blossoms the garland for this New Year,
    Which is still brighter to me than that of our Marriage was.

    I grumble, in truth, that the cold North now governs us,
    And every flowret's bud is freezing in the cold earth!
    Yet one thing does not freeze, I mean my loving heart;
    Thine that is, and shares with thee its joys and sorrows.[58]

    [Footnote 58:

    _'O hätt ich doch im Thal Vergissmeinnicht gefunden
    Und Rosen nebenbei! Dann hat' ich Dir gewunden
    In Blüthenduft den Kranz zu diesem neuen Jahr,
    Der schöner noch als der am Hochzeittage war._

    _Ich zürne, traun, dass itzt der kalte Nord regieret,
    Und jedes Blümchens Keim in kalter Erde frieret!
    Doch eines frieret nicht, es ist mein liebend Herz;_
    Dein _ist es, theilt mit Dir die Freuden und den Schmerz.'_]

'The Seven-Years War threw the young Wife into manifold anxiety and
agitation; especially since she had become a Mother, and in fear for
the life of her tenderly-loved Husband, had to tremble for the Father
of her children too. To this circumstance Christophine ascribes,
certainly with some ground, the world-important fact that her Brother
had a much weaker constitution than herself. He had in fact been
almost born in a camp. In late Autumn 1759, the Infantry Regiment of
Major-General Romann, in which Caspar Schiller was then a Lieutenant,
had, for sake of the Autumn Manœuvres of the Würtemberg Soldiery,
taken Camp in its native region. The Mother had thereupon set out from
Marbach to visit her long-absent Husband in the Camp; and it was in
his tent that she felt the first symptoms of her travail. She rapidly
hastened back to Marbach; and by good luck still reached her Father's
house in the Market-Place there, near by the great Fountain; where
she, on the 11th November, was delivered of a Boy. For almost four
years the little Friedrich with Christophine and Mother continued in
the house of the well-contented Grandparents (who had not yet fallen
poor), under her exclusive care. With self-sacrificing love and
careful fidelity, she nursed her little Boy; whose tender body had to
suffer not only from the common ailments of children, but was heavily
visited with fits of cramp. In a beautiful region, on the bosom of a
tender Mother, and in these first years far from the oversight of a
rigorous Father, the Child grew up, and unfolded himself under
cheerful and harmonious impressions.

'On the return of his Father from the War, little Fritz, now four
years old, was quite the image of his Mother; long-necked, freckled
and reddish-haired like her. It was the pious Mother's work, too,
that a feeling of religion, early and vivid, displayed itself in him.
The easily-receptive Boy was indeed keenly attentive to all that his
Father, in their Family-circle, read to them, and inexhaustible in
questions till he had rightly caught the meaning of it: but he
listened with most eagerness when his Father read passages from the
Bible, or vocally uttered them in prayer. "It was a touching sight,"
says his eldest Sister, "the expression of devotion on the dear little
Child's countenance. With its blue eyes directed towards Heaven, its
high-blond hair about the clear brow, and its fast-clasped little
hands. It was like an angel's head to look upon."

'With Father's return, the happy Mother conscientiously shared with
him the difficult and important business of bringing up their Son; and
both in union worked highly beneficially for his spiritual
development. The practical and rigorous Father directed his chief aim
to developing the Boy's intellect and character; the mild, pious,
poetic-minded Mother, on the other hand, strove for the ennobling
nurture of his temper and his imagination. It was almost exclusively
owing to her that his religious feeling, his tender sense of all that
was good and beautiful, his love of mankind, tolerance, and capability
of self-sacrifice, in the circle of his Sisters and playmates,
distinguished the Boy.

'On Sunday afternoons, when she went to walk with both the Children,
she was wont to explain to them the Church-Gospel of the day. "Once,"
so stands it in Christophine's Memorials, "when we two, as children,
had set out walking with dear Mamma to see our Grandparents, she took
the way from Ludwigsburg to Marbach, which leads straight over the
Hill, a walk of some four miles. It was a beautiful Easter Monday,
and our Mother related to us the history of the two Disciples to
whom, on their journey to Emmaus, Jesus had joined himself. Her speech
and narrative grew ever more inspired; and when we got upon the Hill,
we were all so much affected that we knelt down and prayed. This Hill
became a Tabor to us."

'At other times she entertained the children with fairy-tales and
magic histories. Already while in Lorch she had likewise led the Boy,
so far as his power of comprehension and her own knowledge permitted,
into the domains of German Poetry. Klopstock's _Messias_, Opitz's
Poems, Paul Gerhard's and Gellert's pious Songs, were made known to
him in this tender age, through his Mother; and were, for that reason,
doubly dear. At one time also the artless Mother made an attempt on
him with Hofmannswaldau;[59] but the sugary and windy tone of him hurt
the tender poet-feeling of the Boy. With smiling dislike he pushed the
Book away; and afterwards was wont to remark, when, at the new year,
rustic congratulants with their foolish rhymes would too liberally
present themselves, "Mother, there is a new Hofmannswaldau at the
door!" Thus did the excellent Mother guide forward the soul of her
docile Boy, with Bible-passages and Church-symbols, with tales,
histories and poems, into gradual form and stature. Never forgetting,
withal, to awaken and nourish his sense for the beauties of Nature.
Before long, Nature had become his dearest abode; and only love of
that could sometimes tempt him to little abridgments of school-hours.
Often, in the pretty region of Lorch, he wished the Sun goodnight in
open song; or with childish pathos summoned Stuttgart's Painters to
represent the wondrous formation and glorious colouring of the sunset
clouds. If, in such a humour, a poor man met him, his overflowing
little heart would impel him to the most active pity; and he liberally
gave away whatever he had by him and thought he could dispense with.
The Father, who, as above indicated, never could approve or even
endure such unreasonable giving-up of one's feelings to effeminate
impressions, was apt to intervene on these occasions, even with manual
punishment,—unless the Mother were at hand to plead the little
culprit off.

    [Footnote 59: A once-celebrated Silesian of the 17th century,
    distinguished for his blusterous exaggerations, numb-footed
    caprioles, and tearing of a passion to rags;—now extinct.]

'But nothing did the Mother forward with more eagerness, by every
opportunity, than the kindling inclination of her Son to become a
Preacher; which even showed itself in his sports. Mother or Sister had
to put a little cowl on his head, and pin round him by way of surplice
a bit of black apron; then would he mount a chair and begin earnestly
to preach; ranging together in his own way, not without some traces of
coherency, all that he had retained from teaching and church-visiting
in this kind, and interweaving it with verses of songs. The Mother,
who listened attentively and with silent joy, put a higher meaning
into this childish play; and, in thought, saw her Son already stand in
the Pulpit, and work, rich in blessings, in a spiritual office. The
spiritual profession was at that time greatly esteemed, and gave
promise of an honourable existence. Add to this, that the course of
studies settled for young Würtemberg Theologians not only offered
important pecuniary furtherances and advantages, but also morally the
fewest dangers. And thus the prudent and withal pious Father, too, saw
no reason to object to this inclination of the Son and wish of the
Mother.

'It had almost happened, however, that the Latin School, in
Ludwigsburg (where our Fritz received the immediately preparatory
teaching for his calling) had quite disgusted him with his destination
for theology. The Teacher of Religion in the Institute, a
narrow-minded, angry-tempered Pietist,' as we have seen, 'used the sad
method of tormenting his scholars with continual rigorous, altogether
soulless, drillings and trainings in matters of mere creed; nay he
threatened often to whip them thoroughly, if, in the repetition of the
catechism, a single word were wrong. And thus to the finely-sensitive
Boy instruction was making hateful to him what domestic influences had
made dear. Yet these latter did outweigh and overcome, in the end; and
he remained faithful to his purpose of following a spiritual career.

'When young Schiller, after the completion of his course at the Latin
School, 1777, was to be confirmed, his Mother and her Husband came
across to Ludwigsburg the day before that solemn ceremony. Just on
their arrival, she saw her Son wandering idle and unconcerned about
the streets; and impressively represented to him how greatly his
indifference to the highest and most solemn transaction of his young
life troubled her. Struck and affected hereby, the Boy withdrew; and,
after a few hours, handed to his Parents a German Poem, expressive of
his feelings over the approaching renewal of his baptismal covenant.
The Father, who either hadn't known the occasion of this, or had
looked upon his Son's idling on the street with less severe eyes, was
highly astonished, and received him mockingly with the question, "Hast
thou lost thy senses, Fritz?" The Mother, on the other hand, was
visibly rejoiced at that poetic outpouring, and with good cause. For,
apart from all other views of the matter, she recognised in it how
firmly her Son's inclination was fixed on the study of Theology.'—(This
anecdote, if it were of any moment whatever, appears to be a little
doubtful.)

'The painfuler, therefore, was it to the Mother's heart when her Son,
at the inevitable entrance into the Karl's School, had to give-up
Theology; and renounce withal, for a long time, if not forever, her
farther guidance and influence. But she was too pious not to recognise
by degrees, in this change also, a Higher Hand; and could trustfully
expect the workings of the same. Besides, her Son clung so tenderly to
her, that at least there was no separation of him from the Mother's
heart to be dreaded. The heart-warm attachment of childish years to
the creed taught him by his Mother might, and did, vanish; but not the
attachment to his Mother herself whose dear image often enough charmed
back the pious sounds and forms of early days, and for a time scared
away doubts and unbelief.

'Years came and went; and Schiller, at last, about the end of 1780,
stept out of the Academy, into the actual world, which he as yet knew
only by hearsay. Delivered from that long unnatural constraint of body
and spirit, he gave free course to his fettered inclinations; and
sought, as in Poetry so also in Life, unlimited freedom! The tumults
of passion and youthful buoyancy, after so long an imprisonment, had
their sway; and embarrassments in money, their natural consequence,
often brought him into very sad moods.

'In this season of time, so dangerous for the moral purity of the
young man, his Mother again was his good Genius; a warning and
request, in her soft tone of love sufficed to recall youthful levity
within the barriers again, and restore the balance. She anxiously
contrived, too, that the Son, often and willingly, visited his
Father's house. Whenever Schiller had decided to give himself a good
day, he wandered out with some friend as far as Solitüde.' (Only some
four or five miles.) '"What a baking and a roasting then went on by
that good soul," says one who witnessed it, "for the dear Prodigy of a
Son and the comrade who had come with him; for whom the good Mother
never could do enough! Never have I seen a better maternal heart, a
more excellent, more domestic, more womanly woman."

'The admiring recognition which the Son had already found among his
youthful friends, and in wider circles, was no less grateful to her
heart than the gradual perception that his powerful soul, welling
forth from the interior to the outward man, diffused itself into his
very features, and by degrees even advantageously altered the
curvatures and the form of his body. His face about this time got rid
of its freckles and irregularities of skin; and strikingly improved,
moreover, by the circumstance that the hitherto rather drooping nose
gradually acquired its later aquiline form. And withal, the youthful
Poet, with the growing consciousness of his strength and of his worth,
assumed an imposing outward attitude; so that a witty Stuttgart Lady,
whose house Schiller often walked past, said of him: "Regiment's Dr.
Schiller steps out as if the Duke were one of his inferior servants!"

'The indescribable impression which the _Robbers_, the gigantic
first-born of a Karl's Scholar, made in Stuttgart, communicated itself
to the Mother too; innocently she gave herself up to the delight of
seeing her Son's name wondered at and celebrated; and was, in her
Mother-love, inventive enough to overcome all doubts and risks which
threatened to dash her joy. By Christophine's mediations, and from the
Son himself as well, she learned many a disquieting circumstance,
which for the present had to be carefully concealed from her Husband;
but nothing whatever could shake her belief in her Son and his talent.
Without murmur, with faithful trust in God, she resigned herself even
to the bitter necessity of losing for a long time her only Son; having
once got to see, beyond disputing, that his purpose was firm to
withdraw himself by flight from the Duke's despotic interference with
his poetical activity as well as with his practical procedures; and
that this purpose of his was rigorously demanded by the circumstances.
Yet a sword went through her soul when Schiller, for the last time,
appeared at Solitüde, secretly to take leave of her.' Her feelings on
this tragic occasion have been described above; and may well be
pictured as among the painfulest, tenderest and saddest that a
Mother's heart could have to bear. Our Author continues:

'In reality, it was to the poor Mother a hard and lamentable time.
Remembrance of the lately bright and safe-looking situation, now
suddenly rent asunder and committed to the dubious unknown; anxiety
about their own household and the fate of her Son; the Father's just
anger, and perhaps some tacit self-reproach that she had favoured a
dangerous game by keeping it concealed from her honest-hearted
Husband,—lay like crushing burdens on her heart. And if many a thing
did smooth itself, and many a thing, which at first was to be feared,
did not take place, one thing remained fixed continually,—painful
anxiety about her Son. To the afflicted Mother, in this heavy time,
Frau von Wolzogen devoted the most sincere and beneficent sympathy; a
Lady of singular goodness of heart, who, during Schiller's eight
hidden months at Bauerbach, frequently went out to see his Family at
Solitüde. By her oral reports about Schiller, whom she herself several
times visited at Bauerbach, his Parents were more soothed than by his
own somewhat excited Letters. With reference to this magnanimous
service of friendship, Schiller wrote to her at Stuttgart in February
1783: "A Letter to my Parents is getting on its way; yet, much as I
had to speak of you, I have said nothing whatever" (from prudent
motives) "of your late appearance here, or of the joyful moments of
our conversation together. You yourself still, therefore, have all
that to tell, and you will presumably find a pair of attentive
hearers." Frau von Wolzogen ventured also to apply to a high court
lady, Countess von Hohenheim' (Duke's _finale_ in the _illicit_ way,
whom he at length wedded), 'personally favourable to Schiller, and to
direct her attention, before all, upon the heavy-laden Parents. Nor
was this without effect. For the Countess's persuasion seems
essentially to have contributed to the result that Duke Karl, out of
respect for the deserving Father, left the evasion of his own Pupil
unpunished.

'It must, therefore, have appeared to the still-agitated Mother, who
reverenced the Frau von Wolzogen as her helpful guardian, a flagrant
piece of ingratitude, when she learnt that her Son was allowing
himself to be led into a passionate love for the blooming young
Daughter of his Benefactress. She grieved and mourned in secret to see
him exposed to new storms; foreseeing clearly, in this passion, a
ready cause for his removal from Bauerbach. To such agitations her
body was no longer equal; a creeping, eating misery undermined her
health. She wrote to her Son at Mannheim, with a soft shadow of
reproof, that in this year, since his absence, she had become ten
years older in health and looks. Not long after, she had actually to
take to bed, because of painful cramps, which, proceeding from the
stomach, spread themselves over breast, head, back and loins. The
medicines which the Son, upon express account of symptoms by the
Father, prescribed for her, had no effect. By degrees, indeed, these
cramps abated or left-off; but she tottered about in a state of
sickness, years long: the suffering mind would not let the body come
to strength. For though her true heart was filled with a pious love,
which hopes all, believes and suffers all, yet she was neither blind
to the faults of her Son, nor indifferent to the thought of seeing her
Family's good repute and well-being threatened by his non-performances
and financial confusions.

'With the repose and peace which the news of her Son's appointment to
Jena, and intended marriage, had restored to his Family, there
appeared also (beginning of 1790) an improvement to be taking place in
the Mother's health. Learning this by a Letter from his Father,
Schiller wrote back with lightened heart: "How welcome, dearest
Father, was your last Letter to me, and how necessary! I had, the very
day before, got from Christophine the sad news that my dearest
Mother's state had grown so much worse; and what a blessed turn now
has this weary sickness taken! If in the future _regimen vitæ_ (diet
arrangements) of my dearest Mother, there is strict care taken, her
long and many sufferings, with the source of them, may be removed.
Thanks to a merciful Providence, which saves and preserves for us the
dear Mother of our youth. My soul is moved with tenderness and
gratitude. I had to think of her as lost to us forever; and she has
now been given back." In reference to his approaching marriage with
Lottchen von Lengefeld, he adds, "How did it lacerate my heart to
think that my dearest Mother might not live to see the happiness of
her Son! Heaven bless you with thousandfold blessings, best Father,
and grant to my dear Mother a cheerful and painless life!"

'Soon, however, his Mother again fell sick, and lay in great danger.
Not till August following could the Father announce that she was
saved, and from day to day growing stronger. The annexed history of
the disorder seemed so remarkable to Schiller, that he thought of
preparing it for the public; unless the Physician, Court-Doctor
Consbruch, liked better to send it out in print himself. "On this
point," says Schiller, "I will write to him by the first post; and
give him my warmest thanks for the inestimable service he has done us
all, by his masterly cure of our dear Mamma; and for his generous and
friendly behaviour throughout." "How heartily, my dearest Parents,"
writes he farther, "did it rejoice us both" (this Letter is of 29th
December; on the 20th February of that year he had been wedded to his
Lotte), "this good news of the still-continuing improvement of our
dearest Mother! With full soul we both of us join in the thanks which
you give to gracious Heaven for this recovery; and our heart now gives
way to the fairest hopes that Providence, which herein overtops our
expectations, will surely yet prepare a joyful meeting for us all once
more."

'Two years afterwards this hope passed into fulfilment. The Mother
being now completely cured of her last disorder, there seized her so
irresistible a longing for her Son, that even her hesitating Husband,
anxious lest her very health should suffer, at last gave his consent
to the far and difficult journey to Jena. On the 3d Sept. 1792,
Schiller, in joyful humour, announces to his friend in Dresden, "Today
I have received from home the very welcome tidings that my good
Mother, with one of my Sisters, is to visit us here this month. Her
arrival falls at a good time, when I hope to be free and loose from
labour; and then we have ahead of us mere joyful undertakings." The
Mother came in company with her youngest Daughter, bright little Nane,
or Nanette; and surprised him two days sooner than, by the Letters
from Solitüde, he had expected her. Unspeakable joy and sweet sorrow
seized Mother and Son to feel themselves, after ten years of
separation, once more in each other's arms. The long journey, bad
weather and roads had done her no harm. "She has altered a little, in
truth," writes he to Körner, "from what she was ten years ago; but
after so many sicknesses and sorrows, she still has a healthy look. It
rejoices me much that things have so come about, that I have her with
me again, and can be a joy to her."

'The Mother likewise soon felt herself at home and happy in the
trusted circle of her children; only too fast flew-by the beautiful
and happy days, which seemed to her richly to make amends for so many
years of sorrows and cares. Especially it did her heart good to see
for herself what a beneficent influence the real and beautiful
womanhood of her Daughter-in-law exercised upon her Son. Daily she
learnt to know the great advantages of mind and heart in her; daily
she more deeply thanked God that for her Son, who, on account even of
his weak health, was not an altogether convenient Husband, there had
been so tender-hearted and so finely-cultivated a Wife given him as
life-companion. The conviction that the domestic happiness of her Son
was secure contributed essentially also to alleviate the pain of
departure.

'Still happier days fell to her when Schiller, stirred up by her
visit, came the year after, with his Wife, to Swabia; and lived there
from August 1793 till May 1794. It was a singular and as if
providential circumstance, which did not escape the pious Mother, that
Schiller, in the same month in which he had, eleven years ago, hurried
and in danger, fled out of Stuttgart to Ludwigsburg, should now in
peace and without obstruction come, from Heilbronn by the same
Ludwigsburg, to the near neighbourhood of his Parents. With bitter
tears of sorrow, her eye had then followed the fugitive, in his dark
trouble and want of everything; with sweet tears of joy she now
received her fame-crowned Son, whom God, through sufferings and
mistakes and wanderings, had led to happiness and wisdom. The birth of
the Grandson gave to her life a new charm, as if of youth returned.
She felt herself highly favoured that God had spared her life to see
her dear Son's first-born with her own eyes. It was a touching
spectacle to see the Grandmother as she sat by the cradle of the
little "Gold Son," and listened to every breath-drawing of the child;
or when, with swelling heart, she watched the approaching steps of her
Son, and observed his true paternal pleasure over his first-born.

'Well did the excellent Grandmother deserve such refreshment of heart;
for all-too soon there came again upon her troublous and dark days.
Schiller had found her stronger and cheerfuler than on her prior visit
to Jena; and had quitted his Home-land with the soothing hope that his
good Mother would reach a long and happy age. Nor could he have the
least presentiment of the events which, three years later, burst-in,
desolating and destroying, upon his family, and brought the health and
life of his dear Mother again into peril. It is above stated, in our
sketch of the Husband, in what extraordinary form the universal public
misery, under which, in 1796, all South Germany was groaning, struck
the Schiller Family at Solitüde. Already on the 21st March of this
year, Schiller had written to his Father, "How grieved I am for our
good dear Mother, on whom all manner of sorrows have stormed-down in
this manner! But what a mercy of God it is, too, that she still has
strength left not to sink under these circumstances, but to be able
still to afford you so much help! Who would have thought, six or seven
years ago, that she, who was so infirm and exhausted, would now be
serving you all as support and nurse? In such traits I recognise a
good Providence which watches over us; and my heart is touched by it
to the core."

'Meanwhile the poor Mother's situation grew ever frightfuler from day
to day; and it needed her extraordinary strength of religious faith to
keep her from altogether sinking under the pains, sorrows and toils,
which she had for so many weeks to bear all alone, with the help only
of a hired maid. The news of such misery threw Schiller into the
deepest grief. He saw only one way of sending comfort and help to his
poor Mother, and immediately adopted it; writing to his eldest Sister
in Meiningen, as follows:

     "Thou too wilt have heard, dearest Sister, that Luise has
     fallen seriously ill; and that our poor dear Mother is
     thereby robbed of all consolation. If Luise's case were to
     grow worse, or our Father's even, our poor Mother would be
     left entirely forsaken. Such misery would be unspeakable.
     Canst thou make it possible, think'st thou, that thy
     strength could accomplish such a thing? If so, at once make
     the journey thither. What it costs I will pay with joy.
     Reinwald might accompany thee; or, if he did not like that,
     come over to me here, where I would brother-like take care
     of him.

