Title: The Autobiography of Goethe - Truth and Poetry: From My Own Life
Author: Goethe, Johan Wolfgang von
Language: English
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THE

AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF GOETHE.

TRUTH AND POETRY: FROM MY OWN LIFE.

Translated from the German

JOHN OXENFORD.


_BOOKS I.-XX._

_REVISED EDITION._

LONDON

GEORGE BELL AND SONS

1897



ADVERTISEMENT.

Before the following translation was commenced, the first Ten Books
had already appeared in America. It was the intention of the Publisher
to reprint these without alteration, but on comparing them with
the original, it was perceived that the American version was not
sufficiently faithful, and therefore the present was undertaken. The
Translator, however, is bound to acknowledge, that he found many
successful renderings in the work of his predecessor, and these he has
engrafted without hesitation.

The title "Truth and Poetry" is adopted in common with the American
translation, as the nearest rendering of _Wahrheit und Dichtung._ The
"Prose and Poetry of my Life" would, perhaps, convey to the English
reader the exact meaning of the Author, although not literally his
words.



AUTHOR'S PREFACE


As a preface to the present work, which, perhaps, more than another
requires one, I adduce the letter of a friend, by which so serious an
undertaking was occasioned.

"We have now, my dear friend, collected the twelve parts of your
poetical works, and on reading them through, find much that is known,
much that is unknown; while much that had been forgotten is revived by
this collection. These twelve volumes, standing before us, in uniform
appearance, we cannot refrain from regarding as a whole; and one would
like to sketch therefrom some image of the author and his talents. But
it cannot be denied, considering the vigour with which he began his
literary career, and the length of time which has since elapsed, that
a dozen small volumes must appear incommensurate. Nor can one forget
that, with respect to the detached pieces, they have mostly been called
forth by special occasions, and reflect particular external objects, as
well as distinct grades of inward culture; while it is equally clear,
that temporary moral and æsthetic maxims and convictions prevail in
them. As a whole, however, these productions remain without connexion;
nay, it is often difficult to believe that they emanate from one and
the same writer.

"Your friends, in the meantime, have not relinquished the inquiry,
and try, as they become more closely acquainted with your mode of
life and thought, to guess many a riddle, to solve many a problem;
indeed, with the assistance of an old liking, and a connexion of many
years? standing, they find a charm even in the difficulties which
present themselves. Yet a little assistance here and there would not
be unacceptable, and you cannot well refuse this to our friendly
entreaties.

"The first thing, then, we require, is that your poetical works,
arranged in the late edition according to some internal relations, may
be presented by you in chronological order, and that the states of
life and feeling which afforded the examples that influenced you, and
the theoretical principles by which you were governed, may be imparted
in some kind of connexion. Bestow this labour for the gratification of
a limited circle, and perhaps it may give rise to something that will
be entertaining and useful to an extensive one. The author, to the
most advanced period of his life, should not relinquish the advantage
of communicating, even at a distance, with those whom affection binds
to him; and if it is not granted to everyone to step forth anew, at a
certain age, with surprising and powerful productions, yet just at that
period of life when knowledge is most perfect, and consciousness most
distinct, it must be a very agreeable and re-animating task to treat
former creations as new matter, and work them up into a kind of Last
Part, which may serve once more for the edification of those who have
been previously edified with and by the artist."

This desire, so kindly expressed, immediately awakened within me an
inclination to comply with it; for, if in the early years of life our
passions lead us to follow our own course, and, in order not to swerve
from it, we impatiently repel the demands of others, so, in bur later
days, it becomes highly advantageous to us, should any sympathy excite
and determine us, cordially, to new activity. I therefore instantly
undertook the preparatory labour of separating the poems of my twelve
volumes, both great and small, and of arranging them according to
years. I strove to recall the times and circumstances under which each
had been produced. But the task soon grew more difficult, as full
explanatory notes and illustrations were necessary to fill up the
chasms between those which had already been given to the world. For, in
the first place, all on which I had originally exercised myself were
wanting, many that had been begun and not finished were also wanting,
and of many that were finished even the external form had completely
disappeared, haring since been entirely reworked and cast into a
different shape. Besides, I had also to call to mind how I had laboured
in the sciences and other arts, and what, in such apparently foreign
departments, both individually and in conjunction with friends, I had
practised in silence, or had laid before the public.

All this I wished to introduce by degrees for the satisfaction of my
well-wishers; but my efforts and reflections always led me further on;
since while I was anxious to comply with that very considerate request,
and laboured to set forth in succession my internal emotions, external
influences, and the steps which, theoretically and practically, I had
trod, I was carried out of my narrow private sphere into the wide
world. The images of a hundred important men, who either directly or
indirectly had influenced me, presented themselves to my view; and
even the prodigious movements of the great political world, which had
operated most extensively upon me, as well as upon the whole mass of
my contemporaries, had to be particularly considered. For this seems
to be the main object of Biography, to exhibit the man in relation to
the features of his time; and to show to what extent they have opposed
or favoured his progress; what view of mankind and the world he has
formed from them, and how far he himself, if an artist, poet, or
author, may externally reflect them. But for this is required what is
scarcely attainable, namely, that the individual should know himself
and his age: himself, so far as he has remained the same under all
circumstances; his age, as that which carries along with it, determines
and fashions, both the willing and the unwilling; so that one may
venture to pronounce, that any person born ten years earlier or later
would have been quite a different being, both as regards his own
culture and his influence on others.

In this manner, from such reflections and endeavours, from such
recollections and considerations,arose the present delineation; and
from this point of view, as to its origin, will it be the best enjoyed
and used, and most impartially estimated. For anything further it may
be needful to say, particularly with respect to the half-poetical,
half-historic mode of treatment, an opportunity will, no doubt,
frequently occur in the course of the narrative.



CONTENTS


PART THE FIRST.

FIRST BOOK.--Childhood--the City of Frankfort

SECOND BOOK.--The New Paris--Frankfort Citizen

THIRD BOOK.--Occupation of Frankfort by the French

FOURTH BOOK.--Studies--The Bible--Frankfort Characters

FIFTH BOOK.--Gretchen--Coronation Ceremonies


PART THE SECOND.

SIXTH BOOK.--Illness and Recovery--Leipzig

SEVENTH BOOK.--Leipzig _(continued)_--German Literature

EIGHTH BOOK.--Art--Dresden--Return from Leipzig

NINTH BOOK.--Strasbourg

TENTH BOOK.--Strasbourg _(continued)_--Herder--Tour in Alsace and
Lorraine--Frederika


PART THE THIRD.

ELEVENTH BOOK.--Frederica _(continued)_--Return from Strasbourg

TWELFTH BOOK.--Merck--Wetzlar; the Imperial Chamber--Charlotte

THIRTEENTH BOOK.--Goetz von Berlichingen and Werther

FOURTEENTH BOOK.--Lenz--Lavater and Basedow--Cologne

FIFTEENTH BOOK.--Moravians--"The Wandering Jew"--Zimmerman--"Clavigo"


PART THE FOURTH.

SIXTEENTH BOOK.--Spinoza--Jung(Stilling)

SEVENTEENTH BOOK.--Lili--Betrothal--Ulrich von Hutten

EIGHTEENTH BOOK.--Hans Sachs--The Stolbergs--Switzerland

NINETEENTH BOOK.--Switzerland--Lavater--"Egmont"

TWENTIETH BOOK.--Kraus--Daemonic Influence--Heidelberg--Departure for
Weimar



TRUTH AND POETRY;

FROM MY OWN LIFE.



PART THE FIRST.


Ὀ μὴ δαρεὶς ἄνθρωπος οὐ παιδεύεται.



FIRST BOOK.


On the 28th of August, 1749, at mid-day, as the clock struck twelve,
I came into the world, at Frankfort-on-the-Maine. My horoscope was
propitious: the sun stood in the sign of the Virgin, and had culminated
for the day; Jupiter and Venus looked on him with a friendly eye,
and Mercury not adversely; while Saturn and Mars kept themselves
indifferent; the Moon alone, just full, exerted the power of her
reflection all the more, as she had then reached her planetary hour.
She opposed herself, therefore, to my birth, which could not be
accomplished until this hour was passed.

These good aspects, which the astrologers managed subsequently
to reckon very auspicious for me, may have been the causes of my
preservation; for, through the unskilfulness of the midwife, I came
into the world as dead, and only alter various efforts was I enabled
to see the light. This event, which had put our household into sore
straits, turned to the advantage of my fellow-citizens, inasmuch as my
grandfather, the _Schultheiss_[1], John Wolfgang Textor, took occasion
from it to have an _accoucheur_ established, and to introduce or revive
the tuition of midwives, which may have done some good to those who
were born after me.