     "Consider, my dear Sister, that Parents, in such extremity
     of need, have the justest claim upon their children for
     help. O God, why am not I myself in such health as in my
     journey thither three years ago! Nothing should have
     hindered me from hastening to them; but that I have scarcely
     gone over the threshold for a year past makes me so weak
     that I either could not stand the journey, or should fall
     down into sickness myself in that afflicted house. Alas, I
     can do nothing for them but help with money; and, God knows,
     I do that with joy. Consider that our dear Mother, who has
     held up hitherto with an admirable courage, must at last
     break down under so many sorrows. I know thy childlike
     loving heart, I know the perfect fairness and equitable
     probity of my Brother-in-law. Both these facts will teach
     you better than I under the circumstances. Salute him
     cordially.—Thy faithful Brother,

     "SCHILLER."

Christophine failed not to go, as we saw above. 'From the time of her
arrival there, no week passed without Schiller's writing home; and his
Letters much contributed to strengthen and support the heavy-laden
Mother. The assurance of being tenderly loved by such a Son was
infinitely grateful to her; she considered him as a tried faithful
friend, to whom one, without reluctance, yields his part in one's own
sorrows. Schiller thus expressed himself on this matter in a Letter to
Christophine of 9th May. "The last Letter of my dear good Mother has
deeply affected me. Ah, how much has this good Mother already
undergone; and with what patience and courage has she borne it! How
touching is it that she opened her heart to me; and what woe was mine
that I cannot immediately comfort and soothe her! Hadst thou not gone,
I could not have stayed here. The situation of our dear ones was
horrible; so solitary, without help from loving friends, and as if
forsaken by their two children, living far away! I dare not think of
it. What did not our good Mother do for _her_ Parents; and how greatly
has she deserved the like from us! Thou wilt comfort her, dear Sister;
and me thou wilt find heartily ready for all that thou canst propose
to me. Salute our dear Parents in the tenderest way, and tell them
that their Son feels their sorrows."

'The excellent Christophine did her utmost in these days of sorrow.
She comforted her Mother, and faithfully nursed her Father to his last
breath; nay she saved him and the house, with great presence of mind,
on a sudden inburst of French soldiers. Nor did she return to
Meiningen till all tumult of affairs was past, and the Mother was
again a little composed. And composure the Mother truly needed; for in
a short space she had seen a hopeful Daughter and a faithful Husband
laid in their graves; and by the death of her Husband a union severed
which, originating in mutual affection, had for forty-seven years been
blessed with the same mutual feeling. To all which in her position was
now added the doubly-pressing care about her future days. Here,
however, the Son so dear to her interposed with loving readiness, and
the tender manner natural to him:

"You, dear Mother," he writes, "must now choose wholly for yourself
what your way of life is to be; and let there be, I charge you, no
care about me or others in your choice. Ask yourself where you would
like best to live,—here with me, or with Christophine, or in our
native country with Luise. Whithersoever your choice falls, there will
we provide the means. For the present, of course, in the circumstances
given, you would remain in Würtemberg a little while; and in that time
all would be arranged. I think you might pass the winter months most
easily at Leonberg" (pleasant Village nearest to Solitüde); "and then
with the Spring you would come with Luise to Meiningen; where,
however, I would expressly advise that you had a household of your
own. But of all this, more next time. I would insist upon your coming
here to me, if I did not fear things would be too foreign and too
unquiet for you. But were you once in Meiningen, we will find means
enough to see each other, and to bring your dear Grandchildren to you.
It were a great comfort, dearest Mother, at least to know you, for the
first three or four weeks after Christophine's departure, among people
of your acquaintance; as the sole company of our Luise would too much
remind you of times that are gone. But should there be no Pension
granted by the Duke, and the Sale of Furniture, &c. did not detain you
too long, you might perhaps travel with both the Sisters to Meiningen;
and there compose yourself in the new world so much the sooner. All
that you need for a convenient life must and shall be yours, dear
Mother. It shall be henceforth my care that no anxiety on that head be
left you. After so many sorrows, the evening of your life must be
rendered cheerful, or at least peaceful; and I hope you will still, in
the bosom of your Children and Grandchildren, enjoy many a good day."
In conclusion, he bids her send him everything of Letters and MSS.
which his dear Father left; hereby to fulfil his last wish; which also
shall have its uses to his dear Mother.

'The Widow had a Pension granted by the Duke, of 200 gulden' (near
20_l._); 'and therein a comfortable proof that official people
recognised the worth of her late Husband, and held him in honour. She
remained in her native country; and lived the next three years,
according to her Son's counsel, with Luise in the little village of
Leonberg, near to Solitüde, where an arrangement had been made for
her. Here a certain Herr Roos, a native of Würtemberg, had made some
acquaintance with her, in the winter 1797-8; to whom we owe the
following sketch of portraiture. "She was a still-agreeable old person
of sixty-five or six, whose lean wrinkly face still bespoke
cheerfulness and kindliness. Her thin hair was all gray; she was of
short" (middle) "stature, and her attitude slightly stooping; she had
a pleasant tone of voice; and her speech flowed light and cheerful.
Her bearing generally showed native grace, and practical acquaintance
with social life."

'Towards the end of 1799, there opened to the Mother a new friendly
outlook in the marriage of her Luise to the young Parson, M. Frankh,
in Clever-Sulzbach, a little town near Heilbronn. The rather as the
worthy Son-in-law would on no account have the Daughter separated from
the Mother.' Error on Saupe's part. The Mother Schiller continued to
occupy her own house at Leonberg till near the end of her life; she
naturally made frequent little visits to Clever-Sulzbach; and her
death took place there.[60] 'Shortly before the marriage, Schiller
wrote, heartily wishing Mother and Sister happiness in this event. It
would be no small satisfaction to his Sister, he said, that she could
lodge and wait upon her good dear Mother in a well-appointed house of
her own; to his Mother also it must be a great comfort to see her
children all settled, and to live up again in a new generation.

    [Footnote 60: _Beziehungen_, p. 197, n.]

'Almost contemporary with the removal of the Son from Jena to Weimar
was the Mother's with her Daughter to Clever-Sulzbach. The peaceful
silence which now environed them in their rural abode had the most
salutary influence both on her temper of mind and on her health; all
the more as Daughter and Son-in-law vied with each other in respectful
attention to her. The considerable distance from her Son, when at
times it fell heavy on her, she forgot in reading his Letters; which
were ever the unaltered expression of the purest and truest
child-love. She forgot it too, as often, over the immortal works out
of which his powerful spirit spoke to her. She lived to hear the name
of Friedrich Schiller celebrated over all Germany with reverent
enthusiasm; and ennobled by the German People sooner and more
gloriously than an Imperial Patent could do it. Truly a Mother that
has had such joys in her Son is a happy one; and can and may say,
"Lord, now let me depart in peace; I have lived enough!"

'In the beginning of the year 1802, Schiller's Mother again fell ill.
Her Daughter Luise hastened at once to Stuttgart, where she then
chanced to be, and carried her home to Clever-Sulzbach, to be under
her own nursing. So soon as Schiller heard of this, he wrote, in
well-meant consideration of his Sister's frugal economies, to Dr.
Hoven, a friend of his youth at Ludwigsburg; and empowered him to take
his Mother over thither, under his own medical care: he, Schiller,
would with pleasure pay all that was necessary for lodging and
attendance. But the Mother stayed with her Daughter; wrote, however,
in her last Letter to Schiller: "Thy unwearied love and care for me
God reward with thousandfold love and blessings! Ah me! another such
Son there is not in the world!" Schiller, in his continual anxiety
about the dear Patient, had his chief solace in knowing her to be in
such tender hands; and he wrote at once, withal, to his Sister: "Thou
wilt permit me also that on my side I try to do something to lighten
these burdens for thee. I therefore make this agreement with my
Bookseller Cotta that he shall furnish my dear Mother with the
necessary money to make good, in a convenient way, the extra outlays
which her illness requires."

'Schiller's hope, supported by earlier experiences, that kind Nature
would again help his Mother, did not find fulfilment. On the contrary,
her case grew worse; she suffered for months the most violent pains;
and was visibly travelling towards Death. Two days before her
departure, she had the Medallion of her Son handed down to her from
the wall; and pressed it to her heart; and, with tears, thanked God,
who had given her such good children. On the 29th April 1802, she
passed away, in the 69th year of her age. Schiller, from the tenor of
the last news received, had given up all hope; and wrote, in
presentiment of the bitter loss, to his Sister Frankh at
Clever-Sulzbach:

     "Thy last letter, dearest Sister, leaves me without hope of
     our dear Mother. For a fortnight past I have looked with
     terror for the tidings of her departure; and the fact that
     thou hast not written in that time, is a ground of fear, not
     of comfort. Alas! under her late circumstances, life was no
     good to her more; a speedy and soft departure was the one
     thing that could be wished and prayed for. But write me,
     dear Sister, when thou hast recovered thyself a little from
     these mournful days. Write me minutely of her condition and
     her utterances in the last hours of her life. It comforts
     and composes me to busy myself with her, and to keep the
     dear image of my Mother living before me.

     "And so they are both gone from us, our dear Parents; and we
     Three alone remain. Let us be all the nearer to each other,
     dear Sister; and believe always that thy Brother, though so
     far away from thee and thy Sister, carries you both warmly
     in his heart; and in all the accidents of this life will
     eagerly meet you with his brotherly love.

     "But I can write no more today. Write me a few words soon. I
     embrace thee and thy dear Husband with my whole heart; and
     thank him again for all the love he has shown our departed
     Mother.

     "Your true Brother,

     "SCHILLER."

'Soon after this Letter, he received from Frankh, his Brother-in-law,
the confirmation of his sad anticipations. From his answer to Frankh
we extract the following passage: "May Heaven repay with rich interest
the dear Departed One all that she has suffered in life, and done for
her children! Of a truth she deserved to have loving children; for she
was a good Daughter to her suffering necessitous Parents; and the
childlike solicitude she always had for them well deserved the like
from us. You, my dear Brother-in-law, have shared the assiduous care
of my Sister for Her that is gone; and acquired thereby the justest
claim upon my brotherly love. Alas, you had already given your
spiritual support and filial service to my late Father, and taken on
yourself the duties of his absent Son. How cordially I thank you!
Never shall I think of my departed Mother without, at the same time,
blessing the memory of him who alleviated so kindly the last days of
her life." He then signifies the wish to have, from the effects of his
dear Mother, something that, without other worth, will remain a
continual memorial of her. And was in effect heartily obliged to his
Brother, who sent him a ring which had been hers. "It is the most
precious thing that he could have chosen for me," writes he to Luise;
"and I will keep it as a sacred inheritance." Painfully had it touched
him, withal, that the day of his entering his new house at Weimar had
been the death-day of his Mother. He noticed this singular
coincidence, as if in mournful presentiment of his own early decease,
as a singular concatenation of events by the hand of Destiny.

'A Tree and a plain stone Cross, with the greatly-comprehensive short
inscription, "Here rests Schiller's Mother," now mark her grave in
Clever-Sulzbach Churchyard.'


                           III. THE SISTERS.

Saupe has a separate Chapter on each of the three Sisters of Schiller;
but most of what concerns them, especially in relation to their
Brother, has been introduced incidentally above. Besides which,
Saupe's flowing pages are too long for our space; so that instead of
translating, henceforth, we shall have mainly to compile from Saupe
and others, and faithfully abridge.


_Christophine (born 4 Sept. 1757; married 'June 1786;' died 31 August
1847)._[61]

    [Footnote 61: Here, from Schiller Senior himself
    (_Autobiography_, called "_Curriculum Vitæ_," in
    _Beziehungen_, pp. 15-18), is a List of his six
    Children;—the two that died so young we have marked in
    italics:

    1. 'ELISABETH CHRISTOPHINE FRIEDERICKE, born 4 September
    1757, at Marbach.

    2. 'JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH, born 10 November 1759, at
    Marbach.

    3. 'LUISE DOROTHEA KATHARINA, born 24 January 1766, at Lorch.

    4. '_Maria Charlotte, born 20 November 1768, at Ludwigsburg:
    died 29 March 1774; age 5 gone._

    5. '_Beata Friedericke, born 4 May 1773, at Ludwigsburg: died
    22 December, same year._

    6. 'CAROLINE CHRISTIANE, born 8 September 1777, at
    Solitüde;'—(this is she they call, in fond diminutive,
    _Nane_ or _Nanette_.)]

Till Schiller's flight, in which what endless interest and industries
Christophine had we have already seen, the young girls,—Christophine
25, Luise 16, Nanette a rosy little creature of 5,—had known no
misfortune; nor, except Christophine's feelings on the death of the
two little Sisters, years ago, no heavy sorrow. At Solitüde, but for
the general cloud of anxiety and grief about their loved and gifted
Brother and his exile, their lives were of the peaceablest
description: diligence in household business, sewing, spinning,
contented punctuality in all things; in leisure hours eager reading
(or at times, on Christophine's part, drawing and painting, in which
she attained considerable excellence), and, as choicest recreation,
walks amid the flourishing Nurseries, Tree-avenues, and fine solid
industries and forest achievements of Papa. Mention is made of a
Cavalry Regiment stationed at Solitüde; the young officers of which,
without society in that dull place, and with no employment except
parade, were considerably awake to the comely Jungfers Schiller and
their promenadings in those pleasant woods: one Lieutenant of them
(afterwards a Colonel, 'Obrist von Miller of Stuttgart') is said to
have manifested honourable aspirations and intentions towards
Christophine,—which, however, and all connection with whom or his
comrades, the rigorously prudent Father strictly forbade; his piously
obedient Daughters, Christophine it is rather thought with some
regret, immediately conforming. A Portrait of this Von Miller, painted
by Christophine, still exists, it would appear, among the papers of
the Schillers.[62]

    [Footnote 62: _Beziehungen_, p. 217 n.]

The great transaction of her life, her marriage with Reinwald, Court
Librarian of Meiningen, had its origin in 1783; the fruit of that
forced retreat of Schiller's to Bauerbach, and of the eight months he
spent there, under covert, anonymously and in secret, as 'Dr. Ritter,'
with Reinwald for his one friend and adviser. Reinwald, who commanded
the resources of an excellent Library, and of a sound understanding,
long seriously and painfully cultivated, was of essential use to
Schiller; and is reckoned to be the first real guide or useful
counsellor he ever had in regard to Literature. One of Christophine's
Letters to her Brother, written at her Father's order, fell by
accident on Reinwald's floor, and was read by him,—awakening in his
over-clouded, heavy-laden mind a gleam of hope and aspiration. "This
wise, prudent, loving-hearted and judicious young woman, of such clear
and salutary principles of wisdom as to economics too, what a blessing
she might be to me as Wife in this dark, lonely home of mine!" Upon
which hint he spake; and Schiller, as we saw above, who loved him
well, but knew him to be within a year or two of fifty, always ailing
in health, taciturn, surly, melancholy, and miserably poor, was
rebuked by Papa for thinking it questionable. We said, it came about
all the same. Schiller had not yet left Mannheim for the second and
last time, when, in 1784, Christophine paid him a visit, escorted
thither by Reinwald; who had begged to have that honour allowed him;
having been at Solitüde, and, either there or on his road to Mannheim,
concluded his affair. Streicher, an eyewitness of this visit, says,
"The healthy, cheerful and blooming Maiden had determined to share her
future lot with a man whose small income and uncertain health seemed
to promise little joy. Nevertheless her reasons were of so noble a
sort, that she never repented, in times following, this sacrifice of
her fancy to her understanding, and to a Husband of real worth."[63]
They were married "June 1786;" and for the next thirty, or indeed, in
all, sixty years, Christophine lived in her dark new home at
Meiningen; and never, except in that melancholy time of sickness,
mortality and war, appears to have seen Native Land and Parents again.

    [Footnote 63: _Schwab_, p. 173, citing Streicher's words.]

What could have induced, in the calm and well-discerning Christophine,
such a resolution, is by no means clear; Saupe, with hesitation, seems
to assign a religious motive, "the desire of doing good." Had that
abrupt and peremptory dismissal of Lieutenant Miller perhaps something
to do with it? Probably her Father's humour on the matter, at all
times so anxious and zealous to see his Daughters settled, had a chief
effect. It is certain, Christophine consulted her Parish Clergyman on
the affair; and got from him, as Saupe shows us, an affirmatory or at
least permissive response. Certain also that she summoned her own best
insight of all kinds to the subject, and settled it calmly and
irrevocably with whatever faculty was in her.

To the candid observer Reinwald's gloomy ways were not without their
excuse. Scarcely above once before this, in his now longish life, had
any gleam of joy or success shone on him, to cheer the strenuous and
never-abated struggle. His father had been Tutor to the Prince of
Meiningen, who became Duke afterwards, and always continued to hold
him in honour. Father's death had taken place in 1751, young Reinwald
then in his fourteenth year. After passing with distinction his
three-years curriculum at Jena, Reinwald returned to Meiningen,
expecting employment and preferment;—the rather perhaps as his
Mother's bit of property got much ruined in the Seven-Years War then
raging. Employment Reinwald got, but of the meanest _Kanzlist_
(Clerkship) kind; and year after year, in spite of his merits, patient
faithfulness and undeniable talent, no preferment whatever. At length,
however, in 1762, the Duke, perhaps enlightened by experience as to
Reinwald, or by personal need of such a talent, did send him as
_Geheimer Kanzlist_ (kind of Private Secretary) to Vienna, with a
view to have from him reports "about politics and literary objects"
there. This was an extremely enjoyable position for the young man; but
it lasted only till the Duke's death, which followed within two years.
Reinwald was then immediately recalled by the new Duke (who, I think,
had rather been in controversy with his Predecessor), and thrown back
to nearly his old position; where, without any regard had to his real
talents and merits, he continued thirteen years, under the title of
_Consistorial Kanzlist_; and, with the miserablest fraction of yearly
pay, 'carried on the slavish, spirit-killing labours required of him.'
In 1776,—uncertain whether as promotion or as mere abridgment of
labour,—he was placed in the Library as now; that is to say, had
become _Sub_-Librarian, at a salary of about 15_l._, with all the
Library duties to do; an older and more favoured gentleman, perhaps in
lieu of pension, enjoying the Upper Office, and doing none of the
work.

Under these continual pressures and discouragements poor Reinwald's
heart had got hardened into mutinous indignation, and his health had
broken down: so that, by this time, he was noted in his little world
as a solitary, taciturn, morose and gloomy man; but greatly respected
by the few who knew him better, as a clear-headed, true and faithful
person, much distinguished by intellectual clearness and veracity, by
solid scholarly acquirements and sterling worth of character. To bring
a little help or cheerful alleviation to such a down-pressed man, if a
wise and gentle Christophine could accomplish it, would surely be a
bit of well-doing; but it was an extremely difficult one!

The marriage was childless; not, in the first, or in any times of it,
to be called unhappy; but, as the weight of years was added,
Christophine's problem grew ever more difficult. She was of a
compassionate nature, and had a loving, patient and noble heart;
prudent she was; the skilfulest and thriftiest of financiers; could
well keep silence, too, and with a gentle stoicism endure much small
unreason. Saupe says withal, 'Nobody liked a laugh better, or could
laugh more heartily than she, even in her extreme old age.'—Christophine
herself makes no complaint, on looking back upon her poor Reinwald,
thirty years after all was over. Her final record of it is: "for
twenty-nine years we lived contentedly together." But her rugged
hypochondriac of a Husband, morbidly sensitive to the least
interruption of his whims and habitudes, never absent from their one
dim sitting-room, except on the days in which he had to attend at the
Library, was in practice infinitely difficult to deal with; and seems
to have kept her matchless qualities in continual exercise. He
belonged to the class called in Germany _Stubengelehrten_ (Closet
Literary-men), who publish little or nothing that brings them profit,
but are continually poring and studying. Study was the one consolation
he had in life; and formed his continual employment to the end of his
days. He was deep in various departments, Antiquarian, Philological,
Historical; deep especially in Gothic philology, in which last he did
what is reckoned a real feat,—he, Reinwald, though again it was
another who got the reward. He had procured somewhere, 'a Transcript
of the famous Anglo-Saxon Poem _Heliand_ (Saviour) from the Cotton
Library in England,' this he, with unwearied labour and to great
perfection, had at last got ready for the press; Translation,
Glossary, Original all in readiness;—but could find no Publisher,
nobody that would print without a premium. Not to earn _less_ than
nothing by his labour, he sent the Work to the München Library; where,
in after years, one Schmeller found it, and used it for an _editio
princeps_ of his own. _Sic vos non vobis_; heavy-laden Reinwald![64]—

    [Footnote 64: _Schiller's Beziehungen_ (where many of
    Christophine's _Letters_, beautiful all of them, are given).]

To Reinwald himself Christophine's presence and presidency in his dim
household were an infinite benefit,—though not much recognised by
him, but accepted rather as a natural tribute due to unfortunate
down-pressed worth, till towards the very end, when the singular merit
of it began to dawn upon him, like the brightness of the Sun when it
is setting. Poor man, he anxiously spent the last two weeks of his
life in purchasing and settling about a neat little cottage for
Christophine; where accordingly she passed her long widowhood, on
stiller terms, though not on less beneficent and humbly beautiful,
than her marriage had offered.