When we desire to recall what befel us in the earliest period of youth,
it often happens that we confound what we have heard from others with
that which we really possess from our own direct experience. Without,
therefore, instituting a very close investigation into the point,
which after all could lead to nothing, I am conscious that we lived
in an old house, which in fact consisted of two adjoining houses, that
had been opened into each other. A spiral stair-case led to rooms on
different levels, and the unevenness of the stories was remedied by
steps. For us children, a younger sister and myself, the favourite
resort was a spacious floor below, near the door of which was a large
wooden lattice that allowed us direct communication with the street
and open air. A bird-cage of this sort, with which many houses were
provided, was called a Frame (_Geräms_). The women sat in it to sew
and knit; the cook picked her salad there; female neighbours chatted
with each other, and the streets consequently in the fine season wore
a southern aspect. One felt at ease while in communication with the
public. We children, too, by means of these frames, were brought into
contact with our neighbours, of whom three brothers Von Ochsenstein,
the surviving sons of the deceased Schultheiss, living on the other
side of the way, won my love, and occupied and diverted themselves with
me in many ways.

Our family liked to tell of all sorts of waggeries to which I was
enticed by these otherwise grave and solitary men. Let one of these
pranks suffice for all. A crockery fair had just been held, from which
not only our kitchen had been supplied for a while with articles for a
long time to come, but a great deal of small gear of the same ware had
been purchased as playthings for us children. One fine afternoon, when
every thing was quiet in the house, I whiled away the time with my pots
and dishes in the Frame, and finding that nothing more was to be got
out of them, hurled one of them into the street. The Von Ochsensteins,
who saw me so delighted at the fine smash it made, that I clapped my
hands for joy, cried out, "Another." I was not long in flinging out a
pot, and as they made no end to their calls for more, by degrees the
whole collection, platters, pipkins, mugs and all, were dashed upon the
pavement. My neighbours continued to express their approbation, and I
was highly delighted to give them pleasure. But my stock was exhausted,
and still they shouted, "More." I ran, therefore, straight to the
kitchen, and brought the earthenware, which produced a still livelier
spectacle in breaking, and thus I kept running backwards and forwards,
fetching one plate after another as I could reach it from where they
stood in rows on the shelf. But as that did not satisfy my audience, I
devoted all the ware that I could drag out to similar destruction. It
was not till afterwards that any one appeared to hinder and save. The
mischief was done, and in place of so much broken crockery, there was
at least a ludicrous story, in which the roguish authors took special
delight to the end of their days.

My father's mother, in whose house we properly dwelt, lived in a large
back-room directly on the ground floor, and we were accustomed to carry
on our sports even up to her chair, and when she was ill, up to her
bedside. I remember her, as it were, a spirit,--a handsome, thin woman,
always neatly dressed in white. Mild, gentle, and kind, she has ever
remained in my memory.

[Side-note: The Stag-Ditch.]

The street in which our house was situated passed by the name of the
Stag-Ditch; but as neither stags nor ditches were to be seen, we wished
to have the expression explained. They told us that our house stood on
a spot that was once outside the city, and that where the street now
ran had formerly been a ditch, in which a number of stags were kept.
These stags were preserved and fed here because the senate every year,
according to an ancient custom, feasted publicly on a stag, which was
therefore always at hand in the ditch for such a festival, in case
princes or knights interfered with the city's right of chase outside,
or the walls were encompassed or besieged by an enemy. This pleased us
much, and we wished that such a lair for tame animals could have been
seen in our times.

The back of the house, from the second story particularly, commanded
a very pleasant prospect over an almost immeasurable extent of
neighbouring gardens, stretching to the very walls of the city. But,
alas! in transforming what were once public grounds into private
gardens, our house and some others lying towards the corner of the
street had been much stinted, since the houses towards the horse-market
had appropriated spacious out-houses and large gardens to themselves,
while a tolerably high wall shut us out from these adjacent paradises.