Christophine, by pious prudence, faith in Heaven, and in the good
fruits of real goodness even on Earth, had greatly comforted the
gloomy, disappointed, pain-stricken man; enlightened his darkness, and
made his poverty noble. _Simplex munditiis_ might have been her motto
in all things. Her beautiful Letters to her Brother are full of
cheerful, though also, it is true, sad enough, allusions to her
difficulties with Reinwald, and partial successes. Poor soul, her
hopes, too, are gently turned sometimes on a blessed future, which
might still lie ahead: of her at last coming, as a Widow, to live with
her Brother, in serene affection, like that of their childhood
together; in a calm blessedness such as the world held no other for
her! But gloomy Reinwald survived bright Schiller for above ten years;
and she had thirty more of lone widowhood, under limited conditions,
to spend after him, still in a noble, humbly-admirable, and even
happy and contented manner. She was the flower of the Schiller
Sisterhood, though all three are beautiful to us; and in poor Nane,
there is even something of poetic, and tragically pathetic. For one
blessing, Christophine 'lived almost always in good health.' Through
life it may be said of her, she was helpful to all about her, never
hindersome to any; and merited, and had, the universal esteem, from
high and low, of those she had lived among. At Meiningen, 31st August
1847, within a few days of her ninety-first year, without almost one
day's sickness, a gentle stroke of apoplexy took her suddenly away,
and so ended what may be called a _Secular_ Saintlike existence,
mournfully beautiful, wise and noble to all that had beheld it.


_Nanette (born 8th September 1777, died 23d March 1796; age not yet
19)._

Of Nanette we were told how, in 1792, she charmed her Brother and his
Jena circle, by her recitations and her amiable enthusiastic nature;
and how, next year, on Schiller's Swabian visit, his love of her grew
to something of admiration, and practical hope of helping such a rich
talent and noble heart into some clear development,—when, two years
afterwards, death put, to the dear Nanette and his hopes about her, a
cruel end. We are now to give the first budding-out of those fine
talents and tendencies of poor Nanette, and that is all the history
the dear little Being has. Saupe proceeds:

'Some two years after Schiller's flight, Nanette as a child of six or
seven had, with her elder Sister Luise, witnessed the first
representation of Schiller's _Kabale und Liebe_ in the Stuttgart
theatre. With great excitement, and breath held-in, she had watched
the rolling-up of the curtain; and during the whole play no word
escaped her lips; but the excited glance of her eyes, and her
heightened colour, from act to act, testified her intense emotion. The
stormy applause with which her Brother's Play was received by the
audience made an indelible impression on her.

'The Players, in particular, had shone before her as in a magic light;
the splendour of which, in the course of years, rather increased than
diminished. The child's bright fancy loved to linger on those
never-to-be-forgotten people, by whom her Brother's Poem had been led
into her sight and understanding. The dawning thought, how glorious it
might be to work such wonders herself, gradually settled, the more she
read and heard of her dear Brother's poetic achievements, into the
ardent but secret wish of being herself able to represent his
Tragedies upon the stage. On her visit to Jena, and during her
Brother's abode in Swabia, she was never more attentive than when
Schiller spoke occasionally of the acting of his Pieces, or unfolded
his opinion of the Player's Art.

'The wish of Nanette, secretly nourished in this manner, to be able,
on the stage, which represents the world, to contribute to the glory
of her Brother, seized her now after his return with such force and
constancy, that Schiller's Sister-in-law, Caroline von Wolzogen, urged
him to yield to the same; to try his Sister's talent; and if it was
really distinguished, to let her enter this longed-for career.
Schiller had no love for the Player Profession; but as, in his then
influential connections in Weimar, he might steer clear of many a
danger, he promised to think the thing over. And thus this kind and
amiable protectress had the satisfaction of cheering Nanette's last
months with the friendly prospect that her wishes might be
fulfilled.—Schiller's hope, after a dialogue with Goethe on the
subject, had risen to certainty, when with the liveliest sorrow he
learnt that Nanette was ill of that contagious Hospital Fever, and, in
a few days more, that she was gone forever.'[65]

    [Footnote 65: _Saupe_, pp. 150-5.]

Beautiful Nanette; with such a softly-glowing soul, and such a brief
tragically-beautiful little life! Like a Daughter of the rosy-fingered
Morn; her existence all a sun-gilt soft auroral cloud, and no sultry
Day, with its dusts and disfigurements, permitted to follow. Father
Schiller seems, in his rugged way, to have loved Nanette best of them
all; in an embarrassed manner, we find him more than once recommending
her to Schiller's help, and intimating what a glorious thing for her,
were it a possible one, education might be. He followed her in few
months to her long home; and, by his own direction, 'was buried in the
Churchyard at Gerlingen by her side.'


_Luise (born 24th January 1766; married 20th October 1799; died 14th
September 1836)._

Of Luise's life too, except what was shown above, there need little be
said. In the dismal pestilential days at Solitüde, while her Father
lay dying, and poor Nanette caught the infection, Luise, with all her
tender assiduities and household talent, was there; but, soon after
Nanette's death, the fever seized her too; and she long lay
dangerously ill in that forlorn household; still weak, but slowly
recovering, when Christophine arrived.

The Father, a short while before his death, summoned to him that
excellent young Clergyman, Frankh, who had been so unweariedly kind to
them in this time of sickness when all neighbours feared to look in,
To ask him what his intentions towards Luise were. It was in presence
of the good old man that they made solemn promise to each other; and
at Leonberg, where thenceforth the now-widowed Mother's dwelling was,
they were formally betrothed; and some two years after that were
married.

Her Mother's death, so tenderly watched over, took place at their
Parsonage at Clever-Sulzbach, as we saw above. Frankh, about two years
after, was promoted to a better living, Möckmühl by name; and lived
there, a well-doing and respected Parson, till his death, in 1834;
which Luise's followed in September of the second year afterwards.
Their marriage lasted thirty-five years. Luise had brought him three
children; and seems to have been, in all respects, an excellent Wife.
She was ingenious in intellectuals as well as economics; had a taste
for poetry; a boundless enthusiasm for her Brother; seems to have been
an anxious Mother, often ailing herself but strenuously doing her best
at all times.

A touching memorial of Luise is Schiller's last Letter to her, Letter
of affectionate apology for long silence,—apology, and hope of doing
better,—written only a few weeks before his own death. It is as
follows:


     "Weimar, 27th March 1805.

     "Yes, it is a long time indeed, good dear Luise, since I
     have written to thee; but it was not for amusements that I
     forgot thee; it was because in this time I have had so many
     hard illnesses to suffer, which put me altogether out of my
     regular way; for many months I had lost all courage and
     cheerfulness, and given up all hope of my recovery. In such
     a humour one does not like to speak; and since then, on
     feeling myself again better, there was, after the long
     silence, a kind of embarrassment; and so it was still put
     off. But now, when I have been anew encouraged by thy
     sisterly love, I gladly join the thread again; and it shall,
     if God will, not again be broken.

     "Thy dear Husband's promotion to Möckmühl, which I learned
     eight days ago from our Sister" (Christophine), "has given
     us great joy, not only because it so much improves your
     position, but also because it is so honourable a testimony
     for my dear Brother-in-law's deserts. May you feel
     yourselves right happy in these new relations, and right
     long enjoy them! We too are got thereby a few miles nearer
     you; and on a future journey to Franconia, which we are
     every year projecting, we may the more easily get over to
     you.

     "How sorry am I, dear Sister, that thy health has suffered
     so much; and that thou wert again so unfortunate with thy
     confinement! Perhaps your new situation might permit you,
     this summer, to visit some tonic watering-place, which might
     do thee a great deal of good."—

     "Of our Family here, my Wife will write thee more at large.
     Our Children, this winter, have all had chicken-pox; and
     poor little Emilie" (a babe of four months) "had much to
     suffer in the affair. Thank God, things are all come round
     with us again, and my own health too begins to confirm
     itself.

     "A thousand times I embrace thee, dear Sister, and my dear
     Brother-in-law as well, whom I always wish from the heart to
     have more acquaintance with. Kiss thy Children in my name;
     may all go right happily with you, and much joy be in store!
     How would our dear Parents have rejoiced in your good
     fortune; and especially our dear Mother, had she been spared
     to see it! Adieu, dear Luise. With my whole soul,

     "Thy faithful Brother,

     "SCHILLER."


Schiller's tone and behaviour to his Sisters is always beautifully
human and brotherlike, as here. Full of affection, sincerity and the
warmest truest desire to help and cheer. The noble loving Schiller;
so mindful always of the lowly, from his own wildly-dangerous and
lofty path! He was never rich, poor rather always; but of a spirit
royally munificent in these respects; never forgets the poor
"birthdays" of his Sisters, whom one finds afterwards gratefully
recognising their "beautiful dress" or the like!—

       *       *       *       *       *

Of date some six weeks after this Letter to Luise, let us take from
Eyewitnesses one glimpse of Schiller's own deathbed. It is the eighth
day of his illness; his last day but one in this world:

'_Morning of 8th May 1805._— —Schiller, on awakening from sleep,
asked to see his youngest Child. The Baby' Emilie, spoken of above,
'was brought. He turned his head round; took the little hand in his,
and, with an inexpressible look of love and sorrow, gazed into the
little face; then burst into bitter weeping, hid his face among the
pillows; and made a sign to take the child away.'—This little Emilie
is now the Baroness von Gleichen, Co-editress with her Cousin Wolzogen
of the clear and useful Book, _Beziehungen_, often quoted above. It
was to that same Cousin Wolzogen's Mother (Caroline von Wolzogen,
Authoress of the Biography), and in the course of this same day, that
Schiller made the memorable response, "Calmer, and calmer."—'Towards
evening he asked to see the Sun once more. The curtain was opened;
with bright eyes and face he gazed into the beautiful sunset. It was
his last farewell to Nature.

'_Thursday 9th May._ All the morning, his mind was wandering; he spoke
incoherent words, mostly in Latin. About three in the afternoon,
complete weakness came on; his breathing began to be interrupted.
About four, he asked for naphtha, but the last syllable died on his
tongue. He tried to write, but produced only three letters; in which,
however, the character of his hand was still visible. Till towards
six, no change. His Wife was kneeling at the bedside; he still pressed
her offered hand. His Sister-in-law stood, with the Doctor, at the
foot of the bed, and laid warm pillows on his feet, which were growing
cold. There now darted, as it were, an electrical spasm over all his
countenance; the head sank back; the profoundest repose transfigured
his face. His features were as those of one softly sleeping,'—wrapt
in hard-won Victory and Peace forevermore![66]—

    [Footnote 66: _Schwab_, p. 627, citing Voss, an eyewitness;
    and Caroline von Wolzogen herself.]



                              APPENDIX I.



                            NO. 1. PAGE 31.

                           DANIEL SCHUBART.


The enthusiastic discontent so manifest in the _Robbers_ has by some
been in part attributed to Schiller's intercourse with Schubart. This
seems as wise as the hypothesis of Gray's Alderman, who, after half a
century of turtle-soup, imputed the ruin of his health to eating two
unripe grapes: 'he felt them cold upon his stomach, the moment they
were over; he never got the better of them.' Schiller, it appears, saw
Schubart only once, and their conversation was not of a confidential
kind. For any influence this interview could have produced upon the
former, the latter could have merited no mention here: it is on other
grounds that we refer to him. Schubart's history, not devoid of
interest in itself, unfolds in a striking light the circumstances
under which Schiller stood at present; and may serve to justify the
violence of his alarms, which to the happy natives of our Island might
otherwise appear pusillanimous and excessive. For these reasons we
subjoin a sketch of it.


Schubart's character is not a new one in literature; nor is it strange
that his life should have been unfortunate. A warm genial spirit; a
glowing fancy, and a friendly heart; every faculty but diligence, and
every virtue but 'the understrapping virtue of discretion:' such is
frequently the constitution of the poet; the natural result of it also
has frequently been pointed out, and sufficiently bewailed. This man
was one of the many who navigate the ocean of life with 'more sail
than ballast;' his voyage contradicted every rule of seamanship, and
necessarily ended in a wreck.

Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart was born at Obersontheim in
Swabia, on the 26th of April 1739. His father, a well-meaning soul,
officiated there in the multiple capacity of schoolmaster, precentor,
and curate; dignities which, with various mutations and improvements,
he subsequently held in several successive villages of the same
district. Daniel, from the first, was a thing of inconsistencies; his
life proceeded as if by fits and starts. At school, for a while, he
lay dormant: at the age of seven he could not read, and had acquired
the reputation of a perfect dunce. But 'all at once,' says his
biographer, 'the rind which enclosed his spirit started asunder;' and
Daniel became the prodigy of the school! His good father determined to
make a learned man of him: he sent him at the age of fourteen to the
Nordlingen Lyceum, and two years afterwards to a similar establishment
at Nürnberg. Here Schubart began to flourish with all his natural
luxuriance; read classical and domestic poets; spouted, speculated;
wrote flowing songs; discovered 'a decided turn for music,' and even
composed tunes for the harpsichord! In short, he became an
acknowledged _genius_: and his parents consented that he should go to
Jena, and perform his _cursus_ of Theology.

Schubart's purposes were not at all like the decrees of Fate: he set
out towards Jena; and on arriving at Erlangen, resolved to proceed no
farther, but perform his _cursus_ where he was. For a time he studied
well; but afterwards 'tumultuously,' that is, in violent fits,
alternating with fits as violent of idleness and debauchery. He became
a _Bursche_ of the first water; drank and declaimed, rioted and ran in
debt; till his parents, unable any longer to support such expenses,
were glad to seize the first opening in his _cursus_, and recall him.
He returned to them with a mind fevered by intemperance, and a
constitution permanently injured; his heart burning with regret, and
vanity, and love of pleasure; his head without habits of activity or
principles of judgment, a whirlpool where fantasies and hallucinations
and 'fragments of science' were chaotically jumbled to and fro. But
he could babble college-latin; and talk with a trenchant tone about
the 'revolutions of Philosophy.' Such accomplishments procured him
pardon from his parents: the precentorial spirit of his father was
more than reconciled on discovering that Daniel could also preach and
play upon the organ. The good old people still loved their prodigal,
and would not cease to hope in him.

As a preacher Schubart was at first very popular; he imitated Cramer;
but at the same time manifested first-rate pulpit talents of his own.
These, however, he entirely neglected to improve: presuming on his
gifts and their acceptance, he began to 'play such fantastic tricks
before high Heaven,' as made his audience sink to yawning, or explode
in downright laughter. He often preached extempore; once he preached
in verse! His love of company and ease diverted him from study: his
musical propensities diverted him still farther. He had special gifts
as an organist; but to handle the concordance and to make 'the heaving
bellows learn to blow' were inconsistent things.

Yet withal it was impossible to hate poor Schubart, or even seriously
to dislike him. A joyful, piping, guileless mortal, good nature,
innocence of heart, and love of frolic beamed from every feature of
his countenance; he wished no ill to any son of Adam. He was musical
and poetical, a maker and a singer of sweet songs; humorous also,
speculative, discursive; his speech, though aimless and redundant,
glittered with the hues of fancy, and here and there with the keenest
rays of intellect. He was vain, but had no touch of pride; and the
excellencies which he loved in himself, he acknowledged and as warmly
loved in others. He was a man of few or no principles, but his nervous
system was very good. Amid his chosen comrades, a jug of indifferent
beer and a pipe of tobacco could change the earth into elysium for
him, and make his brethren demigods. To look at his laughing eyes, and
his effulgent honest face, you were tempted to forget that he was a
perjured priest, that the world had duties for him which he was
neglecting. Had life been all a may-game, Schubart was the best of
men, and the wisest of philosophers.

Unluckily it was not: the voice of Duty had addressed him in vain; but
that of Want was more impressive. He left his father's house, and
engaged himself as tutor in a family at Königsbronn. To teach the
young idea how to shoot had few delights for Schubart: he soon gave up
this place in favour of a younger brother; and endeavoured to subsist,
for some time, by affording miscellaneous assistance to the clergy of
the neighbouring villages. Ere long, preferring even pedagogy to
starvation, he again became a teacher. The bitter morsel was sweetened
with a seasoning of music; he was appointed not only schoolmaster but
also organist of Geisslingen. A fit of diligence now seized him: his
late difficulties had impressed him; and the parson of the place, who
subsequently married Schubart's sister, was friendly and skilful
enough to turn the impression to account. Had poor Schubart always
been in such hands, the epithet 'poor' could never have belonged to
him. In this little village-school he introduced some important
reforms and improvements, and in consequence attracted several
valuable scholars. Also for his own behoof, he studied honestly. His
conduct here, if not irreprehensible, was at least very much amended.
His marriage, in his twenty-fifth year, might have improved it still
farther; for his wife was a good, soft-hearted, amiable creature, who
loved him with her whole heart, and would have died to serve him.

But new preferments awaited Schubart, and with them new temptations.
His fame as a musician was deservedly extending: in time it reached
Ludwigsburg, and the Grand Duke of Würtemberg himself heard Schubart
spoken of! The schoolmaster of Geisslingen was, in 1768, promoted to
be organist and band-director in this gay and pompous court. With a
bounding heart, he tossed away his ferula, and hastened to the scene,
where joys for evermore seemed calling on him. He plunged into the
heart of business and amusement. Besides the music which he taught and
played, publicly and privately, with great applause, he gave the
military officers instruction in various branches of science; he
talked and feasted; he indited songs and rhapsodies; he lectured on
History and the Belles Lettres. All this was more than Schubart's head
could stand. In a little time he fell in debt; took up with virtuosi;
began to read Voltaire, and talk against religion in his drink. From
the rank of genius, he was fast degenerating into that of profligate:
his affairs grew more and more embarrassed; and he had no gift of
putting any order in them. Prudence was not one of Schubart's virtues;
the nearest approximation he could make to it was now and then a
little touch of cunning. His wife still loved him; loved him with that
perverseness of affection, which increases in the inverse ratio of its
requital: she had long patiently endured his follies and neglect,
happy if she could obtain a transient hour of kindness from him. But
his endless course of riot, and the straits to which it had reduced
their hapless family, at length overcame her spirits: she grew
melancholy, almost broken-hearted; and her father took her home to
him, with her children, from the spendthrift who had been her ruin.
Schubart's course in Ludwigsburg was verging to its close; his
extravagance increased, and debts pressed heavier and heavier on him:
for some scandal with a young woman of the place, he was cast into
prison; and let out of it, with an injunction forthwith to quit the
dominions of the Grand Duke.

Forlorn and homeless, here then was Schubart footing the hard highway,
with a staff in his hand, and one solitary _thaler_ in his purse, not
knowing whither he should go. At Heilbronn, the Bürgermeister Wachs
permitted him to teach his Bürgermeisterinn the harpsichord; and
Schubart did not die of hunger. For a space of time he wandered to and
fro, with numerous impracticable plans; now talking for his victuals;
now lecturing or teaching music; kind people now attracted to him by
his genius and misfortunes, and anon repelled from him by the faults
which had abased him. Once a gleam of court-preferment revisited his
path: the Elector Palatine was made acquainted with his gifts, and
sent for him to Schwetzingen to play before him. His playing gratified
the Electoral ear; he would have been provided for, had he not in
conversation with his Highness happened to express a rather free
opinion of the Mannheim Academy, which at that time was his Highness's
hobby. On the instant of this luckless oversight, the door of
patronage was slammed in Schubart's face, and he stood solitary on the
pavement as before.

One Count Schmettau took pity on him; offered him his purse and home;
both of which the way-worn wanderer was happy to accept. At
Schmettau's he fell in with Baron Leiden, the Bavarian envoy, who
advised him to turn Catholic, and accompany the returning embassy to
Munich. Schubart hesitated to become a renegade; but departed with his
new patron, upon trial. In the way, he played before the Bishop of
Würzburg; was rewarded by his Princely Reverence with gold as well as
praise; and arrived under happy omens at Munich. Here for a while
fortune seemed to smile on him again. The houses of the great were
thrown open to him; he talked and played, and fared sumptuously every
day. He took serious counsel with himself about the great Popish
question; now inclining this way, now that: he was puzzling which to
choose, when Chance entirely relieved him of the trouble. 'A person of
respectability' in Munich wrote to Würtemberg to make inquiries who or
what this general favourite was; and received for answer, that the
general favourite was a villain, and had been banished from
Ludwigsburg for denying that there was a Holy Ghost!—Schubart was
happy to evacuate Munich without tap of drum.

Once more upon the road without an aim, the wanderer turned to
Augsburg, simply as the nearest city, and—set up a Newspaper! The
_Deutsche Chronik_ flourished in his hands; in a little while it had
acquired a decided character for sprightliness and talent; in time it
became the most widely circulated journal of the country. Schubart was
again a prosperous man: his writings, stamped with the vigorous
impress of his own genius, travelled over Europe; artists and men of
letters gathered round him; he had money, he had fame; the rich and
noble threw their parlours open to him, and listened with delight to
his overflowing, many-coloured conversation. He wrote paragraphs and
poetry; he taught music and gave concerts; he set up a spouting
establishment, recited newly-published poems, read Klopstock's
_Messias_ to crowded and enraptured audiences. Schubart's evil genius
seemed asleep, but Schubart himself awoke it. He had borne a grudge
against the clergy, ever since his banishment from Ludwigsburg; and he
now employed the facilities of his journal for giving vent to it. He
criticised the priesthood of Augsburg; speculated on their selfishness
and cant, and took every opportunity of turning them and their
proceedings into ridicule. The Jesuits especially, whom he regarded as
a fallen body, he treated with extreme freedom; exposing their
deceptions, and holding up to public contumely certain quacks whom
they patronised. The Jesuitic Beast was prostrate, but not dead: it
had still strength enough to lend a dangerous kick to any one who came
too near it. One evening an official person waited upon Schubart, and
mentioned an _arrest_ by virtue of a warrant from the Catholic
Bürgermeister! Schubart was obliged to go to prison. The heads of the
Protestant party made an effort in his favour: they procured his
liberty, but not without a stipulation that he should immediately
depart from Augsburg. Schubart asked to know his crime; but the
Council answered him: "We have our reasons; let that satisfy you:" and
with this very moderate satisfaction he was forced to leave their
city.

But Schubart was now grown an adept in banishment; so trifling an
event could not unhinge his equanimity. Driven out of Augsburg, the
philosophic editor sought refuge in Ulm, where the publication of his
journal had, for other reasons, already been appointed to take place.
The _Deutsche Chronik_ was as brilliant here as ever: it extended more
and more through Germany; 'copies of it even came to London, Paris,
Amsterdam, and Petersburg.' Nor had its author's fortune altered much;
he had still the same employments, and remunerations, and
extravagances; the same sort of friends, the same sort of enemies. The
latter were a little busier than formerly: they propagated scandals;
engraved caricatures, indited lampoons against him; but this he
thought a very small matter. A man that has been three or four times
banished, and as often put in prison, and for many years on the point
of starving, will not trouble himself much about a gross or two of
pasquinades. Schubart had his wife and family again beside him, he had
money also to support them; so he sang and fiddled, talked and wrote,
and 'built the lofty rhyme,' and cared no fig for any one.

But enemies, more fell than these, were lurking for the thoughtless
Man of Paragraphs. The Jesuits had still their feline eyes upon him,
and longed to have their talons in his flesh. They found a certain
General Ried, who joined them on a quarrel of his own. This General
Ried, the Austrian Agent at Ulm, had vowed inexpiable hatred against
Schubart, it would seem, for a very slight cause indeed: once Schubart
had engaged to play before him, and then finding that the harpsichord
was out of order, had refused, flatly refused! The General's elevated
spirit called for vengeance on this impudent plebeian; the Jesuits
encouraged him; and thus all lay in eager watch. An opportunity ere
long occurred. One week in 1778, there appeared in Schubart's
newspaper an Extract of a Letter from Vienna, stating that 'the
Empress Maria Theresa had been struck by apoplexy.' On reading which,
the General made instant application to his Ducal Highness, requesting
that the publisher of this 'atrocious libel' should be given up to him
and 'sent to expiate his crime in Hungary,' by imprisonment—for life.
The Duke desired his gallant friend to be at ease, for that _he_ had
long had his own eye on this man, and would himself take charge of
him. Accordingly, a few days afterwards, Herr von Scholl, Comptroller
of the Convent of Blaubeuren, came to Schubart with a multitude of
compliments, inviting him to dinner, "as there was a stranger wishing
to be introduced to him." Schubart sprang into the _Schlitten_ with
this wolf in sheep's clothing, and away they drove to Blaubeuren.
Arrived here, the honourable Herr von Scholl left him in a private
room, and soon returned with a posse of official Majors and Amtmen,
the chief of whom advanced to Schubart, and declared him—_an arrested
man_! The hapless Schubart thought it was a jest; but alas here was no
jesting! Schubart then said with a composure scarcely to be looked
for, that "he hoped the Duke would not condemn him unheard." In this
too he was deceived; the men of office made him mount a carriage with
them, and set off without delay for Hohenasperg. The Duke himself was
there with his Duchess, when these bloodhounds and their prey arrived:
the princely couple gazed from a window as the group went past them,
and a fellow-creature took his farewell look of sun and sky!


If hitherto the follies of this man have cast an air of farce upon his
sufferings, even when in part unmerited, such sentiments must now give
place to that of indignation at his cruel and cold-blooded
persecutors. Schubart, who never had the heart to hurt a fly, and with
all his indiscretions, had been no man's enemy but his own, was
conducted to a narrow subterraneous dungeon, and left, without book or
pen, or any sort of occupation or society, to chew the cud of bitter
thought, and count the leaden months as they passed over him, and
brought no mitigation of his misery. His Serene Transparency of
Würtemberg, nay the heroic General himself, might have been satisfied,
could they have seen him: physical squalor, combined with moral agony,
were at work on Schubart; at the end of a year, he was grown so weak,
that he could not stand except by leaning on the walls of his cell. A
little while, and he bade fair to get beyond the reach of all his
tyrants. This, however, was not what they wanted. The prisoner was
removed to a wholesome upper room; allowed the use of certain books,
the sight of certain company, and had, at least, the privilege to
think and breathe without obstruction. He was farther gratified by
hearing that his wife and children had been treated kindly: the boys
had been admitted to the Stuttgard school, where Schiller was now
studying; to their mother there had been assigned a pension of two
hundred gulden. Charles of Würtemberg was undoubtedly a weak and
heartless man, but we know not that he was a savage one: in the
punishment of Schubart, it is possible enough that he believed himself
to be discharging an important duty to the world. The only subject of
regret is, that any duty to the world, beyond the duty of existing
inoffensively, should be committed to such hands; that men like
Charles and Ried, endowed with so very small a fraction of the common
faculties of manhood, should have the destiny of any living thing at
their control.

Another mitigating circumstance in Schubart's lot was the character of
his gaoler. This humane person had himself tasted the tender mercies
of 'paternal' government; he knew the nature of a dungeon better even
than his prisoner. 'For four years,' we are told, 'he had seen no
human face; his scanty food had been lowered to him through a
trap-door; neither chair nor table were allowed him, his cell was
never swept, his beard and nails were left to grow, the humblest
conveniences of civilised humanity were denied him!'[67] On this man
affliction had produced its softening, not its hardening influence: he
had grown religious, and merciful in heart; he studied to alleviate
Schubart's hard fate by every means within his power. He spoke
comfortingly to him; ministered to his infirmities, and, in spite of
orders, lent him all his books. These, it is true, were only treatises
on theosophy and mystical devotion; but they were the best he had; and
to Schubart, in his first lonely dungeon, they afforded occupation and
solace.

    [Footnote 67: And yet Mr. Fox is reported to have said:
    _There was one_ FREE _Government on the Continent, and that
    one was—Würtemberg._ They had a parliament and 'three
    estates' like the English.—So much for paper Constitutions!]

Human nature will accommodate itself to anything. The King of Pontus
taught himself to eat poison: Schubart, cut out from intemperance and
jollity, did not pine away in confinement and abstemiousness; he had
lost Voltaire and gay company, he found delight in solitude and Jacob
Böhm. Nature had been too good to him to let his misery in any case be
unalloyed. The vague unguided ebullience of spirit, which had so often
set the table in a roar, and made him the most fascinating of
debauchees, was now mellowed into a cloudy enthusiasm, the sable of
which was still copiously blended with rainbow colours. His brain had
received a slight though incurable crack; there was a certain
exasperation mixed with his unsettled fervour; but he was not
wretched, often even not uncomfortable. His religion was not real; but
it had reality enough for present purposes; he was at once a sceptic
and a mystic, a true disciple of Böhm as well as of Voltaire. For
afflicted, irresolute, imaginative men like Schubart, this is not a
rare or altogether ineffectual resource: at the bottom of their minds
they doubt or disbelieve, but their hearts exclaim against the
slightest whisper of it; they dare not look into the fathomless abyss
of Infidelity, so they cover it over with the dense and
strangely-tinted smoke of Theosophy. Schubart henceforth now and then
employed the phrases and figures of religion; but its principles had
made no change in his theory of human duties: it was not food to
strengthen the weakness of his spirit, but an opiate to stay its
craving.

Schubart had still farther resources: like other great men in
captivity, he set about composing the history of his life. It is true,
he had no pens or paper; but this could not deter him. A
fellow-prisoner, to whom, as he one day saw him pass by the grating of
his window, he had communicated his desire, entered eagerly into the
scheme: the two contrived to unfasten a stone in a wall that divided
their apartments; when the prison-doors were bolted for the night,
this volunteer amanuensis took his place, Schubart trailed his
mattress to the friendly orifice, and there lay down, and dictated in
whispers the record of his fitful story. These memoirs have been
preserved; they were published and completed by a son of Schubart's:
we have often wished to see them, but in vain.

By day, Schubart had liberty to speak with certain visitors. One of
these, as we have said above, was Schiller. That Schubart, in their
single interview, was pleased with the enthusiastic friendly boy, we
could have conjectured, and he has himself informed us. 'Excepting
Schiller,' said the veteran garreteer, in writing afterwards to Gleim,
'I scarcely know of any German youth in whom the sacred spark of
genius has mounted up within the soul like flame upon the altar of a
Deity. We are fallen into the shameful times, when women bear rule
over men; and make the toilet a tribunal before which the most
gigantic minds must plead. Hence the stunted spirit of our poets;
hence the dwarf products of their imagination; hence the frivolous
witticism, the heartless sentiment, crippled and ricketed by soups,
ragouts and sweetmeats, which you find in fashionable balladmongers.'

Time and hours wear out the roughest day. The world began to feel an
interest in Schubart, and to take some pity on him: his songs and
poems were collected and published; their merit and their author's
misery exhibited a shocking contrast. His Highness of Würtemberg at
length condescended to remember that a mortal, of wants and feelings
like his own, had been forced by him to spend, in sorrow and inaction,
the third part of an ordinary lifetime; to waste, and worse than
waste, ten years of precious time; time, of which not all the dukes
and princes in the universe could give him back one instant. He
commanded Schubart to be liberated; and the rejoicing Editor
(unacquitted, unjudged, unaccused!) once more beheld the blue zenith
and the full ring of the horizon. He joined his wife at Stuttgard, and
recommenced his newspaper. The _Deutsche Chronik_ was again popular;
the notoriety of its conductor made amends for the decay which critics
did not fail to notice in his faculties. Schubart's sufferings had in
fact permanently injured him; his mind was warped and weakened by
theosophy and solitude; bleak northern vapours often flitted over it,
and chilled its tropical luxuriance. Yet he wrote and rhymed;
discoursed on the corruption of the times, and on the means of their
improvement. He published the first portion of his Life, and often
talked amazingly about the Wandering Jew, and a romance of which he
was to form the subject. The idea of making old _Joannes a
temporibus_, the 'Wandering,' or as Schubart's countrymen denominate
him the 'Eternal Jew,' into a novel hero, was a mighty favourite with
him. In this antique cordwainer, as on a raft at anchor in the stream
of time, he would survey the changes and wonders of two thousand
years: the Roman and the Arab were to figure there; the Crusader and
the Circumnavigator, the Eremite of the Thebaid and the Pope of Rome.
Joannes himself, the Man existing out of Time and Space, Joannes the
unresting and undying, was to be a deeply tragic personage. Schubart
warmed himself with this idea; and talked about it in his cups, to the
astonishment of simple souls. He even wrote a certain rhapsody
connected with it, which is published in his poems. But here he
rested; and the project of the Wandering Jew, which Goethe likewise
meditated in his youth, is still unexecuted. Goethe turned to other
objects: and poor Schubart was surprised by death, in the midst of his
schemes, on the 10th of October 1791.


Of Schubart's character as a man, this record of his life leaves but a
mean impression. Unstable in his goings, without principle or plan, he
flickered through existence like an _ignis-fatuus_; now shooting into
momentary gleams of happiness and generosity, now quenched in the
mephitic marshes over which his zig-zag path conducted him. He had
many amiable qualities, but scarcely any moral worth. From first to
last his circumstances were against him; his education was
unfortunate, its fluctuating aimless wanderings enhanced its ill
effects. The thrall of the passing moment, he had no will; the fine
endowments of his heart were left to riot in chaotic turbulence, and
their forces cancelled one another. With better models and advisers,
with more rigid habits, and a happier fortune, he might have been an
admirable man: as it is, he is far from admirable.

The same defects have told with equal influence on his character as a
writer. Schubart had a quick sense of the beautiful, the moving, and
the true; his nature was susceptible and fervid; he had a keen
intellect, a fiery imagination; and his 'iron memory' secured forever
the various produce of so many gifts. But he had no diligence, no
power of self-denial. His knowledge lay around him like the plunder of
a sacked city. Like this too, it was squandered in pursuit of casual
objects. He wrote in gusts; the _labor limæ et mora_ was a thing he
did not know. Yet his writings have great merit. His newspaper essays
abound in happy illustration and brilliant careless thought. His
songs, excluding those of a devotional and theosophic cast, are often
full of nature, heartiness and true simplicity. 'From his youth
upwards,' we are told, 'he studied the true Old-German _Volkslied_; he
watched the artisan on the street, the craftsman in his workshop, the
soldier in his guardhouse, the maid by the spinning-wheel; and
transferred the genuine spirit of primeval Germanism, which he found
in them, to his own songs.' Hence their popularity, which many of them
still retain. 'In his larger lyrical pieces,' observes the same not
injudicious critic, 'we discover fearless singularity; wild
imagination, dwelling rather on the grand and frightful than on the
beautiful and soft; deep, but seldom long-continued feeling; at times
far-darting thoughts, original images, stormy vehemence; and generally
a glowing, self-created, figurative diction. He never wrote to show
his art; but poured forth, from the inward call of his nature, the
thought or feeling which happened for the hour to have dominion in
him.'[68]

    [Footnote 68: _Jördens Lexicon_: from which most part of the
    above details are taken.—There exists now a decidedly
    compact, intelligent and intelligible _Life of Schubart_,
    done, in three little volumes, by Strauss, some years ago.
    (_Note of_ 1857.)]

Such were Schubart and his works and fortunes; the _disjecta membra_
of a richly-gifted but ill-starred and infatuated poet! The image of
his persecutions added speed to Schiller's flight from Stuttgard; may
the image of his wasted talents and ineffectual life add strength to
our resolves of living otherwise!



                         LETTERS OF SCHILLER.


A few Extracts from Schiller's correspondence may be gratifying to
some readers. The _Letters to Dalberg_, which constitute the chief
part of it as yet before the public, are on the whole less interesting
than might have been expected, if we did not recollect that the writer
of them was still an inexperienced youth, overawed by his idea of
Dalberg, to whom he could communicate with freedom only on a single
topic; and besides oppressed with grievances, which of themselves
would have weighed down his spirit, and prevented any frank or cordial
exposition of its feelings.

Of the Reichsfreiherr von Dalberg himself, this correspondence gives
us little information, and we have gleaned little elsewhere. He is
mentioned incidentally in almost every literary history connected with
his time; and generally as a mild gentlemanly person, a judicious
critic, and a warm lover of the arts and their cultivators. The following
notice of his death is extracted from the _Conversations-Lexicon_,
Part III. p. 12: 'Died at Mannheim, on the 27th of December 1806, in
his 85th year, Wolfgang Heribert, Reichsfreiherr von Dalberg; knighted
by the Emperor Leopold on his coronation at Frankfort. A warm friend
and patron of the arts and sciences; while the German Society
flourished at Mannheim, he was its first President; and the theatre of
that town, the school of the best actors in Germany, of Iffland, Beck,
Beil, and many others, owes to him its foundation, and its maintenance
throughout his long Intendancy, which he held till 1803. As a writer
and a poet, he is no less favourably known. We need only refer to his
_Cora_, a musical drama, and to 'the _Monch von Carmel_.'—These
letters of Schiller were found among his papers at his death; rescued
from destruction by two of his executors, and published at Carlsruhe,
in a small duodecimo, in the year 1819. There is a verbose preface,
but no note or comment, though some such aid is now and then a little
wanted.

The letters most worthy of our notice are those relating to the
exhibition of the _Robbers_ on the Mannheim stage, and to Schiller's
consequent embarrassments and flight. From these, accordingly, the
most of our selections shall be taken. It is curious to see with what
timidity the intercourse on Schiller's part commences; and how this
awkward shyness gradually gives place to some degree of confidence, as
he becomes acquainted with his patron, or is called to treat of
subjects where he feels that he himself has a dignity, and rights of
his own, forlorn and humble as he is. At first he never mentions
Dalberg but with all his titles, some of which to our unceremonious
ears seem ludicrous enough. Thus in the full style of German
reverence, he avoids directly naming his correspondent, but uses the
oblique designation of 'your Excellency,' or something equally
exalted: and he begins his two earliest letters with an address,
which, literally interpreted, runs thus: 'Empire-free, Highly-wellborn,
Particularly-much-to-be-venerated, Lord Privy Counsellor!' Such
sounding phrases make us smile: but they entirely depend on custom for
their import, and the smile which they excite is not by any means a
philosophic one. It is but fair that in our version we omit them, or
render them by some more grave equivalent.

The first letter is as follows:


     [No date.]

     'The proud judgment, passed upon me in the flattering letter
     which I had the honour to receive from your Excellency, is
     enough to set the prudence of an Author on a very slippery
     eminence. The authority of the quarter it proceeds from,
     would almost communicate to that sentence the stamp of
     infallibility, if I could regard it as anything but a mere
     encouragement of my Muse. More than this a deep feeling of my
     weakness will not let me think it; but if my strength shall
     ever climb to the height of a masterpiece, I certainly shall
     have this warm approval of your Excellency alone to thank for
     it, and so will the world. For several years I have had the
     happiness to know you from the public papers: long ago the
     splendour of the Mannheim theatre attracted my attention.
     And, I confess, ever since I felt any touch of dramatic
     talent in myself, it has been among my darling projects some
     time or other to remove to Mannheim, the true temple of
     Thalia; a project, however, which my _closer_ connection with
     Würtemberg might possibly impede.

     'Your Excellency's very kind proposal on the subject of the
     _Robbers_, and such other pieces as I may produce in future,
     is infinitely precious to me; the maturing of it well
     deserves a narrower investigation of your Excellency's
     theatre, its special mode of management, its actors, the _non
     plus ultra_ of its machinery; in a word, a full conception of
     it, such as I shall never get while my only scale of
     estimation is this Stuttgard theatre of ours, an
     establishment still in its minority. Unhappily my
     _economical_ circumstances render it impossible for me to
     travel much; though I could travel now with the greater
     happiness and confidence, as I have still some _pregnant
     ideas_ for the Mannheim theatre, which I could wish to have
     the honour of communicating to your Excellency. For the rest,
     I remain,' &c.


From the second letter we learn that Schiller had engaged to
_theatrilise_ his original edition of the _Robbers_, and still wished
much to be connected in some shape with Mannheim. The third explains
itself:


     'Stuttgard, 6th October 1781.

     'Here then at last returns the luckless prodigal, the
     remodelled _Robbers_! I am sorry that I have not kept the
     time, appointed by myself; but a transitory glance at the
     number and extent of the changes I have made, will, I trust,
     be sufficient to excuse me. Add to this, that a contagious
     epidemic was at work in our military Hospital, which, of
     course, interfered very often with my _otia poetica_. After
     finishing my work, I may assure you I could engage with less
     effort of mind, and certainly with far more contentment, to
     compose a new piece, than to undergo the labour I have just
     concluded. The task was complicated and tedious. Here I had
     to correct an error, which naturally was rooted in the very
     groundwork of the play; there perhaps to sacrifice a beauty
     to the limits of the stage, the humour of the pit, the
     stupidity of the gallery, or some such sorrowful convention;
     and I need not tell you, that as in nature, so on the stage,
     an idea, an emotion, can have only one suitable expression,
     one proper tone. A single alteration in a trait of character
     may give a new tendency to the whole personage, and,
     consequently, to his actions, and the mechanism of the piece
     which depends on them.

     'In the original, the Robbers are exhibited in strong
     contrast with each other; and I dare maintain that it is
     difficult to draw half a dozen robbers in strong contrast,
     without in some of them offending the delicacy of the stage.
     In my first conception of the piece, I excluded the idea of
     its ever being represented in a theatre; hence came it that
     Franz was planned as a _reasoning_ villain; a plan which,
     though it may content the thinking Reader, cannot fail to vex
     and weary the Spectator, who does not come to think, and who
     wants not philosophy, but action.

     'In the new edition, I could not overturn this arrangement
     without breaking-down the whole economy of the piece.
     Accordingly I can predict, with tolerable certainty, that
     Franz when he appears on the stage, will not play the part
     which he has played with the reader. And, at all events, the
     rushing stream of the action will hurry the spectator over
     all the finer shadings, and rob him of a third part of the
     whole character.

     'Karl von Moor might chance to form an era on the stage;
     except a few speculations, which, however, work as
     indispensable colours in the general picture, he is all
     action, all visible life. Spiegelberg, Schweitzer, Hermann,
     are, in the strictest sense, personages for the stage; in a
     less degree, Amelia and the Father.

     'Written and oral criticisms I have endeavoured to turn to
     advantage. The alterations are important; certain scenes are
     altogether new. Of this number, are Hermann's counter-plots
     to undermine the schemes of Franz; his interview with that
     personage, which, in the first composition of the work, was
     entirely and very unhappily forgotten. His interview with
     Amelia in the garden has been postponed to the succeeding
     act; and my friends tell me that I could have fixed upon no
     better act than this, no better time than a few moments prior
     to the meeting of Amelia with Moor. Franz is brought a little
     nearer human nature; but the mode of it is rather strange. A
     scene like his condemnation in the fifth act has never, to my
     knowledge, been exhibited on any stage; and the same may be
     said of the scene where Amelia is sacrificed by her lover.

     'If the piece should be too long, it stands at the discretion
     of the manager to abbreviate the speculative parts of it, or
     here and there, without prejudice to the general impression,
     to omit them altogether. But in the _printing_, I use the
     freedom humbly to protest against the leaving out of
     anything. I had satisfactory reasons of my own for all that I
     allowed to pass; and my submission to the stage does not
     extend so far, that I can leave _holes_ in my work, and
     mutilate the characters of men for the convenience of actors.

     'In regard to the selection of costume, without wishing to
     prescribe any rules, I may be permitted to remark, that
     though in nature dress is unimportant, on the stage it is
     never so. In this particular, the taste of my Robber Moor
     will not be difficult to hit. He wears a plume; for this is
     mentioned expressly in the play, at the time when he
     abdicates his office. I have also given him a baton. His
     dress should always be noble without ornament, unstudied but
     not negligent.

     'A young but excellent composer is working at a symphony for
     my unhappy prodigal: I know it will be masterly. So soon as
     it is finished, I shall take the liberty of offering it to
     you.

     'I must also beg you to excuse the irregular state of the
     manuscript, the incorrectness of the penmanship. I was in
     haste to get the piece ready for you; hence the double sort
     of handwriting in it; hence also my forbearing to correct it.
     My copyist, according to the custom of all _reforming_
     caligraphers, I find, has wofully abused the spelling. To
     conclude, I recommend myself and my endeavours to the
     kindness of an honoured judge. I am,' &c.


     'Stuttgard, 12th December 1781.