On the second floor was a room which was called the garden-room,
because they had there endeavoured to supply the want of a garden by
means of a few plants placed before the window. As I grew older,
it was there that I made my favourite, not melancholy but somewhat
sentimental, retreat. Over these gardens, beyond the city's walls and
ramparts, might be seen a beautiful and fertile plain; the same which
stretches towards Höchst. In the summer season I commonly earned my
lessons there, and watched the thunder-storms, but could never look
my fill at the setting sun, which went down directly opposite my
windows. And when, at the same time, I saw the neighbours wandering
through their gardens taking care of their flowers, the children
playing, parties of friends enjoying themselves, and could hear the
bowls rolling and the nine pins dropping, it early excited within me
a feeling of solitude, and a sense of vague longing resulting from
it, which, conspiring with the seriousness and awe implanted in me by
Nature, exerted its influence at an early age, and showed itself more
distinctly in after years.

The old, many cornered, and gloomy arrangement of the house was
moreover adapted to awaken dread and terror in childish minds.
Unfortunately, too, the principle of discipline that young persons
should be early deprived of all fear for the awful and invisible, and
accustomed to the terrible, still prevailed. We children, therefore,
were compelled to sleep alone, and when we found this impossible, and
softly slipped from our beds to seek the society of the servants and
maids, our father, with his dressing-gown turned inside out, which
disguised him sufficiently for the purpose, placed himself in the way,
and frightened us back to our resting-places. The evil effect of this
any one may imagine. How is he who is encompassed with a double terror
to be emancipated from fear? My mother, always cheerful and gay, and
willing to render others so, discovered a much better pedagogical
expedient. She managed to gain her end by rewards. It was the season
for peaches, the plentiful enjoyment of which she promised us every
morning if we overcame our fears during the night. In this way she
succeeded, and both parties were satisfied.

In the interior of the house my eyes were chiefly attracted by a series
of Roman Views, with which my father had ornamented an ante-room.
They were engravings by some of the accomplished predecessors of
Piranesi, who well understood perspective and architecture, and whose
touches were clear and excellent. There I saw every day, the _Piazza
del Popolo_, the _Colosseum_, the Piazza of _St. Peter's_ and St.
Peter's Church, within and without, the castle of _St. Angelo_, and
many other places. These images impressed themselves deeply upon me,
and my otherwise very laconic father was often so kind as to furnish
descriptions of the objects. His partiality for the Italian language,
and for every thing pertaining to Italy, was very decided. A small
collection of marbles and natural curiosities, which he had brought
with him thence, he often showed to us; and he devoted a great part
of his time to a description of his travels, written in Italian, the
copying and correction of which he slowly and accurately completed, in
several parcels, with his own hand. A lively old teacher of Italian,
called Giovinazzi, was of service to him in this work. The old man
moreover did not sing badly, and my mother every day must needs
accompany him and herself upon the clavichord, and thus I speedily
learned the _Solitario bosco ombroso_ so as to know it by heart before
I understood it.

My father was altogether of a didactic turn, and in his retirement
from business liked to communicate to others what he knew or was able
to do. Thus, dining the first years of their marriage, he had kept my
mother busily engaged in writing, playing the clavichord, and singing,
by which means she had been laid under the necessity of acquiring some
knowledge and a slight readiness in the Italian tongue.

[Side-note: The Puppet-Show.]

Generally we passed all our leisure hours with my grandmother, in
whose spacious apartment we found plenty of room for our sports. She
contrived to engage us with various trifles, and to regale us with
all sorts of nice morsels. But one Christmas evening, she crowned all
her kind deeds, by having a puppet-show exhibited before us, and thus
unfolding a new world in the old house. This unexpected drama attracted
our young minds with great force; upon the Boy particularly it made a
very strong impression, which continued to vibrate with a great and
lasting effect.

The little stage with its speechless personages, which at the outset
had only been exhibited to us, but was afterwards given over for
our own use and dramatic vivification, was prized more highly by us
children, as it was the last bequest of our good grandmother, whom
encroaching disease first withdrew from our sight, and death next
tore away from our hearts for ever. Her departure was of still more
importance to our family, as it drew after it a complete change in our
condition.