     'With the change projected by your Excellency, in regard to
     the publishing of my play, I feel entirely contented,
     especially as I perceive that by this means two interests
     that had become very alien, are again made one, without, as
     I hope, any prejudice to the results and the success of my
     work. Your Excellency, however, touches on some other _very_
     weighty changes, which the piece has undergone from your
     hands; and these, in respect of myself, I feel to be so
     important, that I shall beg to explain my mind at some length
     regarding them. At the outset, then, I must honestly confess
     to you, I hold the projected transference of the action
     represented in my play to the epoch of the _Landfried_, and
     the Suppression of Private Wars, with the whole accompaniment
     which it gains by this new position, as infinitely better
     than mine; and must hold it so, although the whole piece
     should go to ruin thereby. Doubtless it is an objection, that
     in our enlightened century, with our watchful police and
     fixedness of statute, such a reckless gang should have arisen
     in the very bosom of the laws, and still more, have taken
     root and subsisted for years: doubtless the objection is well
     founded, and I have nothing to allege against it, but the
     license of Poetry to raise the probabilities of the real
     world to the rank of true, and its possibilities to the rank
     of probable.

     'This excuse, it must be owned, is little adequate to the
     objection it opposes. But when I grant your Excellency so
     much (and I grant it honestly, and with complete conviction),
     what will follow? Simply that my play has got an ugly fault
     at its birth, which fault, if I may say so, it must carry
     with it to its grave, the fault being interwoven with its
     very nature, and not to be removed without destruction of the
     whole.

     'In the first place, all my personages speak in a style too
     modern, too enlightened for that ancient time. The dialect is
     not the right one. That simplicity so vividly presented to us
     by the author of _Götz von Berlichingen_, is altogether
     wanting. Many long tirades, touches great and small, nay
     entire characters, are taken from the aspect of the present
     world, and would not answer for the age of Maximilian. In a
     word, this change would reduce the piece into something like
     a certain woodcut which I remember meeting with in an edition
     of Virgil. The Trojans wore hussar boots, and King Agamemnon
     had a pair of pistols in his belt. I should commit a _crime_
     against the age of Maximilian, to avoid an _error_ against
     the age of Frederick the Second.

     'Again, my whole episode of Amelia's love would make a
     frightful contrast with the simple chivalry attachment of
     that period. Amelia would, at all hazards, need to be
     re-moulded into a chivalry maiden; and I need not tell you
     that this character, and the sort of love which reigns in my
     work, are so deeply and broadly tinted into the whole picture
     of the Robber Moor, nay, into the whole piece, that every
     part of the delineation would require to be re-painted,
     before those tints could be removed. So likewise is it with
     the character of Franz, that speculative,
     metaphysico-refining knave.

     'In a word, I think I may affirm, that this projected
     transposition of my work, which, prior to the commencement,
     would have lent it the highest splendour and completeness,
     could not fail now, when the piece is planned and finished,
     to change it into a defective _quodlibet_, a crow with
     peacock's feathers.

     'Your Excellency will forgive a father this earnest pleading
     in behalf of his son. These are but words, and in the
     long-run every theatre can make of any piece what they think
     proper; the author must content himself. In the present case,
     he looks upon it as a happiness that he has fallen into such
     hands. With Herr Schwann, however, I will make it a condition
     that, at least, he _print_ the piece according to the first
     plan. In the theatre I pretend to no vote whatever.

     'That other change relating to Amelia's death was perhaps
     even more interesting to me. Believe me, your Excellency,
     this was the portion of my play which cost me the greatest
     effort and deliberation, of all which the result was nothing
     else than this, that Moor _must_ kill his Amelia, and that
     the action is even a _positive beauty_, in his character; on
     the one hand painting the ardent lover, on the other the
     Bandit Captain, with the liveliest colours. But the
     vindication of this part is not to be exhausted in a single
     letter. For the rest, the few words which you propose to
     substitute in place of this scene, are truly exquisite, and
     altogether worthy of the situation. I should be proud of
     having written them.

     'As Herr Schwann informs me that the piece, with the music
     and indispensably necessary pauses, will last about five
     hours (too long for any piece!), a second curtailment of it
     will be called for. I should not wish that any but myself
     undertook this task, and I myself, _without the sight of a
     rehearsal, or of the first representation_, cannot undertake
     it.

     'If it were possible that your Excellency could fix the
     general rehearsal of the piece some time between the
     twentieth and the thirtieth of this month, and make good to
     me the main expenses of a journey to you, I should hope, in
     some few days, I might unite the interest of the stage with
     my own, and give the piece that proper rounding-off, which,
     without an actual view of the representation, cannot well be
     given it. On this point, may I request the favour of your
     Excellency's decision soon, that I may be prepared for the
     event.

     'Herr Schwann writes me that a Baron von Gemmingen has given
     himself the trouble and done me the honour to read my piece.
     This Herr von Gemmingen, I also hear, is author of the
     _Deutsche Hausvater_. I long to have the honour of assuring
     him that I liked his _Hausvater_ uncommonly, and admired in
     it the traces of a most accomplished man and writer. But what
     does the author of the _Deutsche Hausvater_ care about the
     babble of a young apprentice? If I should ever have the
     honour of meeting Dalberg at Mannheim, and testifying the
     affection and reverence I bear him, I will then also press
     into the arms of that other, and tell him how dear to me such
     souls are as Dalberg and Gemmingen.

     'Your thought about the small Advertisement, before our
     production of the piece, I exceedingly approve of; along with
     this I have enclosed a sketch of one. For the rest, I have
     the honour, with perfect respect, to be always,' &c.


     This is the enclosed scheme of an Advertisement; which was
     afterwards adopted:


                             'THE ROBBERS,

                               'A PLAY.

     'The picture of a great, misguided soul, furnished with every
     gift for excellence, and lost in spite of all its gifts:
     unchecked ardour and bad companionship contaminate his heart;
     hurry him from vice to vice, till at last he stands at the
     head of a gang of murderers, heaps horror upon horror,
     plunges from abyss to abyss into all the depths of
     desperation. Great and majestic in misfortune; and by
     misfortune improved, led back to virtue. Such a man in the
     Robber Moor you shall "bewail and hate, abhor and love. A
     hypocritical, malicious deceiver, you shall likewise see
     unmasked, and blown to pieces in his own mines. A feeble,
     fond, and too indulgent father. The sorrows of enthusiastic
     love, and the torture of ungoverned passion. Here also, not
     without abhorrence, you shall cast a look into the interior
     economy of vice, and from the stage be taught how all the
     gilding of fortune cannot kill the inward worm; how terror,
     anguish, remorse, and despair follow close upon the heels of
     the wicked. Let the spectator weep today before our scene,
     and shudder, and learn to bend his passions under the laws of
     reason and religion. Let the youth behold with affright the
     end of unbridled extravagance; nor let the man depart from
     our theatre, without a feeling that Providence makes even
     villains instruments of His purposes and judgments, and can
     marvellously unravel the most intricate perplexities of
     fate.'


Whatever reverence Schiller entertained for Dalberg as a critic and a
patron, and however ready to adopt his alterations when they seemed
judicious, it is plain, from various passages of these extracts, that
in regard to writing, he had also firm persuasions of his own, and
conscientiousness enough to adhere to them while they continued such.
In regard to the conducting of his life, his views as yet were far
less clear. The following fragments serve to trace him from the first
exhibition of his play at Mannheim to his flight from Stuttgard:


     'Stuttgard, 17th January 1782.

     'I here in writing repeat my warmest thanks for the
     courtesies received from your Excellency, for your attention
     to my slender efforts, for the dignity and splendour you
     bestowed upon my piece, for all your Excellency did to exalt
     its little merits and hide its weaknesses by the greatest
     outlay of theatric art. The shortness of my stay at Mannheim
     would not allow me to go into details respecting the play or
     its representation; and as I could not say all, my time
     being meted out to me so sparingly, I thought it better to
     say absolutely nothing. I observed much, I learned much; and
     I believe, if Germany shall ever find in me a true dramatic
     poet, I must reckon the date of my commencement from the
     past week.' * * *

       *       *       *       *       *

     'Stuttgard, 24th May 1782.

     * * * 'My impatient wish to see the piece played a second
     time, and the absence of my Sovereign favouring that
     purpose, have induced me, with some ladies and male friends
     as full of curiosity respecting Dalberg's theatre and
     _Robbers_ as myself, to undertake a little journey to
     Mannheim, which we are to set about tomorrow. As this is the
     principal aim of our journey, and to me a more perfect
     enjoyment of my play is an exceedingly important object,
     especially since this would put it in my power to set about
     _Fiesco_ under better auspices, I make it my earnest request
     of your Excellency, if possible, to procure me this
     enjoyment on Tuesday the 28th current.' * * *

       *       *       *       *       *

     'Stuttgard, 4th June 1782.

     'The satisfaction I enjoyed at Mannheim in such copious
     fulness, I have paid, since my return, by this epidemical
     disorder, which has made me till today entirely unfit to
     thank your Excellency for so much regard and kindness. And
     yet I am forced almost to repent the happiest journey of my
     life; for by a truly mortifying contrast of Mannheim with my
     native country, it has pained me so much, that Stuttgard and
     all Swabian scenes are become intolerable to me. Unhappier
     than I am can no one be. I have feeling enough of my bad
     condition, perhaps also feeling enough of my meriting a
     better; and in both points of view but _one_ prospect of
     relief.

     'May I dare to cast myself into your arms, my generous
     benefactor? I know how soon your noble heart inflames when
     sympathy and humanity appeal to it; I know how strong your
     courage is to undertake a noble action, and how warm your
     zeal to finish it. My new friends in Mannheim, whose respect
     for you is boundless, told me this: but their assurance was
     not necessary; I myself in that hour of your time, which I
     had the happiness exclusively to enjoy, read in your
     countenance far more than they had told me. It is this which
     makes me bold to _give_ myself without reserve to you, to
     put my whole fate into your hands, and look to you for the
     happiness of my life. As yet I am little or nothing. In this
     Arctic Zone of taste, I shall never grow to anything, unless
     happier stars and a _Grecian climate_ warm me into genuine
     poetry. Need I say more, to expect from Dalberg all support?

     'Your Excellency gave me every hope to this effect; the
     squeeze of the hand that sealed your promise, I shall
     forever feel. If your Excellency will adopt the two or three
     hints I have subjoined, and use them in a letter to the
     Duke, I have no very great misgivings as to the result.

     'And now with a burning heart, I repeat the request, the
     soul of all this letter. Could you look into the interior of
     my soul, could you see what feelings agitate it, could I
     paint to you in proper colours how my spirit strains against
     the grievances of my condition, you would not, I know you
     would not, delay one hour the aid which an application from
     you to the Duke might procure me.

     'Again I throw myself into your arms, and wish nothing more
     than soon, very soon, to have it in my power to show by
     personal exertions in your service, the reverence with which
     I could devote to you myself and all that I am.'


The 'hints' above alluded to, are given in a separate enclosure, the
main part of which is this:


     'I earnestly desire that you could secure my union with the
     Mannheim Theatre for a specified period (which at your
     request might be lengthened), at the end of which I might
     again belong to the Duke. It will thus have the air rather
     of an excursion than a final abdication of my country, and
     will not strike them so ungraciously. In this case, however,
     it would be useful to suggest that means of practising and
     studying medicine might be afforded me at Mannheim. This
     will be peculiarly necessary, lest they sham, and higgle
     about letting me away.'


     'Stuttgard, 15th July 1782.

     'My long silence must have almost drawn upon me the reproach
     of folly from your Excellency, especially as I have not only
     delayed answering your last kind letter, but also retained
     the two books by me. All this was occasioned by a harassing
     affair which I have had to do with here. Your Excellency
     will doubtless be surprised when you learn that, for my last
     journey to you, I have been confined a fortnight under
     arrest. Everything was punctually communicated to the Duke.
     On this matter I have had an interview with him.

     'If your Excellency think my prospects of coming to you
     anywise attainable, my only prayer is to _accelerate the
     fulfilment of them_. The reason why I now wish this with
     double earnestness, is one which I dare trust no whisper of
     to paper. This alone I can declare for certain, that within
     a month or two, if I have not the happiness of being with
     you, there will remain no further hope of my ever being
     there. Ere that time, I shall be forced to take a _step_,
     which will render it impossible for me to stay at Mannheim.'
     * * *

       *       *       *       *       *

The next two extracts are from letters to another correspondent.
Doering quotes them without name or date: their purport sufficiently
points out their place.


     'I must haste to get away from this: in the end they might
     find me an apartment in the Hohenasperg, as they have found
     the honest and ill-fated Schubart. They talk of better
     culture that I need. It is possible enough, they might
     cultivate me differently in Hohenasperg: but I had rather
     try to make shift with what culture I have got, or may still
     get, by my unassisted efforts. This at least I owe to no one
     but my own free choice, and volition that disdains
     constraint.'

       *       *       *       *       *

     'In regard to those affairs, concerning which they wish to
     put my spirit under wardship, I have long reckoned my
     minority to be concluded. The best of it is, that one can
     cast away such clumsy manacles: me at least they shall not
     fetter.'

       *       *       *       *       *

     [No date.]

     'Your Excellency will have learned from my friends at
     Mannheim, what the history of my affairs was up to your
     arrival, which unhappily I could not wait for. When I tell
     you _that I am flying my country_, I have painted my whole
     fortune. But the worst is yet behind. I have not the
     necessary _means_ of setting my mishap at defiance. For the
     sake of safety, I had to withdraw from Stuttgard with the
     utmost speed, at the time of the Prince's arrival. Thus were
     my economical arrangements suddenly snapped asunder: I could
     not even pay my debts. My hopes had been set on a removal to
     Mannheim; there I trusted, by your Excellency's assistance,
     that my new play might not only have cleared me of debt, but
     have permanently put me into better circumstances. All this
     was frustrated by the necessity for hastening my removal. I
     went empty away; empty in purse and hope. I blush at being
     forced to make such disclosures to you; though I know they
     do not disgrace me. Sad enough for me to see realised in
     myself the hateful saying, that mental growth and full
     stature are things denied to every Swabian!

     'If my former conduct, if all that your Excellency knows of
     my character, inspires you with confidence in my love of
     honour, permit me frankly to ask your assistance. Pressingly
     as I now need the profit I expect from my _Fiesco_, it will
     be impossible for me to have the piece in readiness before
     three weeks: my heart was oppressed; the feeling of my own
     situation drove me back from my poetic dreams. But if at the
     specified period, I could make the play not only _ready_,
     but, as I also hope, _worthy_, I take courage from that
     persuasion, respectfully to ask that your Excellency would
     be so obliging as _advance_ for me the price that will then
     become due. I need it now, perhaps more than I shall ever do
     again throughout my life. I had near 200 florins of debt in
     Stuttgard, which I could not pay. I may confess to you, that
     this gives me more uneasiness than anything about my future
     destiny. I shall have no rest till I am free on _that_ side.

     'In eight days, too, my travelling purse will be exhausted.
     It is yet utterly impossible for me to labour with my mind.
     In my hand, therefore, are at present no resources.

       *       *       *       *       *

     'My actual situation being clear enough from what I have
     already said, I hold it needless to afflict your Excellency
     with any _importuning picture_ of my want. Speedy aid is all
     that I can now think of or wish. Herr Meyer has been
     requested to communicate your Excellency's resolution to me,
     and to save you from the task of writing to me in person at
     all. With peculiar respect, I call myself,' &c.

       *       *       *       *       *

It is pleasing to record that the humble aid so earnestly and modestly
solicited by Schiller, was afforded him; and that he never forgot to
love the man who had afforded it; who had assisted him, when
assistance was of such essential value. In the first fervour of his
gratitude, for this and other favours, the poet warmly declared that
'he owed all, all to Dalberg;' and in a state of society where
Patronage, as Miss Edgeworth has observed, directly the antipodes of
Mercy, is in general 'twice cursed,' cursing him that gives and him
that takes, it says not a little for the character both of the obliged
and the obliger in the present instance, that neither of them ever
ceased to remember their connexion with pleasure. Schiller's first
play had been introduced to the Stage by Dalberg, and his last was
dedicated to him.[69] The venerable critic, in his eighty-third year,
must have received with a calm joy the tragedy of _Tell_, accompanied
by an address so full of kindness and respect: it must have gratified
him to think that the youth who was once his, and had now become the
world's, could, after long experience, still say of him,

    And fearlessly to thee may _Tell_ be shown,
    For every noble feeling is thy own.

    [Footnote 69: It clearly appears I am wrong here; I have
    confounded the Freiherr Wolfgang Heribert von Dalberg,
    Director of the Mannheim Theatre, with Archduke and _Fürst
    Primas_ Karl Theodor Dalberg, his younger Brother,—a man
    justly eminent in the Politico-Ecclesiastical world of his
    time, and still more distinguished for his patronage of
    letters, and other benefactions to his country, than the
    Freiherr was. Neither is the play of _Tell_ 'dedicated' to
    him, as stated in the text; there is merely a copy presented,
    with some verses by the Author inscribed in it; at which time
    Karl Theodor was in his _sixtieth_ year. A man of conspicuous
    station, of wide activity, and high influence and esteem in
    Germany. He was the personal friend of Herder, Goethe,
    Schiller, Wieland; by Napoleon he was made _Fürst Primas_,
    Prince Primate of the Confederation of the Rhine, being
    already Archbishop, Elector of Mentz, &c. The good and brave
    deeds he did in his time appear to have been many, public and
    private. Pensions to deserving men of letters were among the
    number: Zacharias Werner, I remember, had a pension from
    him,—and still more to the purpose, Jean Paul. He died in
    1817. There was a third Brother also memorable for his
    encouragement of Letters and Arts. "_Ist kein Dalberg da_, Is
    there no Dalberg here?" the Herald cries on a certain
    occasion. (See _Conv. Lexicon_, B. iii.)

    To Sir Edward Bulwer, in his _Sketch of the Life of Schiller_
    (p. c.), I am indebted for very kindly pointing out this
    error; as well as for much other satisfaction derived from
    that work. (_Note of_ 1845.)]

Except this early correspondence, very few of Schiller's letters have
been given to the world.[70] In Doering's Appendix, we have found one
written six years after the poet's voluntary exile, and agreeably
contrasted in its purport with the agitation and despondency of that
unhappy period. We translate it for the sake of those who, along with
us, regret that while the world is deluged with insipid
correspondences, and 'pictures of mind' that were not worth drawing,
the correspondence of a man who never wrote unwisely should lie
mouldering in private repositories, ere long to be irretrievably
destroyed; that the 'picture of a mind' who was among the conscript
fathers of the human race should still be left so vague and dim. This
letter is addressed to Schwann, during Schiller's first residence in
Weimar: it has already been referred to in the Text.

    [Footnote 70: There have since been copious contributions:
    _Correspondence with Goethe, Correspondence with Madam von
    Wolzogen_, and perhaps others which I have not seen. (_Note
    of_ 1845.)]

       *       *       *       *       *

     'Weimar, 2d May 1788.

     'You apologise for your long silence to spare _me_ the pain
     of an apology. I feel this kindness, and thank you for it.
     You do not impute my silence to decay of friendship; a proof
     that you have read my heart more justly than my evil
     conscience allowed me to hope. Continue to believe that the
     memory of you lives ineffaceably in my mind, and needs not
     to be brightened up by the routine of visits, or letters of
     assurance. So no more of this.

     'The peace and calmness of existence which breathes
     throughout your letter, gives me joy; I who am yet drifting
     to and fro between wind and waves, am forced to envy you
     that uniformity, that health of soul and body. To me also in
     time it will be granted, as a recompense for labours I have
     yet to undergo.

     'I have now been in Weimar nearly three quarters of a year:
     after finishing my _Carlos_, I at last accomplished this
     long-projected journey. To speak honestly, I cannot say but
     that I am exceedingly contented with the place; and my
     reasons are not difficult to see.

     'The utmost political tranquillity and freedom, a very
     tolerable disposition in the people, little constraint in
     social intercourse, a select circle of interesting persons
     and thinking heads, the respect paid to literary diligence:
     add to this the unexpensiveness to me of such a town as
     Weimar. Why should I not be satisfied?

     'With Wieland I am pretty intimate, and to him I must
     attribute no small influence on my present happiness; for I
     like him, and have reason to believe that he likes me in
     return. My intercourse with Herder is more limited, though I
     esteem him highly as a writer and a man. It is the caprice
     of chance alone which causes this; for we opened our
     acquaintance under happy enough omens. Besides, I have not
     always time to act according to my likings. With Bode no one
     can be very friendly. I know not whether you think here as I
     do. Goethe is still but _expected_ out of Italy. The Duchess
     Dowager is a lady of sense and talent, in whose society one
     does not feel constrained.

     'I thank you for your tidings of the fate of _Carlos_ on
     your stage. To speak candidly, my hopes of its success on
     any stage were not high; and I know my reasons. It is but
     fair that the Goddess of the Theatre avenge herself on me,
     for the little gallantry with which I was inspired in
     writing. In the mean time, though _Carlos_ prove a never so
     decided failure on the stage, I engage for it, our public
     shall see it ten times acted, before they understand and
     fully estimate the merit that should counterbalance its
     defects. When one has seen the beauty of a work, and not
     till then, I think one is entitled to pronounce on its
     deformity. I hear, however, that the second representation
     succeeded better than the first. This arises either from the
     changes made upon the piece by Dalberg, or from the fact,
     that on a second view, the public comprehended certain
     things, which on a first, they—did not comprehend.

     'For the rest, no one can be more satisfied than I am that
     _Carlos_, from causes honourable as well as causes
     dishonorable to it, is no speculation for the stage. Its
     very length were enough to banish it. Nor was it out of
     confidence or self-love that I forced the piece on such a
     trial; perhaps out of self-interest rather. If in the affair
     my vanity played any part, it was in this, that I thought
     the work had solid stuff in it sufficient to outweigh its
     sorry fortune on the boards.

     'The present of your portrait gives me true pleasure. I
     think it a striking likeness; that of Schubart a little less
     so, though this opinion may proceed from my faulty memory as
     much as from the faultiness of Lobauer's drawing. The
     engraver merits all attention and encouragement; what I can
     do for the extension of his good repute shall not be
     wanting.

     'To your dear children present my warmest love. At Wieland's
     I hear much and often of _your eldest daughter_; there in a
     few days she has won no little estimation and affection. Do
     I still hold any place in her remembrance? Indeed, I ought
     to blush, that by my long silence I so ill deserve it.

     'That you are going to my dear native country, and will not
     pass my Father without seeing him, was most welcome news to
     me. The Swabians are a good people; this I more and more
     discover, the more I grow acquainted with the other
     provinces of Germany. To my family you will be cordially
     welcome. Will you take a pack of compliments from me to
     them? Salute my Father in my name; to my Mother and my
     Sisters _your daughter_ will take my kiss.'

       *       *       *       *       *

'And with these hearty words,' as Doering says, 'we shall conclude
this paper.'



                        FRIENDSHIP WITH GOETHE.


The history of Schiller's first intercourse with Goethe has been
recorded by the latter in a paper published a few years ago in the
_Morphologie_, a periodical work, which we believe he still
occasionally continues, or purposes to continue. The paper is entitled
_Happy Incident_; and may be found in Part I. Volume 1 (pp. 90-96) of
the work referred to. The introductory portion of it we have inserted
in the text at page 109; the remainder, relating to certain scientific
matters, and anticipating some facts of our narrative, we judged it
better to reserve for the Appendix. After mentioning the publication
of _Don Carlos_, and adding that 'each continued to go on his way
apart,' he proceeds:

     'His Essay on _Grace and Dignity_ was yet less of a kind to
     reconcile me. The Philosophy of Kant, which exalts the
     dignity of mind so highly, while appearing to restrict it,
     Schiller had joyfully embraced: it unfolded the
     extraordinary qualities which Nature had implanted in him;
     and in the lively feeling of freedom and self-direction, he
     showed himself unthankful to the Great Mother, who surely
     had not acted like a step-dame towards him. Instead of
     viewing her as self-subsisting, as producing with a living
     force, and according to appointed laws, alike the highest
     and the lowest of her works, he took her up under the aspect
     of some empirical native qualities of the human mind.
     Certain harsh passages I could even directly apply to
     myself: they exhibited my confession of faith in a false
     light; and I felt that if written without particular
     attention to me, they were still worse; for in that case,
     the vast chasm which lay between us gaped but so much the
     more distinctly.

     'There was no union to be dreamed of. Even the mild
     persuasion of Dalberg, who valued Schiller as he ought, was
     fruitless: indeed the reasons I set forth against any
     project of a union were difficult to contradict. No one
     could deny that between two spiritual antipodes there was
     more intervening than a simple diameter of the sphere:
     antipodes of that sort act as a sort of poles, and so can
     never coalesce. But that some relation may exist between
     them will appear from what follows.

     'Schiller went to live at Jena, where I still continued
     unacquainted with him. About this time Batsch had set in
     motion a Society for Natural History, aided by some handsome
     collections, and an extensive apparatus. I used to attend
     their periodical meetings: one day I found Schiller there;
     we happened to go out together; some discourse arose between
     us. He appeared to take an interest in what had been
     exhibited; but observed, with great acuteness and good
     sense, and much to my satisfaction, that such a disconnected
     way of treating Nature was by no means grateful to the
     exoteric, who desired to penetrate her mysteries.

     'I answered, that perhaps the initiated themselves were
     never rightly at their ease in it, and that there surely was
     another way of representing Nature, not separated and
     disunited, but active and alive, and expanding from the
     whole into the parts. On this point he requested
     explanations, but did not hide his doubts; he would not
     allow that such a mode, as I was recommending, had been
     already pointed out by experiment.

     'We reached his house; the talk induced me to go in. I then
     expounded to him with as much vivacity as possible, the
     _Metamorphosis of Plants_,[71] drawing out on paper, with
     many characteristic strokes, a symbolic Plant for him, as I
     proceeded. He heard and saw all this with much interest and
     distinct comprehension; but when I had done, he shook his
     head and said: "This is no experiment, this is an idea." I
     stopped with some degree of irritation; for the point which
     separated us was most luminously marked by this expression.
     The opinions in _Dignity and Grace_ again occurred to me;
     the old grudge was just awakening; but I smothered it, and
     merely said: "I was happy to find that I had got ideas
     without knowing it, nay that I saw them before my eyes."

         [Footnote 71: A curious physiologico-botanical theory by
         Goethe, which appears to be entirely unknown in this country;
         though several eminent continental botanists have noticed it
         with commendation. It is explained at considerable length in
         this same _Morphologie_.]

     'Schiller had much more prudence and dexterity of management
     than I: he was also thinking of his periodical the _Horen_,
     about this time, and of course rather wished to attract than
     repel me. Accordingly he answered me like an accomplished
     Kantite; and as my stiff necked Realism gave occasion to
     many contradictions, much battling took place between us,
     and at last a truce, in which neither party would consent to
     yield the victory, but each held himself invincible.
     Positions like the following grieved me to the very soul:
     _How can there ever be an experiment that shall correspond
     with an idea? The specific quality of an idea is, that no
     experiment can reach it or agree with it._ Yet if he held as
     an idea the same thing which I looked upon as an experiment,
     there must certainly, I thought, be some community between
     us, some ground whereon both of us might meet! The first
     step was now taken; Schiller's attractive power was great,
     he held all firmly to him that came within his reach: I
     expressed an interest in his purposes, and promised to give
     out in the _Horen_ many notions that were lying in my head;
     his wife, whom I had loved and valued since her childhood,
     did her part to strengthen our reciprocal intelligence; all
     friends on both sides rejoiced in it; and thus by means of
     that mighty and interminable controversy between _object_
     and _subject_, we two concluded an alliance, which remained
     unbroken, and produced much benefit to ourselves and
     others.'

The friendship of Schiller and Goethe forms so delightful a chapter in
their history, that we long for more and more details respecting it.
Sincerity, true estimation of each other's merit, true sympathy in
each other's character and purposes appear to have formed the basis of
it, and maintained it unimpaired to the end. Goethe, we are told, was
minute and sedulous in his attention to Schiller, whom he venerated as
a good man and sympathised with as an afflicted one: when in mixed
companies together, he constantly endeavoured to draw out the stores
of his modest and retiring friend; or to guard his sick and sensitive
mind from annoyances that might have irritated him; now softening, now
exciting conversation, guiding it with the address of a gifted and
polished man, or lashing out of it with the scorpion-whip of his
satire much that would have vexed the more soft and simple spirit of
the valetudinarian. These are things which it is good to think of: it
is good to know that there _are_ literary men, who have other
principles besides vanity; who can divide the approbation of their
fellow mortals, without quarrelling over the lots; who in their
solicitude about their 'fame' do not forget the common charities of
nature, in exchange for which the 'fame' of most authors were but a
poor bargain.


                           No. 4. Page 125.

                      DEATH OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS.

As a specimen of Schiller's historical style, we have extracted a few
scenes from his masterly description of the Battle of Lützen. The
whole forms a picture, executed in the spirit of Salvator; and though
this is but a fragment, the importance of the figure represented in it
will perhaps counterbalance that deficiency.


'At last the dreaded morning dawned; but a thick fog, which lay
brooding over all the field, delayed the attack till noon. Kneeling in
front of his lines, the King offered up his devotions; the whole army,
at the same moment, dropping on their right knees, uplifted a moving
hymn, and the field-music accompanied their singing. The King then
mounted his horse; dressed in a jerkin of buff, with a surtout (for a
late wound hindered him from wearing armour), he rode through the
ranks, rousing the courage of his troops to a cheerful confidence,
which his own forecasting bosom contradicted. _God with us_ was the
battle-word of the Swedes; that of the Imperialists was _Jesus Maria_.
About eleven o'clock, the fog began to break, and Wallenstein's lines
became visible. At the same time, too, were seen the flames of Lützen,
which the Duke had ordered to be set on fire, that he might not be
outflanked on this side. At length the signal pealed; the horse dashed
forward on the enemy; the infantry advanced against his trenches.

       *       *       *       *       *

'Meanwhile the right wing, led on by the King in person, had fallen
on the left wing of the Friedlanders. The first strong onset of the
heavy Finland Cuirassiers scattered the light-mounted Poles and
Croats, who were stationed here, and their tumultuous flight spread
fear and disorder over the rest of the cavalry. At this moment notice
reached the King that his infantry were losing ground, and likely to
be driven back from the trenches they had stormed; and also that his
left, exposed to a tremendous fire from the Windmills behind Lützen,
could no longer keep their place. With quick decision, he committed to
Von Horn the task of pursuing the already beaten left wing of the
enemy; and himself hastened, at the head of Steinbock's regiment, to
restore the confusion of his own. His gallant horse bore him over the
trenches with the speed of lightning; but the squadrons that came
after him could not pass so rapidly; and none but a few horsemen,
among whom Franz Albert, Duke of Sachsen-Lauenburg, is mentioned, were
alert enough to keep beside him. He galloped right to the place where
his infantry was most oppressed; and while looking round to spy out
some weak point, on which his attack might be directed, his
short-sightedness led him too near the enemy's lines. An Imperial
sergeant (_gefreiter_), observing that every one respectfully made
room for the advancing horseman, ordered a musketeer to fire on him.
"Aim at _him_ there," cried he; "that must be a man of consequence."
The soldier drew his trigger; and the King's left arm was shattered by
the ball. At this instant, his cavalry came galloping up, and a
confused cry of "_The King bleeds! The King is shot!_" spread horror
and dismay through their ranks. "It is nothing: follow me!" exclaimed
the King, collecting all his strength; but overcome with pain, and on
the point of fainting, he desired the Duke of Lauenburg, in French, to
take him without notice from the tumult. The Duke then turned with him
to the right wing, making a wide circuit to conceal this accident from
the desponding infantry; but as they rode along, the King received a
second bullet through the back, which took from him the last remainder
of his strength. "I have got enough, brother," said he with a dying
voice: "haste, save thyself." With these words he sank from his horse;
and here, struck by several other bullets, far from his attendants, he
breathed out his life beneath the plundering hands of a troop of
Croats. His horse flying on without its rider, and bathed in blood,
soon announced to the Swedish cavalry the fall of their King; with
wild yells they rush to the spot, to snatch that sacred spoil from the
enemy. A deadly fight ensues around the corpse, and the mangled
remains are buried under a hill of slain men.

'The dreadful tidings hasten in a few minutes over all the Swedish
army: but instead of deadening the courage of these hardy troops, they
rouse it to a fierce consuming fire. Life falls in value, since the
holiest of all lives is gone; and death has now no terror for the
lowly, since it has not spared the anointed head. With the grim fury
of lions, the Upland, Smäland, Finnish, East and West Gothland
regiments dash a second time upon the left wing of the enemy, which,
already making but a feeble opposition to Von Horn, is now utterly
driven from the field.

       *       *       *       *       *

'But how dear a victory, how sad a triumph! Now first when the rage of
battle has grown cold, do they feel the whole greatness of their loss,
and the shout of the conqueror dies in a mute and gloomy despair. He
who led them on to battle has not returned with them. Apart he lies,
in his victorious field, confounded with the common heaps of humble
dead. After long fruitless searching, they found the royal corpse, not
far from the great stone, which had already stood for centuries
between Lützen and the Merseburg Canal, but which, ever since this
memorable incident, has borne the name of _Schwedenstein_, the Stone
of the Swede. Defaced with wounds and blood, so as scarcely to be
recognised, trodden under the hoofs of horses, stripped of his
ornaments, even of his clothes, he is drawn from beneath a heap of
dead bodies, brought to Weissenfels, and there delivered to the
lamentations of his troops and the last embraces of his Queen.
Vengeance had first required its tribute, and blood must flow as an
offering to the Monarch; now Love assumes its rights, and mild tears
are shed for the Man. Individual grief is lost in the universal
sorrow. Astounded by this overwhelming stroke, the generals in blank
despondency stand round his bier, and none yet ventures to conceive
the full extent of his loss.'

The descriptive powers of the Historian, though the most popular, are
among the lowest of his endowments. That Schiller was not wanting in
the nobler requisites of his art, might he proved from his reflections
on this very incident, 'striking like a hand from the clouds into the
calculated horologe of men's affairs, and directing the considerate
mind to a higher plan of things.' But the limits of our Work are
already reached. Of Schiller's histories and dramas we can give no
farther specimens: of his lyrical, didactic, moral poems we must take
our leave without giving any. Perhaps the time may come, when all his
writings, transplanted to our own soil, may be offered in their entire
dimensions to the thinkers of these Islands; a conquest by which our
literature, rich as it is, might be enriched still farther.



                             APPENDIX II.


The preceding Appendix, which is here marked "Appendix _First_," has
hitherto, in all Editions, been the only one, and has ended the Book.
As indeed, for the common run of English readers, it still essentially
may, or even must. But now, for a more select class, and on
inducements that are accidental and peculiar, there is, in this final
or farewell Edition, which stands without change otherwise, something
to be added as Appendix _Second_, by the opportunity that offers.

Schiller has now many readers of his own in England: perhaps the most
and best that read this my poor Account of his _Life_ know something
of Germany and him at first-hand; and have their curiosity awake in
regard to things German:—to such readers, if not to others, I can
expect that the following Reprint or Reproduction of a Piece from the
greatest of Germans, which connects itself with Schiller and this Book
on Schiller, may not be unwelcome. To myself it has become symbolical,
touching and memorable; and much invites my insertion of it here,
since there happens to be room.


Certainly an interesting little circumstance in the history of this
Book, and to me the one circumstance that now has any interest, is,
That a German Translation of it had the altogether unexpected honour
of an Introductory Preface by Goethe, in the last years of his life. A
beautiful small event to me and mine, in our then remote circle;
coming suddenly upon us, like a little outbreak of sunshine and azure,
in the common gray element there! It was one of the more salient
points of a certain individual relation, and far-off personal
intercourse, which had arisen some years before, with the great man
whom we had never seen, and never saw; and which was very beautiful,
high, singular and dear to us,—to myself, and to ANOTHER who is not
with me now. A little gleam as of celestial radiancy, miraculous
almost, but indisputable, shining out on us always from time to time;
somewhat ennobling for us the much of impediment that lay there, and
forbidding it altogether to impede. Truly there are few things I now
remember with a more bright or pious feeling than our then relation,
amid the Scottish moors, to the man whom of all others I the most
honoured, and felt that I was the most indebted to. Looking back on
all this, through the vista of almost forty years, and what they have
brought and have taken, I decide to reproduce this Goethe
_Introduction_, as a little pillar of memorial, while time yet is.

Many of my present readers, too, readers especially of this Volume,
may have their curiosities about the "Introduction (_Einleitung_)" of
so small a thing by so great a man (which withal is a Piece not to be
found in the great man's _Collected Works_, or elsewhere that I know
of):—and will good-naturedly allow me to have my own way with it,
namely to reprint it here in the original words. And will not even
quarrel with me if I reproduce in _facsimile_ those poor
"_Verzierungen_ (Copperplates)" of Goethe's devising, Shadows of Human
Dwellings far away; judging well how beautiful and full of meaning the
poorest of them now is to me.


Subjoined, on the next page, is Goethe's List or 'special Indication'
of these latter; the only words of his which, on this occasion, I
translate as well (_Note of 1868_):


          'SPECIAL INDICATION OF THE LOCALITIES REPRESENTED.

     '_Frontispiece_, Thomas Carlyle's House in the County of
     Dumfries, South of Scotland.

     '_Titlepage Vignette_, The Same in the distance.

     '_Upper-side of Cover_, Schiller's House in Weimar.

     '_Under-side of Cover_, Solitary small Apartment in
     Schiller's Garden, over the Leutra Brook in Jena, built by
     himself; where, in the completest seclusion, he wrote many
     things, _Maria Stuart_ in particular. After his removal from
     Jena, and subsequent decease, the little Edifice was taken
     away as threatening to fall ruinous; and we wished here to
     preserve the remembrance of it.'

[Illustration]



           Nähere Bezeichnung der dargestellten Lokalitäten.


     Titelkupfer, Thomas Carlyles Wohnung in der Graffschaft
     Dumfries, des südlichen Schottlands.

     Titel-Vignette, dieselbe in der Ferne.

     Vorderseite des Umschlags, Wohnung Schillers in Weimar.

     Rückseite des Umschlags, einsames Häuschen in Schillers
     Garten, über der Jenaischen Leutra, von ihm selbst
     errichtet; wo er in vollkommenster Einsamkeit manches,
     besonders Maria Stuart schrieb. Nach seiner Entfernung und
     erfolgtem Scheiden, trug man es ab, wegen Wandelbarkeit, und
     man gedachte hier das Andenken desselben zu erhalten.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

                            Thomas Carlyle

                           Leben Schillers,

                          aus dem Englischen;

                              eingeleitet

                                 durch

                                Goethe.


                       Frankfurt am Main, 1830.

                     Verlag von Heinrich Wilmans.



                         Der hochansehnlichen

                             Gesellschaft

                           für ausländische

                           schöne Literatur,

                                  zu

                                Berlin.


Als gegen Ende des vergangenen Jahres ich die angenehme Nachricht
erhielt, dass eine mir freundlich bekannte Gesellschaft, welche bisher
ihre Aufmerksamkeit inländischer Literatur gewidmet hatte, nunmehr
dieselbe auf die ausländische zu wenden gedenke, konnte ich in meiner
damaligen Lage nicht ausführlich und gründlich genug darlegen, wie
sehr ich ein Unternehmen, bey welchen man auch meiner auf das
geneigteste gedacht hatte, zu schätzen wisse.

Selbst mit gegenwärtigem öffentlichen Ausdruck meines dankbaren
Antheils geschieht nur fragmentarisch was ich im bessern Zusammenhang
zu überliefern gewünscht hätte. Ich will aber auch das wie es mir
vorliegt nicht zurückweisen, indem ich meinen Hauptzweck dadurch zu
erreichen hoffe, dass ich nämlich meine Freunde mit einem Manne in
Berührung bringe, welchen ich unter diejenigen zähle, die in späteren
Jahren sich an mich thätig angeschlossen, mich durch eine
mitschreitende Theilnahme zum Handeln und Wirken aufgemuntert, und
durch ein edles, reines wohlgerichtetes Bestreben wieder selbst
verjüngt, mich, der ich sie heranzog, mit sich fortgezogen haben. Es
ist der Verfasser des hier übersetzten Werkes, Herr #Thomas Carlyle#,
ein Schotte, von dessen Thätigkeit und Vorzügen, so wie von dessen
näheren Zuständen nachstehende Blätter ein Mehreres eröffnen werden.

Wie ich denselben und meine Berliner Freunde zu kennen glaube, so wird
zwischen ihnen und ihm eine frohe wirksame Verbindung sich einleiten
und beide Theile werden, wie ich hoffen darf, in einer Reihe von
Jahren sich dieses Vermächtnisses und seines fruchtbaren Erfolges
zusammen erfreuen, so dass ich ein fortdauerndes Andenken, um welches
ich hier schliesslich bitten möchte, schon als dauernd gegönnt, mit
anmuthigen Empfindungen voraus geniessen kann.

in treuer Anhänglichkeit und Theilnahme.

Weimar April
1830.

#J. W. v. Goethe.#


Es ist schon einige Zeit von einer allgemeinen Weltliteratur die Rede
und zwar nicht mit Unrecht: denn die sämmtlichen Nationen, in den
fürchterlichsten Kriegen durcheinander geschüttelt, sodann wieder auf
sich selbst einzeln zurückgeführt, hatten zu bemerken, dass sie
manches Fremde gewahr worden, in sich aufgenommen, bisher unbekannte
geistige Bedürfnisse hie und da empfunden. Daraus entstand das Gefühl
nachbarlicher Verhältnisse, und anstatt dass man sich bisher
zugeschlossen hatte, kam der Geist nach und nach zu dem Verlangen,
auch in den mehr oder weniger freyen geistigen Handelsverkehr mit
aufgenommen zu werden.

Diese Bewegung währt zwar erst eine kurze Weile, aber doch immer lang
genug, um schon einige Betrachtungen darüber anzustellen, und aus ihr
bald möglichst, wie man es im Waarenhandel ja auch thun muss, Vortheil
und Genuss zu gewinnen.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gegenwärtiges, zum Andenken #Schillers#, geschriebene Werk kann,
übersetzt, für uns kaum etwas Neues bringen; der Verfasser nahm seine
Kenntnisse aus Schriften, die uns längst bekannt sind, so wie denn
auch überhaupt die hier verhandelten Angelegenheiten bey uns öfters
durchgesprochen und durchgefochten worden.

Was aber den Verehrern #Schillers#, und also einem jeden Deutschen, wie
man kühnlich sagen darf, höchst erfreulich seyn muss, ist: unmittelbar
zu erfahren, wie ein zartfühlender, strebsamer, einsichtiger Mann über
dem Meere, in seinen besten Jahren, durch #Schillers# Productionen
berührt, bewegt, erregt und nun zum weitern Studium der deutschen
Literatur angetrieben worden.

Mir wenigstens war es rührend, zu sehen, wie dieser, rein und ruhig
denkende Fremde, selbst in jenen ersten, oft harten, fast rohen
Productionen unsres verewigten Freundes, immer den edlen,
wohldenkenden, wohlwollenden Mann gewahr ward und sich ein Ideal des
vortrefflichsten Sterblichen an ihm auferbauen konnte.

Ich halte deshalb dafür dass dieses Werk, als von einem Jüngling
geschrieben, der deutschen Jugend zu empfehlen seyn möchte: denn wenn
ein munteres Lebensalter einen Wunsch haben darf und soll, so ist es
der: in allem Geleisteten das Löbliche, Gute, Bildsame, Hochstrebende,
genug das Ideelle, und selbst in dem nicht Musterhaften, das
allgemeine Musterbild der Menschheit zu erblicken.