As long as my grandmother lived, my father had refrained from any
attempt to change or renovate the house, even in the slightest
particular, though it was known that he had pretty large plans of
building, which were now immediately begun. In Frankfort, as in many
other old towns, when anybody put up a wooden structure, he ventured,
for the sake of space, to make not only the first, but each successive
story project over the lower one, by which means narrow streets
especially were rendered somewhat dark and confined. At last a law was
passed, that every one putting up a new house from the ground, should
confine his projections to the first upper story, and carry the others
up perpendicularly. My father, that he might not lose the projecting
space in the second story, caring little for outward architectural
appearance, and anxious only for the good and convenient arrangement
of the interior, resorted to the expedient which others had employed
before him, of propping the upper part of the house, until one part
after another had been removed from the bottom upwards and a new house,
as it were, inserted in its place. Thus, while comparatively none of
the old structure remained, the new one merely passed for a repair.
Now as the tearing down and building up was done gradually, my father
determined hot to quit the house, that he might better direct and give
his orders--as he possessed a good knowledge of the technicalities of
building. At the same time he would not suffer his family to leave
him. This new epoch was very surprising and strange for the children.
To see the rooms in which they had so often been confined and pestered
with wearisome tasks and studies, the passages they had played in, the
walls which had always been kept so carefully clean, all falling before
the mason's hatchet and the carpenter's axe--and that from the bottom
upwards; to float as it were in the air, propped up by beams, being,
at the same time, constantly confined to a certain lesson, or definite
task--all this produced a commotion in our young heads that was not
easily settled. But the young people felt the inconvenience less,
because they had somewhat more space for play than before, and had many
opportunities of swinging on beams, and playing at see-saw with the
boards.

At first my father obstinately persisted in carrying out his plan; but
when at last even the roof was partly removed, and the rain reached
our beds, in spite of the carpets that had been taken up, converted
into tarpaulin, and stretched over as a defence, he determined, though
reluctantly, that the children should be entrusted for a time to some
kind friends, who had already offered their services, and sent to a
public school.

This transition was rather unpleasant; for when the children who had
all along been kept at home in a secluded, pure, refined, yet strict
manner, were thrown among a rude mass of young creatures, they were
compelled unexpectedly to suffer everything from the vulgar, bad,
and even base, since they lacked both weapons and skill to protect
themselves.

[Side-note: The Walk Round Frankfort.]

It was properly about this period that I first became acquainted with
my native city, which I strolled over with more and more freedom, in
every direction, sometimes alone, and sometimes in the company of
lively companions. To convey to others in any degree the impression
made upon me by these grave and revered spots, I must here introduce
a description of my birth-place, as in its different parts it was
gradually unfolded to me. I loved more than anything else to promenade
on the great bridge over the Maine. Its length, its firmness, and its
fine appearance, rendered it a notable structure, and it was, besides,
almost the only memorial left from ancient times of the precautions due
from the civil government to its citizens. The beautiful stream above
and below bridge, attracted my eye, and when the gilt weathercock on
the bridge-cross glittered in the sunshine, I always had a pleasant
feeling. Generally I extended my walk through Sachsenhausen, and for
a _Kreutzer_ was ferried comfortably across the river. I was now
again on this side of the stream, stole along to the wine market,
and admired the mechanism of the cranes when goods were unloaded.
But it was particularly entertaining to watch the arrival of the
market-boats, from which so many and such extraordinary figures were
seen to disembark. On entering the city, the Saalhof, which at least
stood on the spot where the Castle of Emperor Charlemagne and his
successors was reported to have been, was greeted every time with
profound reverence. One liked to lose oneself in the old trading town,
particularly on market-days, among the crowd collected about the
church of St. Bartholomew. From the earliest times, throngs of buyers
and sellers had gathered there, and the place being thus occupied, it
was not easy in later days to bring about a more roomy and cheerful
arrangement. The booths of the so-called _Pfarreisen_ were very
important places for us children, and we carried many a _Batzen_ to
them in order to purchase sheets of coloured paper stamped with gold
animals. But seldom, however, could one make one's way through the
narrow, crowded, and dirty market-place. I call to mind, also, that
I always flew past the adjoining meat-stalls, narrow and disgusting
as they were, in perfect horror. On the other hand, the Roman Hill
_(Römerberg)_ was a most delightful place for walking. The way to the
New-Town, along by the new shops, was always cheering and pleasant; yet
we regretted that a street did not lead into the Zeil by the Church
of Our Lady, and that we always had to go a round-about way by the
_Hasengasse_, or the Catherine Gate. But what chiefly attracted the
child's attention, were the many little towns within the town, the
fortresses within the fortress; viz., the walled monastic enclosures,
and several other precincts, remaining from earlier times, and more
or less like castles--as the Nuremberg Court, the Compostella, the
Braunfels, the ancestral house of the family of Stallburg, and several
strongholds, in later days transformed into dwellings and warehouses.
No architecture of an elevating kind was then to be seen in Frankfort,
and every thing pointed to a period long past and unquiet, both for
town and district. Gates and towers, which defined the bounds of the
old city,--then further on again, gates, towers, walls, bridges,
ramparts, moats, with which the new city was encompassed,--all showed,
but too plainly, that a necessity for guarding the common weal in
disastrous times had induced these arrangements, that all the squares
and streets, even the newest, broadest, and best laid out, owed
their origin to chance and caprice and not to any regulating mind. A
certain liking for the antique was thus implanted in the Boy, and was
specially nourished and promoted by old chronicles and wood-cuts, as
for instance, those of Grave relating to the siege of Frankfort. At
the same time a different taste was developed in him for observing
the conditions of mankind, in their manifold variety and naturalness,
without regard to their importance or beauty. It was, therefore, one
of our favourite walks, which we endeavoured to take now and then in
the course of a year, to follow the circuit of the path inside the city
walls. Gardens, courts, and back buildings extend to the _Zwinger_; and
we saw many thousand people amid their little domestic and secluded
circumstances. From the ornamental and show gardens of the rich, to the
orchards of the citizen, anxious about his necessities--from thence
to the factories, bleaching-grounds, and similar establishments, even
to the burying-grounds--for a little world lay within the limits of
the city--we passed a varied, strange, spectacle, which changed at
every step, and with the enjoyment of which our childish curiosity
was never satisfied. In fact, the celebrated Devil-upon-two-sticks,
when he lifted the roofs of Madrid at night, scarcely did more for
his friend, than was here done for us in the bright sunshine and open
air. The keys that were to be made use of in this journey, to gain us
a passage through many a tower, stair and postern, were in the hands
of the authorities, whose subordinates we never failed to coax into
good-humour.

[Side-note: The Council-House.]

But a more important, and in one sense more fruitful place for us,
was the Council-House, named from the Romans. In its lower vault-like
halls we liked but too well to lose ourselves. We obtained an entrance,
too, into the large and very simple session-room of the Council. The
walls as well as the arched ceiling were white, though wainscotted to a
certain height, and the whole was without a trace of painting, or any
kind of carved work; only, high up on the middle wall, might be read
this brief inscription:

    "One man's word is no man's word,
     Justice needs that both be heard."

After the most ancient fashion, benches were ranged around the
wainscotting, and raised one step above the floor for the accommodation
of the members of the assembly. This readily suggested to us why the
order of rank in our senate was distributed by benches. To the left of
the door, on the opposite corner, sat the _Schöffen_; in the corner
itself the _Schultheiss_, who alone had a small table before him; those
of the second bench sat in the space to his left as far as the wall to
where the windows were; while along the windows ran the third bench,
occupied by the craftsmen. In the midst of the hall stood a table for
the registrar (_Protocolführer_).

Once within the _Römer_, we even mingled with the crowd at the
audiences of the burgomasters. But whatever related to the election
and coronation of the Emperors possessed a greater charm. We managed
to gain the favour of the keepers, so as to be allowed to mount the
new gay imperial staircase, which was painted in fresco, and on other
occasions closed with a grating. The election-chamber, with its purple
hangings and admirably-fringed gold borders, filled us with awe. The
representations of animals on which little children or genii, clothed
in the imperial ornaments and laden with the insignia of the Empire,
made a curious figure, were observed by us with great attention; and we
even hoped that we might live to see, some time or other, a coronation
with our own eyes. They had great difficulty to get us out of the
great imperial hall, when we had been once fortunate enough to steal
in; and we reckoned him our truest friend who, while we looked at the
half-lengths of all the emperors painted around at a certain height,
would tell us something of their deeds.

We listened to many a legend of Charlemagne. But that which was
historically interesting for us began with Rudolph of Hapsburg, who by
his courage put an end to such violent commotions. Charles the Fourth
also attracted our notice We had already heard of the Golden Bull, and
of the statutes for the administration of criminal justice. We knew,
too, that he had not made the Frankforters suffer for their adhesion to
his noble rival, Emperor Günther of Schwarzburg. We heard Maximilian
praised both as a friend to mankind, and to the townsmen, his subjects,
and were also told that it had been prophesied of him he would be
the last Emperor of a German house; which unhappily came to pass, as
after his death the choice wavered only between the King of Spain,
(_afterwards_) Charles V., and the King of France, Francis I. With some
anxiety it was added, that a similar prophecy, or rather intimation,
was once more in circulation; for it was obvious that there was room
left for the portrait of only one more emperor--a circumstance which,
though seemingly accidental; filled the patriotic with concern.