       *       *       *       *       *

Ferner kann uns dieses Werk von Bedeutung seyn, wenn wir ernstlich
betrachten: wie ein fremder Mann die #Schillerischen# Werke, denen wir
so mannigfaltige Kultur verdanken, auch als Quelle der seinigen
schätzt, verehrt und dies, ohne irgend eine Absicht, rein und ruhig
zu erkennen giebt.

Eine Bemerkung möchte sodann hier wohl am Platze seyn: dass sogar
dasjenige, was unter uns beynahe ausgewirkt hat, nun, gerade in dem
Augenblicke welcher auswärts der deutschen Literatur günstig ist,
abermals seine kräftige Wirkung beginne und dadurch zeige, wie es auf
einer gewissen Stufe der Literatur immer nützlich und wirksam seyn
werde.

So sind z. B. #Herders# Ideen bey uns dergestalt in die Kenntnisse der
ganzen Masse übergegangen, dass nur wenige, die sie lesen, dadurch
erst belehrt werden, weil sie, durch hundertfache Ableitungen, von
demjenigen was damals von grosser Bedeutung war, in anderem
Zusammenhange schon völlig unterrichtet worden. Dieses Werk ist vor
kurzem ins Französische übersetzt; wohl in keiner andern Ueberzeugung
als dass tausend gebildete Menschen in Frankreich sich immer noch an
diesen Ideen zu erbauen haben.

       *       *       *       *       *

In Bezug auf das dem gegenwärtigen Bande vorgesetzte Bild sey
folgendes gemeldet: Unser Freund, als wir mit ihm in Verhältniss
traten, war damals in Edinburgh wohnhaft, wo er in der Stille lebend,
sich im besten Sinne auszubilden suchte, und, wir dürfen es ohne
Ruhmredigkeit sagen, in der deutschen Literatur hiezu die meiste
Förderniss fand.

Später, um sich selbst und seinen redlichen literarischen Studien
unabhängig zu leben, begab er sich, etwa zehen deutsche Meilen
südlicher, ein eignes Besitzthum zu bewohnen und zu benutzen, in die
Grafschaft Dumfries. Hier, in einer gebirgigen Gegend, in welcher der
Fluss Nithe dem nahen Meere zuströmt, ohnfern der Stadt Dumfries, an
einer Stelle welche Craigenputtock genannt wird, schlug er mit einer
schönen und höchst gebildeten Lebensgefährtin seine ländlich einfache
Wohnung auf, wovon treue Nachbildungen eigentlich die Veranlassung zu
gegenwärtigem Vorworte gegeben haben.

       *       *       *       *       *

Gebildete Geister, zartfühlende Gemüther, welche nach fernem Guten
sich bestreben, in die Ferne Gutes zu wirken geneigt sind, erwehren
sich kaum des Wunsches, von geehrten, geliebten, weitabgesonderten
Personen das Portrait, sodann die Abbildung ihrer Wohnung, so wie der
nächsten Zustände, sich vor Augen gebracht zu sehen.

Wie oft wiederholt man noch heutiges Tags die Abbildung von Petrarch's
Aufenthalt in Vaucluse, Tasso's Wohnung in Sorent! Und ist nicht immer
die Bieler Insel, der Schutzort Rousseau's, ein seinen Verehrern nie
genugsam dargestelltes Local?

In eben diesem Sinne hab' ich mir die Umgebungen meiner entfernten
Freunde im Bilde zu verschaffen gesucht, und ich war um so mehr auf
die Wohnung Hrn. #Thomas Carlyle# begierig, als er seinen Aufenthalt in
einer fast rauhen Gebirgsgegend unter dem 55ten Grade gewählt hatte.

Ich glaube durch solch eine treue Nachbildung der neulich
eingesendeten Originalzeichnungen gegenwärtiges Buch zu zieren und dem
jetzigen gefühlvollen Leser, vielleicht noch mehr dem künftigen,
einen freundlichen Gefallen zu erweisen und dadurch, so wie durch
eingeschaltete Auszüge aus den Briefen des werthen Mannes, das
Interesse an einer edlen allgemeinen Länder- und Weltannäherung zu
vermehren.

       *       *       *       *       *


                     #Thomas Carlyle# an #Goethe#.

Craigenputtock den 25. Septbr. 1828.

"Sie forschen mit so warmer Neigung nach unserem gegenwärtigen
Aufenthalt und Beschäftigung, dass ich einige Worte hierüber sagen
muss, da noch Raum dazu übrig bleibt. Dumfries ist eine artige Stadt,
mit etwa 15000 Einwohnern und als Mittelpunct des Handels und der
Gerichtsbarkeit anzusehen eines bedeutenden Districkts in dem
schottischen Geschäftskreis. Unser Wohnort ist nicht darin, sondern 15
Meilen (zwei Stunden zu reiten) nordwestlich davon entfernt, zwischen
den Granitgebirgen und dem schwarzen Moorgefilde, welche sich
westwärts durch Gallovay meist bis an die irische See ziehen. In
dieser Wüste von Heide und Felsen stellt unser Besitzthum eine grüne
Oase vor, einen Raum von geackertem, theilweise umzäumten und
geschmückten Boden, wo Korn reift und Bäume Schatten gewähren,
obgleich ringsumher von Seemöven und hartwolligen Schaafen umgeben.
Hier, mit nicht geringer Anstrengung, haben wir für uns eine reine,
dauerhafte Wohnung erbaut und eingerichtet; hier wohnen wir in
Ermangelung einer Lehr- oder andern öffentlichen Stelle, um uns der
Literatur zu befleissigen, nach eigenen Kräften uns damit zu
beschäftigen. Wir wünschen dass unsre Rosen und Gartenbüsche fröhlich
heranwachsen, hoffen Gesundheit und eine friedliche Gemüthsstimmung,
um uns zu fordern. Die Rosen sind freylich zum Theil noch zu pflanzen,
aber sie blühen doch schon in Hoffnung.

Zwei leichte Pferde, die uns überall hintragen, und die Bergluft sind
die besten Aerzte für zarte Nerven. Diese tägliche Bewegung, der ich
sehr ergeben bin, ist meine einzige Zerstreuung; denn dieser Winkel
ist der einsamste in Brittanien, sechs Meilen von einer jeden Person
entfernt die mich allenfalls besuchen möchte. Hier würde sich Rousseau
eben so gut gefallen haben, als auf seiner Insel St. Pierre.

Fürwahr meine städtischen Freunde schreiben mein Hierhergehen einer
ähnlichen Gesinnung zu und weissagen mir nichts Gutes; aber ich zog
hierher, allein zu dem Zweck meine Lebensweise zu vereinfachen und
eine Unabhängigkeit zu erwerben, damit ich mir selbst treu bleiben
könne. Dieser Erdraum ist unser, hier können wir leben, schreiben und
denken wie es uns am besten däucht, und wenn Zoilus selbst König der
Literatur werden sollte.

Auch ist die Einsamkeit nicht so bedeutend, eine Lohnkutsche bringt
uns leicht nach Edinburgh, das wir als unser brittisch Weimar ansehen.
Habe ich denn nicht auch gegenwärtig eine ganze Ladung von
französischen, deutschen, amerikanischen, englischen Journalen und
Zeitschriften, von welchem Werth sie auch seyn mögen, auf den Tischen
meiner kleinen Bibliothek aufgehäuft!

Auch an alterthümlichen Studien fehlt es nicht. Von einigen unsrer
Höhen entdeck' ich, ohngefähr eine Tagereise westwärts, den Hügel, wo
Agrikola und seine Römer ein Lager zurückliessen; am Fusse desselben
war ich geboren, wo Vater und Mutter noch leben um mich zu lieben. Und
so muss man die Zeit wirken lassen. Doch wo gerath ich hin! Lassen Sie
mich noch gestehen, ich bin ungewiss über meine künftige literarische
Thätigkeit, worüber ich gern Ihr Urtheil vernehmen möchte; gewiss
schreiben Sie mir wieder und bald, damit ich mich immer mit Ihnen
vereint fühlen möge."

       *       *       *       *       *

Wir, nach allen Seiten hin wohlgesinnten, nach allgemeinster Bildung
strebenden Deutschen, wir wissen schon seit vielen Jahren die
Verdienste würdiger schottischer Männer zu schätzen. Uns blieb nicht
unbekannt, was sie früher in den Naturwissenschaften geleistet, woraus
denn nachher die Franzosen ein so grosses Uebergewicht erlangten.

In der neuern Zeit verfehlten wir nicht den lichen Inflows
anzuerkennen, den ihre Philosophie auf die Sinnesänderung der
Franzosen ausübte, um sie von dem starren Sensualism zu einer
geschmeidigern Denkart auf dem Wege des gemeinen Menschenverstandes
hinzuleiten. Wir verdankten ihnen gar manche gründliche Einsicht in
die wichtigsten Fächer brittischer Zustände und Bemühungen.

Dagegen mussten wir vor nicht gar langer Zeit unsre
ethisch-ästhetischen Bestrebungen in ihren Zeitschriften auf eine
Weise behandelt sehen, wo es zweifelhaft blieb, ob Mangel an Einsicht
oder böser Wille dabey obwaltete; ob eine oberflächliche, nicht genug
durchdringende Ansicht, oder ein widerwilliges Vorurtheil im Spiele
sey. Dieses Ereigniss haben wir jedoch geduldig abgewartet, da uns ja
dergleichen im eignen Vaterlande zu ertragen genügsam von jeher
auferlegt worden.

In den letzten Jahren jedoch erfreuen uns aus jenen Gegenden die
liebevollsten Blicke, welche zu erwiedern wir uns verpflichtet fühlen
und worauf wir in gegenwärtigen Blättern unsre wohldenkenden
Landsleute, insofern es nöthig seyn sollte, aufmerksam zu machen
gedenken.

       *       *       *       *       *

Herr #Thomas Carlyle# hatte schon den #Wilhelm Meister# übersetzt und gab
sodann vorliegendes Leben #Schillers# im Jahre 1825 heraus.

Im Jahre 1827 erschien _German Romances_ in 4 Bänden, wo er, aus den
Erzählungen und Mährchen deutscher Schriftsteller als: #Musäus#, #La
Motte Fouqué#, #Tieck#, #Hoffmann#, #Jean Paul# und #Goethe#,
heraushob, was er seiner Nation am gemässesten zu seyn glaubte.

Die einer jeden Abtheilung vorausgeschickten Nachrichten von dem
Leben, den Schriften, der Richtung des genannten Dichters und
Schriftstellers geben ein Zeugniss von der einfach wohlwollenden
Weise, wie der Freund sich möglichst von der Persönlichkeit und den
Zuständen eines jeden zu unterrichten gesucht, und wie er dadurch auf
den rechten Weg gelangt, seine Kenntnisse immer mehr zu
vervollständigen.

In den Edinburgher Zeitschriften, vorzüglich in denen welche
eigentlich fremder Literatur gewidmet sind, finden sich nun, ausser
den schon genannten deutschen Autoren, auch #Ernst Schulz#, #Klingemann#,
#Franz Horn#, #Zacharias Werner#, Graf #Platen# und manche andere, von
verschiedenen Referenten, am meisten aber von unserm Freunde,
beurtheilt und eingeführt.

Höchst wichtig ist bey dieser Gelegenheit zu bemerken, dass sie
eigentlich ein jedes Werk nur zum Text und Gelegenheit nehmen, um über
das eigentliche Feld und Fach, so wie alsdann über das besondere
Individuelle, ihre Gedanken zu eröffnen und ihr Gutachten meisterhaft
abzuschliessen.

Diese _Edinburgh Reviews_, sie seyen dem Innern und Allgemeinen, oder
den auswärtigen Literaturen besonders gewidmet, haben Freunde der
Wissenschaften aufmerksam zu beachten; denn es ist höchst merkwürdig,
wie der gründlichste Ernst mit der freysten Uebersicht, ein strenger
Patriotismus mit einem einfachen reinen Freysinn, in diesen Vorträgen
sich gepaart findet.

       *       *       *       *       *

Geniessen wir nun von dort, in demjenigen was uns hier so nah angeht,
eine reine einfache Theilnahme an unsern ethisch-ästhetischen
Bestrebungen, welche für einen besondern Charakterzug der Deutschen
gelten können, so haben wir uns gleichfalls nach dem umzusehen, was
ihnen dort von dieser Art eigentlich am Herzen liegt. Wir nennen hier
gleich den Namen #Burns#, von welchem ein Schreiben des Herrn #Carlyle's#
folgende Stelle enthält.

"Das einzige einigermassen Bedeutende, was ich seit meinem Hierseyn
schrieb, ist ein Versuch über #Burns#. Vielleicht habt Ihr niemals von
diesem Mann gehört, und doch war er einer der entschiedensten Genies;
aber in der tiefsten Classe der Landleute geboren und durch die
Verwicklungen sonderbarer Lagen zuletzt jammervoll zu Grunde
gerichtet, so dass was er wirkte verhältnissmässig geringfügig ist; er
starb in der Mitte der Manns-Jahre (1796)."

"Wir Engländer, besonders wir Schottländer, lieben #Burns# mehr als
irgend einen Dichter seit Jahrhunderten. Oft war ich von der Bemerkung
betroffen, er sey wenig Monate vor #Schiller#, in dem Jahr 1759 geboren
und keiner dieser beiden habe jemals des andern Namen vernommen. Sie
glänzten als Sterne in entgegengesetzten Hemisphären, oder, wenn man
will, eine trübe Erdatmosphäre fing ihr gegenseitiges Licht auf."

Mehr jedoch als unser Freund vermuthen mochte, war uns #Robert Burns#
bekannt; das allerliebste Gedicht _John Barley-Corn_ war anonym zu uns
gekommen, und verdienter Weise geschätzt, veranlasste solches manche
Versuche unsrer Sprache es anzueignen. _Hans Gerstenkorn_, ein
wackerer Mann, hat viele Feinde, die ihn unablässig verfolgen und
beschädigen, ja zuletzt gar zu vernichten drohen. Aus allen diesen
Unbilden geht er aber doch am Ende triumphirend hervor, besonders zu
Heil und Fröhlichkeit der leidenschaftlichen Biertrinker. Gerade in
diesem heitern genialischen Anthropomorphismus zeigt sich #Burns# als
wahrhaften Dichter.

Auf weitere Nachforschung fanden wir dieses Gedicht in der Ausgabe
seiner poetischen Werke von 1822, welcher eine Skizze seines Lebens
voransteht, die uns wenigstens von den Aeusserlichkeiten seiner
Zustände bis auf einen gewissen Grad belehrte. Was wir von seinen
Gedichten uns zueignen konnten, überzeugte uns von seinem
ausserordentlichen Talent, und wir bedauerten, dass uns die
Schottische Sprache gerade da hinderlich war, wo er des reinsten
natürlichsten Ausdrucks sich gewiss bemächtigt hatte. Im Ganzen jedoch
haben wir unsre Studien so weit geführt, dass wir die nachstehende
rühmliche Darstellung auch als unsrer Ueberzeugung gemäss
unterschreiben können.

Inwiefern übrigens unser #Burns# auch in Deutschland bekannt sey, mehr
als das Conversations-Lexicon von ihm überliefert, wüsste ich, als der
neuen literarischen Bewegungen in Deutschland unkundig, nicht zu
sagen; auf alle Fälle jedoch gedenke ich die Freunde auswärtiger
Literatur auf die kürzesten Wege zu weisen: _The Life of Robert Burns.
By J. G. Lockhart. Edinburgh 1828_, rezensirt von unserm Freunde im
_Edinburgh Review_, December 1828.

Nachfolgende Stellen daraus übersetzt, werden den Wunsch, das Ganze
und den genannten Mann auf jede Weise zu kennen, hoffentlich lebhaft
erregen.

       *       *       *       *       *

"#Burns# war in einem höchst prosaischen Zeitalter, dergleichen
Brittanien nur je erlebt hatte, geboren, in den aller ungünstigsten
Verhältnissen, wo sein Geist nach hoher Bildung strebend ihr unter dem
Druck täglich harter körperlicher Arbeit nach zu ringen hatte, ja
unter Mangel und trostlosesten Aussichten auf die Zukunft; ohne
Förderniss als die Begriffe, wie sie in eines armen Mannes Hütte
wohnen, und allenfalls die Reime von Ferguson und Ramsay, als das
Muster der Schönheit aufgesteckt. Aber unter diesen Lasten versinkt er
nicht; durch Nebel und Finsterniss einer so düstern Region entdeckt
sein Adlerauge die richtigen Verhältnisse der Welt und des
Menschenlebens, er wächst an geistiger Kraft und drängt sich mit
Gewalt zu verständiger Erfahrung. Angetrieben durch die
unwiderstehliche Regsamkeit seines inneren Geistes strauchelt er
vorwärts und zu allgemeinen Ansichten, und mit stolzer Bescheidenheit
reicht er uns die Frucht seiner Bemühungen, eine Gabe dar, welche
nunmehr durch die Zeit als unvergänglich anerkannt worden."

"Ein wahrer Dichter, ein Mann in dessen Herzen die Anlage eines reinen
Wissens keimt, die Töne himmlischer Melodien vorklingen, ist die
köstlichste Gabe, die einem Zeitalter mag verliehen werden. Wir sehen
in ihm eine freyere, reinere Entwicklung alles dessen was in uns das
Edelste zu nennen ist; sein Leben ist uns ein reicher Unterricht und
wir betrauern seinen Tod als eines Wohlthäters, der uns liebte so wie
belehrte."

"Solch eine Gabe hat die Natur in ihrer Güte uns an #Robert Burns#
gegönnt; aber mit allzuvornehmer Gleichgültigkeit warf sie ihn aus der
Hand als ein Wesen ohne Bedeutung. Es war entstellt und zerstört ehe
wir es anerkannten, ein ungünstiger Stern hatte dem Jüngling die
Gewalt gegeben, das menschliche Daseyn ehrwürdiger zu machen, aber ihm
war eine weisliche Führung seines eigenen nicht geworden. Das
Geschick—denn so müssen wir in unserer Beschränktheit reden—seine
Fehler, die Fehler der Andern lasteten zu schwer auf ihm, und dieser
Geist, der sich erhoben hatte, wäre es ihm nur zu wandern geglückt,
sank in den Staub; seine herrlichen Fähigkeiten wurden in der Blüthe
mit Füssen getreten. Er starb, wir dürfen wohl sagen, ohne jemals
gelebt zu haben. Und so eine freundlich warme Seele, so voll von
eingebornen Reichthümern, solcher Liebe zu allen lebendigen und
leblosen Dingen! Das späte Tausendschönchen fällt nicht unbemerkt
unter seine Pflugschar, so wenig als das wohlversorgte Nest der
furchtsamen Feldmaus, das er hervorwühlt. Der wilde Anblick des
Winters ergötzt ihn; mit einer trüben, oft wiederkehrenden
Zärtlichkeit, verweilt er in diesen ernsten Scenen der Verwüstung;
aber die Stimme des Windes wird ein Psalm in seinem Ohr; wie gern mag
er in den sausenden Wäldern dahin wandern: denn er fühlt seine
Gedanken erhoben zu dem, der auf den Schwingen des Windes
einherschreitet. Eine wahre Poetenseele! sie darf nur berührt werden
und ihr Klang ist Musik."

"Welch ein warmes allumfassendes Gleichheitsgefühl! welche
vertrauenvolle, gränzenlose Liebe! welch edelmuthiges Ueberschätzen
des geliebten Gegenstandes! Der Bauer, sein Freund, sein nussbraunes
Mädchen sind nicht länger gering und dörfisch, Held vielmehr und
Königin, er rühmt sie als gleich würdig des Höchsten auf der Erde. Die
rauhen Scenen schottischen Lebens sieht er nicht im arkadischen
Lichte, aber in dem Rauche, in dem unebenen Tennenboden einer solchen
rohen Wirthlichkeit findet er noch immer Liebenswürdiges genug. Armuth
fürwahr ist sein Gefährte, aber auch Liebe und Muth zugleich; die
einfachen Gefühle, der Werth, der Edelsinn, welche unter dem Strohdach
wohnen, sind lieb und ehrwürdig seinem Herzen. Und so über die
niedrigsten Regionen des menschlichen Daseyns ergiesst er die Glorie
seines eigenen Gemüths und sie steigen, durch Schatten und
Sonnenschein gesänftigt und verherrlicht, zu einer Schönheit, welche
sonst die Menschen kaum in dem Höchsten erblicken."

"Hat er auch ein Selbstbewusstseyn, welches oft in Stolz ausartet, so
ist es ein edler Stolz, um abzuwehren, nicht um anzugreifen, kein
kaltes misslaunisches Gefühl, ein freyes und geselliges. Dieser
poetische Landmann beträgt sich, möchten wir sagen, wie ein König in
der Verbannung; er ist unter die Niedrigsten gedrängt und fühlt sich
gleich den Höchsten; er verlangt keinen Rang, damit man ihm keinen
streitig mache. Den Zudringlichen kann er abstossen, den Stolzen
demüthigen, Vorurtheil auf Reichthum oder Altgeschlecht haben bey ihm
keinen Werth. In diesem dunklen Auge ist ein Feuer, woran sich eine
abwürdigende Herablassung nicht wagen darf; in seiner Erniedrigung, in
der äussersten Noth vergisst er nicht für einen Augenblick die
Majestät der Poesie und Mannheit. Und doch, so hoch er sich über
gewöhnlichen Menschen fühlt, sondert er sich nicht von ihnen ab, mit
Wärme nimmt er an ihrem Interesse Theil, ja er wirft sich in ihre Arme
und, wie sie auch seyen, bittet er um ihre Liebe. Es ist rührend zu
sehen, wie in den düstersten Zuständen dieses stolze Wesen in der
Freundschaft Hülfe sucht, und oft seinen Busen dem Unwürdigen
aufschliesst; oft unter Thränen an sein glühendes Herz ein Herz
andrückt, das Freundschaft nur als Namen kennt. Doch war er scharf und
schnellsichtig, ein Mann vom durchdringendsten Blick, vor welchem
gemeine Verstellung sich nicht bergen konnte. Sein Verstand sah durch
die Tiefen des vollkommensten Betrügers, und zugleich war eine
grossmüthige Leichtgläubigkeit in seinem Herzen. So zeigte sich dieser
Landmann unter uns: Eine Seele wie Aeolsharfe, deren Saiten vom
gemeinsten Winde berührt, ihn zu gesetzlicher Melodie verwandelten.
Und ein solcher Mann war es für den die Welt kein schicklicher
Geschäft zu finden wusste, als sich mit Schmugglern und Schenken
herumzuzanken, Accise auf den Talg zu berechnen und Bierfässer zu
visiren. In solchem Abmühen ward dieser mächtige Geist kummervoll
vergeudet, und hundert Jahre mögen vorüber gehen, eh uns ein gleicher
gegeben wird, um vielleicht ihn abermals zu vergeuden."