Having once entered upon this circuit, we did not fail to repair to
the cathedral, and there visit the grave of that brave Günther, so
much prized both by friend and foe. The famous stone which formerly
covered it is set up in the choir. The door close by, leading into
the conclave, remained long shut against us, until we at last managed
through the higher authorities, to gain access to this celebrated
place. But we should have done better had we continued as before to
picture it merely in our imagination; for we found this room, which
is so remarkable in German history, where the most powerful princes
were accustomed to meet for an act so momentous, in no respect
worthily adorned, and even disfigured with beams, poles, scaffolding,
and similar lumber, which people had wanted to put out of the way.
The imagination, for that very reason, was the more excited and the
heart elevated, when we soon after received permission to be present
in the Council-House, at the exhibition of the Golden Bull to some
distinguished strangers.

[Side-note: Imperial Coronations.]

The Boy then heard, with much curiosity, what his own family, as well
as other older relations and acquaintances, liked to tell and repeat,
viz., the histories of the two last coronations, which had followed
close upon each other; for there was no Frankforter of a certain age
who would not have regarded these two events, and their attendant
circumstances, as the crowning glory of his whole life. Splendid as
had been the coronation of Charles Seventh, during which particularly
the French Ambassador had given magnificent feasts at great cost and
with distinguished taste, the results were all the more afflicting to
the good Emperor, who could not preserve his capital Munich, and was
compelled in some degree to implore the hospitality of his imperial
towns.

If the coronation of Francis First was not so strikingly splendid as
the former one, it was dignified by the presence of the Empress Maria
Theresa, whose beauty appears to have created as much impression on the
men, as the earnest and noble form and the blue eyes of Charles Seventh
on the women. At any rate, the sexes rivalled each other in giving to
the attentive Boy a highly favourable opinion of both these personages.
All these descriptions and narratives were given in a serene and quiet
state of mind; for the peace of Aix-la-Chapelle had, for the moment,
put an end to all feuds; and they spoke at their ease of past contests,
as well as of their former festivities--the battle of Dettingen, for
instance, and other remarkable events of by-gone years; and all that
was important or dangerous seemed, as generally happens when a peace
has been concluded, to have occurred only to afford entertainment to
prosperous and unconcerned people.

Half a year had scarcely passed away in this narrow patriotism before
the fairs began, which always produced an incredible ferment in the
heads of all children. The erection, in so short a time, of so many
booths, creating a new town within the old one, the roll and crush, the
unloading and unpacking of wares, excited from the very first dawn of
consciousness an insatiable active curiosity and a boundless desire for
childish property, which the Boy with increasing years endeavoured to
gratify, in one way or another, as far as his little purse permitted.
At the same time he obtained a notion of what the world produces, what
it wants, and what the inhabitants of its different parts exchange with
each other.

These great epochs, which came round regularly in spring and autumn,
were announced by curious solemnities, which seemed the more dignified
because they vividly brought before us the old time, and what had
come down from it to ourselves. On Escort-day, the whole population
were on their legs, thronging to the _Fahrgasse_, to the bridge, and
beyond _Sachsenhausen_; all the windows were occupied, though nothing
unusual took place on that day; the crowd seeming to be there only for
the sake of jostling each other, and the spectators merely to look at
one another; for the real occasion of their coming did not begin till
nightfall, and was then rather taken upon trust than seen with the eyes.

The affair was thus: in those old, unquiet times, when every one did
wrong according to his pleasure, or helped the right as his liking
led him, traders on their way to the fairs were so wilfully beset and
harassed by waylayers, both of noble and ignoble birth, that princes
and other persons of power caused their people to be accompanied to
Frankfort by an armed escort. Now the burghers of the imperial city
would yield no rights pertaining to themselves or their district; they
went out to meet the advancing party; and thus contests often arose
as to how far the escort should advance, or whether it had a right to
enter the city at all. But, as this took place, not only in regard
to matters of trade and fairs, but also when high personages came, in
times of peace or war, and especially on the days of election; and
as the affair often came to blows when a train which was not to be
endured in the city strove to make its way in along with its lord, many
negotiations had from time to time been resorted to, and many temporary
arrangements concluded, though always with reservations of rights on
both sides. The hope had not been relinquished of composing once for
all a quarrel that had already lasted for centuries, inasmuch as the
whole institution, on account of which it had been so long and often so
hotly contested, might be looked upon as nearly useless, or at least as
superfluous.