       *       *       *       *       *

Und wie wir den Deutschen zu ihrem #Schiller# Glück wünschen, so wollen
wir in eben diesem Sinne auch die Schottländer segnen. Haben diese
jedoch unserm Freunde so viel Aufmerksamkeit und Theilnahme erwiesen,
so wär' es billig, dass wir auf gleiche Weise ihren #Burns# bey uns
einführten. Ein junges Mitglied der hochachtbaren Gesellschaft, der
wir gegenwärtiges im Ganzen empfohlen haben, wird Zeit und Mühe
höchlich belohnt sehen, wenn er diesen freundlichen Gegendienst einer
so verehrungswürdigen Nation zu leisten den Entschluss fassen und das
Geschäft treulich durchführen will. Auch wir rechnen den belobten
#Robert Burns# zu den ersten Dichtergeistern, welche das vergangene
Jahrhundert hervorgebracht hat.

Im Jahr 1829 kam uns ein sehr sauber und augenfällig gedrucktes
Octavbändchen zur Hand: _Catalogue of German Publications, selected
and systematically arranged for W. H. Koller and Jul. Cahlmann.
London._

Dieses Büchlein, mit besonderer Kenntniss der deutschen Literatur, in
einer die Uebersicht erleichternden Methode verfasst, macht demjenigen
der es ausgearbeitet und den Buchhändlern Ehre, welche ernstlich das
bedeutende Geschäft übernehmen eine fremde Literatur in ihr Vaterland
einzuführen, und zwar so dass mann in allen Fächern übersehen könne
was dort geleistet worden, um so wohl den Gelehrten den denkenden
Leser als auch den fühlenden und Unterhaltung suchenden anzulocken und
zu befriedigen. Neugierig wird jeder deutsche Schriftsteller und
Literator, der sich in irgend einem Fache hervorgethan, diesen Catalog
aufschlagen um zu forschen: ob denn auch seiner darin gedacht, seine
Werke, mit andern Verwandten, freundlich aufgenommen worden. Allen
deutschen Buchhändlern wird es angelegen seyn zu erfahren: wie man
ihren Verlag über dem Canal betrachte, welchen Preis man auf das
Einzelne setze und sie werden nichts verabsäumen um mit jenen die
Angelegenheit so ernsthaft angreifenden Männern in Verhältniss zu
kommen, und dasselbe immerfort lebendig erhalten.

       *       *       *       *       *

Wenn ich nun aber das von unserm Schottischen Freunde vor soviel
Jahren verfasste Leben #Schillers#, auf das er mit einer ihm so wohl
anstehenden Bescheidenheit zurücksieht, hiedurch einleite und
gegenwärtig an den Tag fördere, so erlaube er mir einige seiner
neusten Aeusserungen hinzuzufügen, welche die bisherigen gemeinsamen
Fortschritte am besten deutlich machen möchten.

       *       *       *       *       *


                      #Thomas Carlyle an Goethe.#

den 22. December 1829.

"Ich habe zu nicht geringer Befriedigung zum zweitenmale den
#Briefwechsel# gelesen und sende heute einen darauf gegründeten Aufsatz
über #Schiller# ab für das _Foreign Review_. Es wird Ihnen angenehm seyn
zu hören, dass die Kentniss und Schätzung der auswärtigen, besonders
der deutschen Literatur, sich mit wachsender Schnelle verbreitet so
weit die englische Zunge herrscht; so dass bey den Antipoden, selbst
in Neuholland, die Weisen Ihres Landes ihre Weisheit predigen. Ich
habe kürzlich gehört, dass sogar in Oxford und Cambridge, unsern
beiden englischen Universitäten, die bis jetzt als die Haltpuncte der
insularischen eigenthümlichen Beharrlichkeit sind betrachtet worden,
es sich in solchen Dingen zu regen anfängt. Ihr #Niebuhr# hat in
Cambridge einen geschickten Uebersetzer gefunden und in Oxford haben
zwei bis drei Deutsche schon hinlängliche Beschäftigung als Lehrer
ihrer Sprache. Das neue Licht mag für gewisse Augen zu stark seyn;
jedoch kann Niemand an den guten Folgen zweifeln, die am Ende daraus
hervorgehen werden. Lasst Nationen wie Individuen sich nur einander
kennen und der gegenseitige Hass wird sich in gegenwärtige
Hülfleistung verwandeln, und anstatt natürlicher Feinde, wie
benachbarte Länder zuweilen genannt sind, werden wir alle natürliche
Freunde seyn."

       *       *       *       *       *

Wenn uns nach allen diesem nun die Hoffnung schmeichelt, eine
Uebereinstimmung der Nationen, ein allgemeineres Wohlwollen werde sich
durch nähere Kentniss der verschiedenen Sprachen und Denkweisen, nach
und nach erzeugen; so wage ich von einem bedeutenden Inflows der
deutschen Literatur zu sprechen, welcher sich in einem besondern Falle
höchst wirksam erweisen möchte.

Es ist nämlich bekannt genug, dass die Bewohner der drei brittischen
Königreiche nicht gerade in dem besten Einverständnisse leben, sondern
dass vielmehr ein Nachbar an dem andern genügsam zu tadeln findet, um
eine heimliche Abneigung bey sich zu rechtfertigen.

Nun aber bin ich überzeugt, dass wie die deutsche ethisch-ästhetische
Literatur durch das dreifache Brittanien sich verbreitet, zugleich
auch eine stille Gemeinschaft von #Philogermanen# sich bilden werde,
welche in der Neigung zu einer vierten, so nahverwandten Völkerschaft,
auch unter einander, als vereinigt und verschmolzen sich empfinden
werden.



                          #Schillers Leben.#

                          #Erster Abschnitt.#

                      #Seine Jugend# (1759-1784.)

Unter allen Schriftstellern ist am Schluss des letzten Jahrhunderts
wohl keiner der Aufmerksamkeit würdiger, als #Friedrich Schiller#.
Ausgezeichnet durch glänzenden Geist, erhabenes Gefühl und edlen
Geschmack liess er den schönsten Abdruck dieser selten vereinigten
Eigenschaften in seinen Werken zurück. Der ausgebreitete Ruhm, welcher
ihm dadurch geworden,...

... es sind neue Formen der Wahrheiten, neue Grundsätze der Weisheit,
neue Bilder und Scenen der Schönheit, die er dem leeren formlosen
unendlichen Raum abgenommen; zum κτημα εις αει oder zum ewigen Eigenthum
aller Geschlechter dieses Erdballs. [s. 301.]

... die unsere Literatur, so reich sie auch schon an sich ist, noch
ungleich mehr bereichern würde.

[_Anhang_, s. 54.]



                          SUMMARY AND INDEX.


                               SUMMARY.


                                PART I.

                           SCHILLER'S YOUTH.

                             (1759-1784.)


Introductory remarks: Schiller's high destiny. His Father's career:
Parental example and influences. Boyish caprices and aspirations. (p.
3.)—His first schoolmaster: Training for the Church: Poetical
glimmerings. The Duke of Würtemberg, and his Free Seminary: Irksome
formality there. Aversion to the study of Law and Medicine.
(9.)—Literary ambition and strivings: Economic obstacles and pedantic
hindrances: Silent passionate rebellion. Bursts his fetters.
(13.)—_The Robbers_: An emblem of its young author's baffled, madly
struggling spirit: Criticism of the Characters in the Play, and of the
style of the work. Extraordinary ferment produced by its publication:
Exaggerated praises and condemnations: Schiller's own opinion of its
moral tendency. (17.)—Discouragement and persecution from the Duke of
Würtemberg. Dalberg's generous sympathy and assistance. Schiller
escapes from Stuttgard, empty in purse and hope: Dalberg supplies his
immediate wants: He finds hospitable friends. (28.)—Earnest literary
efforts. Publishes two tragedies, _Fiesco_ and _Kabale und Liebe_. His
mental growth. Critical account of the Conspiracy of Fiesco: Fiesco's
genial ambition: The Characters of the Play nearer to actual humanity.
How all things in the Drama of Life hang inseparably together.
(35.)—_Kabale und Liebe_, a domestic tragedy of high merit: Noble and
interesting characters of hero and heroine. (42.)—The stormy
confusions of Schiller's youth now subsiding. Appointed poet to the
Mannheim Theatre. Nothing to fear from the Duke of Würtemberg. The
Public, his only friend and sovereign. A Man of Letters for the rest
of his days. (46.)


                               PART II.

      FROM HIS SETTLEMENT AT MANNHEIM TO HIS SETTLEMENT AT JENA.

                             (1784-1790.)

Reflections: Difference between knowing and doing: Temptations and
perils of a literary life: True Heroism. Schiller's earnest and
steadfast devotion to his Ideal Good: Misery of idleness and
indecision. (p. 51.)—German esteem for the Theatre. Theatrical, and
deeper than theatrical activities: The _Rheinische Thalia_ and
_Philosophische Briefe_. The two Eternities: The bog of Infidelity
surveyed but not crossed. (56.)—Insufficiency of Mannheim. A pleasant
tribute of regard. Letter to Huber: Domestic tastes. Removes to
Leipzig. Letter to his friend Schwann: A marriage proposal.
Fluctuations of life. (63.)—Goes to Dresden. _Don Carlos_: Evidences
of a matured mind: Analysis of the Characters: Scene of the King and
Posa. Alfieri and Schiller contrasted. (73.)—Popularity: Crowned with
laurels, but without a home. Forsakes the Drama. Lyrical productions:
_Freigeisterei der Leidenschaft_. The _Geisterseher_, a Novel. Tires
of fiction. Studies and tries History. (95.)—Habits at Dresden.
Visits Weimar and Bauerbach. The Fraülein Lengefeld: Thoughts on
Marriage. (102.)—First interview with Goethe: Diversity in their
gifts: Their mistaken impression of each other. Become better
acquainted: Lasting friendship. (106.)—History of the _Revolt of the
Netherlands_. The truest form of History-writing. Appointed Professor
at Jena. Friendly intercourse with Goethe. Marriage. (112.)


                               PART III.

               FROM HIS SETTLEMENT AT JENA TO HIS DEATH.

                             (1790-1805.)

Academical duties. Study of History: Cosmopolitan philosophy, and
national instincts. History of the _Thirty-Years War_. (p.
119.)—Sickness, and help in it. Heavy trial for a literary man.
Schiller's unabated zeal. (125.)—Enthusiasm and conflicts excited by
Kant's Philosophy. Schiller's growing interest in the subject: Letters
on _Æsthetic Culture_, &c. Claims of Kant's system to a respectful
treatment. (129.)—Fastidiousness and refinement of taste. Literary
projects: Epic poems: Returns to the Drama. Outbreak of the French
Revolution. (137.)—Edits the _Horen_: Connexion with Goethe. A
pleasant visit to his parents. Mode of life at Jena: Night-studies,
and bodily stimulants. (143.)—_Wallenstein_: Brief sketch of its
character and compass: Specimen scenes, Max Piccolomini and his
Father; Max and the Princess Thekla; Thekla's frenzied grief: No
nobler or more earnest dramatic work. (152.)—Removes to Weimar:
Generosity of the Duke. Tragedy of _Maria Stuart_. (178.)—The _Maid
of Orleans_: Character of Jeanne d'Arc: Scenes, Joanna and her
Suitors; Death of Talbot; Joanna and Lionel. Enthusiastic reception of
the play. (181.)—Daily and nightly habits at Weimar. The _Bride of
Messina_. _Wilhelm Tell_: Truthfulness of the Characters and Scenery:
Scene, the Death of Gossler. (201.)—Schiller's dangerous illness.
Questionings of Futurity. The last sickness: Many things grow clearer:
Death. (219.)—General sorrow for his loss. His personal aspect:
Modesty and simplicity of manner: Mental gifts. (222.)—Definitions of
genius. Poetic sensibilities and wretchedness: In such miseries
Schiller had no share. A fine example of the German character: No
cant; no cowardly compromising with his own conscience: Childlike
simplicity. Literary Heroism. (227.)

       *       *       *       *       *

                          SUPPLEMENT OF 1872.

Small Book by Herr Saupe, entitled _Schiller and his Father's
Household_. Really interesting and instructive. Translation, with
slight corrections and additions. (p. 241.)


                          SCHILLER'S FATHER.

Johann Caspar Schiller, born in Würtemberg, 27th October 1723. At ten
years a fatherless Boy poorly educated, he is apprenticed to a
barber-surgeon. Becomes 'Army Doctor' to a Bavarian regiment. Settles
in Marbach, and marries the daughter of a respectable townsman,
afterwards reduced to extreme poverty. The marriage, childless for the
first eight years. Six children in all: The Poet Schiller the only
Boy. (p. 243.)—Very meagre circumstances. At breaking-out of the
Seven-Years War returns to the Army. At the Ball of Fulda; at the
Battle of Leuthen. Cheerfully undertakes anything useful. Earnestly
diligent and studious. Greatly improves in general culture, and even
saves money. (244.)—Boards his poor Wife with her Father. His first
Daughter and his only Son born there. At the close of the War he
carries his Wife and Children to his own quarters. A just man; simple,
strong, expert; if also somewhat quick and rough. (246.) Solicitude
for his Son's education. Appointed Recruiting Officer, with permission
to live with his Family at Lorch. The children soon feel themselves at
home and happy. Little Fritz receives his first regular school
instruction, much to the comfort of his Father. Holiday rambles among
the neighbouring hills: Brotherly and Sisterly affection. Touches of
boyish fearlessness: Where does the lightning come from? (248.)—The
Family run over to Ludwigsburg. Fritz to prepare for the clerical
profession. At the Latin School, cannot satisfy his Father's anxious
wishes. One of his first poems. (253.)—The Duke of Würtemberg notices
his Father's worth, and appoints him Overseer of all his Forest
operations: With residence at his beautiful Forest-Castle, Die
Solitüde. Fritz remains at the Ludwigsburg Latin School: Continual
exhortations and corrections from Father and Teacher. Youthful heresy.
First acquaintance with a Theatre. (255.)—The Duke proposes to take
Fritz into his Military Training-School. Consternation of the Schiller
Family. Ineffectual expostulations: Go he must. Studies Medicine.
Altogether withdrawn from his Father's care. Rigorous seclusion and
constraint. The Duke means well to him. (258.)—Leaves the School, and
becomes Regimental-Doctor at Stuttgard. His Father's pride in him.
Extravagance and debt. His personal appearance. (260.)—Publication of
the _Robbers_. His Father's mingled feelings of anxiety and
admiration. Peremptory command from the Duke to write no more poetry,
on pain of Military Imprisonment. Prepares for flight with his friend
Streicher. Parting visit to his Family at Solitüde: His poor Mother's
bitter grief. Escapes to Mannheim. Consternation of his Father.
Happily the Duke takes no hostile step. (263.)—Disappointments and
straits at Mannheim. Help from his good friend Streicher. He sells
_Fiesco_, and prepares to leave Mannheim. Through the kindness of Frau
von Wolzogen he finds refuge in Bauerbach. Affectionate Letter to his
Parents. His Father's stern solicitude for his welfare. (268.)—Eight
months in Bauerbach, under the name of Doctor Ritter. Unreturned
attachment to Charlotte Wolzogen. Returns to Mannheim. Forms a settled
engagement with Dalberg, to whom his Father writes his thanks and
anxieties. Thrown on a sick-bed: His Father's admonitions. He vainly
urges his Son to petition the Duke for permission to return to
Würtemberg; the poor Father earnestly wishes to have him near him
again. Increasing financial difficulties. More earnest fatherly
admonition and advice. Enthusiastic reception of _Kabale und Liebe_.
_Don Carlos_ well in hand. A friend in trouble through mutual debts.
Applies to his Father for unreasonable help. Annoyance at the
inevitable refusal. His Father's loving and faithful expostulation.
His Sister's proposed marriage with Reinwald. (273.)—Beginning of his
friendly intimacy with the excellent Körner. The Duke of Weimar
bestows on him the title of Rath. No farther risk for him from
Würtemberg. At Leipzig, Dresden, Weimar. Settles at last as Professor
in Jena. Marriage and comfortable home: His Father well satisfied, and
joyful of heart. Affectionate Letter to his good Father.
(282.)—Seized with a dangerous affection of the chest. Generous
assistance from Denmark. Joyful visit to his Family, after an absence
of eleven years. Writes a conciliatory Letter to the Duke. Birth of a
Son. The Duke's considerateness for Schiller's Father. The Duke's
death. (286.)—Schiller's delight in his Sisters, Luise and Nanette.
Letter to his Father. Visits Stuttgard. Returns with Wife and Child to
Jena. Assists his Father in publishing the results of his long
experiences of gardens and trees. Beautiful and venerable old age.
(290.)—Thick-coming troubles for the Schiller Family. Death of the
beautiful Nanette in the flower of her years: Dangerous illness of
Luise: The Father bedrid with gout. The poor weakly Mother bears the
whole burden of the household distress. Sister Christophine, now
Reinwald's Wife, hastens to their help. Schiller's anxious sympathy.
His Father's death. Grateful letters to Reinwald and to his poor
Mother. (296.)


                              HIS MOTHER.

Elizabetha Dorothea Kodweis, born at Marbach, 1733. An unpretending,
soft and dutiful Wife, with the tenderest Mother-heart. A talent for
music and even for poetry. Verses to her Husband. Troubles during the
Seven-Years War. Birth of little Fritz. The Father returns from the
War. Mutual helpfulness, and affectionate care for their children. She
earnestly desires her Son may become a Preacher. His confirmation. Her
disappointment that it was not to be. (p. 300.)—Her joy and care for
him whenever he visited his Home. Her innocent delight at seeing her
Son's name honoured and wondered at. Her anguish and illness at their
long parting. Brighter days for them all. She visits her Son at Jena.
He returns the visit with Wife and Child. Her strength in adversity.
Comfort in her excellent Daughter Christophine. Her Husband's death.
Loving and helpful sympathy from her Son. (307.)—Receives a pension
from the Duke. Removes with Luise to Leonberg. Marriage of Luise.
Happy in her children's love and in their success in life. Her last
illness and death. Letters from Schiller to his Sister Luise and her
kind husband. (318.)


                             HIS SISTERS.

Till their Brother's flight the young girls had known no misfortune.
Diligent household occupations, and peaceful contentment. A
love-passage in Christophine's young life. Her marriage with Reinwald.
His unsuccessful career: Broken down in health and hope.
Christophine's loving, patient and noble heart. For twenty-nine years
they lived contentedly together. Through life she was helpful to all
about her; never hindersome to any. (p. 324.)—Poor Nanette's brief
history. Her excitement, when a child, on witnessing the performance
of her Brother's _Kabale und Liebe_. Her ardent secret wish, herself
to represent his Tragedies on the Stage. All her young glowing hopes
stilled in death. (331.)—Luise's betrothal and marriage. An anxious
Mother, and in all respects an excellent Wife. Her Brother's last
loving Letter to her. His last illness, and peaceful death. (333.)


                              APPENDIX I.

                        No. 1. DANIEL SCHUBART.

Influence of Schubart's persecutions on Schiller's mind. His Birth and
Boyhood. Sent to Jena to study Theology: Profligate life: Returns
home. Popular as a preacher: Skilful in music. A joyful, piping,
guileless mortal. (p. 341.)—Prefers pedagogy to starvation. Marries.
Organist to the Duke of Würtemberg. Headlong business, amusement and
dissipation. His poor Wife returns to her Father: Ruin and banishment.
A vagabond life. (343.)—Settles at Augsburg, and sets up a Newspaper:
Again a prosperous man: Enmity of the Jesuits. Seeks refuge in Ulm:
His Wife and Family return to him. The Jesuits on the watch.
Imprisoned for ten years: Interview with young Schiller. (346.)—Is at
length liberated. Joins his Wife at Stuttgard, and reëstablishes his
Newspaper. Literary enterprises: Death. Summary of his character.
(351.)


                No. 2. LETTERS OF SCHILLER TO DALBERG.

Brief account of Dalberg. Schiller's desire to remove to Mannheim.
Adaptation of the _Robbers_ to the stage. (p. 354.)—Struggles to get
free from Stuttgard and his Ducal Jailor: Dalberg's friendly help.
Friendly letter to his friend Schwann. (362.)


                    No. 3. FRIENDSHIP WITH GOETHE.

Goethe's feeling of the difference in their thoughts and aims: Great
Nature _not_ a phantasm of her children's brains. Growing sympathy and
esteem, unbroken to the end. (p. 371.)


                  No. 4. DEATH OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS.

Schiller's historical style. A higher than descriptive power. (p.
375.)


                             APPENDIX II.

Schiller's Life into German; Author's Note thereon. (p.
380.)—Goethe's introduction (in German), with Four Prints. (393.)





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