Meanwhile, on those days, the city cavalry in several divisions, each
having a commander in front, rode forth from different gates and found
on a certain spot some troopers or hussars of the persons entitled to
an escort, who with their leaders were well received and entertained.
They stayed till towards evening, and then rode back to the city,
scarcely visible to the expectant crowd, many a city knight not being
in a condition to manage his horse, or keep himself in the saddle.
The most important bands returned by the bridge-gate, where the
pressure was consequently the strongest. Last of all, just as night
fell, the Nuremberg post-coach arrived, escorted in the same way, and
always containing, as the people fancied, in pursuance of custom, an
old woman. Its arrival, therefore, was a signal for all the urchins to
break out into an ear-splitting shout, though it was utterly impossible
to distinguish any one of the passengers within. The throng that
pressed after the coach through the bridge-gate was quite incredible,
and perfectly bewildering to the senses. The houses nearest the bridge
were those, therefore, most in demand among spectators.

[Side-note: The Piper's Court.]

Another more singular ceremony, by which the people were excited
in broad daylight, was the Piper's-court (_Pfeifer-gericht_). It
commemorated those early times when important larger trading-towns
endeavoured, if not to abolish tolls altogether, at least to bring
about a reduction of them, as they increased in proportion with trade
and industry. They were allowed this privilege by the Emperor who
needed their aid, when it was in his power to grant it, but commonly
only for one year; so that it had to be annually renewed. This was
effected by means of symbolical gifts, which were presented before
the opening of St. Bartholomew's Fair to the imperial magistrate
(_Schultheiss_), who might have sometimes been the chief toll-gatherer;
and, for the sake of a more imposing show, the gifts were offered
when he was sitting in full court with the _Schöffen._ But when the
chief magistrate afterwards came to be no longer appointed by the
Emperor, and was elected by the city itself, he still retained these
privileges; and thus both the immunities of the cities from toll, and
the ceremonies by which the representatives from Worms, Nuremberg,
and Old Bamberg once acknowledged the ancient favour, had come down
to our times. The day before Lady-day, an open court was proclaimed.
In an enclosed space in the great Imperial Hail, the Schöffen took
their elevated seats; a step higher, sat the _Schultheiss_ in the
midst of them; while below on the right hand, were the procurators of
both parties invested with plenipotentiary powers. The _Actuarius_
begins to read aloud the weighty judgments reserved for this day; the
lawyers demand copies, appeal, or do whatever else seems necessary.
All at once a singular sort of music announces, if we may so speak,
the advent of former centuries. It proceeds from three pipers, one
of whom plays an old _shawm_, another a _sack-but_, and the third a
_pommer_, or oboe. They wear blue mantles trimmed with gold, having
the notes made fast to their sleeves, and their heads covered. Having
thus left their inn at ten o'clock, followed by the deputies and their
attendants, and stared at by all, natives and strangers, they enter the
hall. The law proceedings are stayed--the pipers and their train halt
before the railing--the deputy steps in and stations himself in front
of the _Schultheiss._ The emblematic presents, which were required to
be precisely the same as in the old precedents consisted commonly of
the staple wares of the city offering them. Pepper passed, as it were,
for everything else; and, even on this occasion, the deputy brought a
handsomely turned wooden goblet filled with pepper. Upon it lay a pair
of gloves, curiously slashed, stitched, and tasseled with silk--a token
of a favour granted and received--such as the Emperor himself made use
of in certain cases. Along with this was a white staff, which in former
times was not easily dispensable in judicial proceedings. Some small
pieces of silver money were added; and the city of Worms brought an
old felt hat, which was always redeemed again, so that the same one had
been a witness of these ceremonies for many years.

After the deputy had made his address, handed over his present, and
received from the _Schultheiss_ assurance of continued favour, he
quitted the enclosed circle, the pipers blew, the train departed as it
had come, the court pursued its business, until the second and at last
the third deputy had been introduced. For each came some time after the
other; partly that the pleasure of the public might thus be prolonged,
and partly because they were always the same antiquated _virtuosi_ whom
Nuremberg, for itself and its co-cities, had undertaken to maintain and
produce annually at the appointed place.

[Side-note: Summer Amusements.]

We children were particularly interested in this festival, because we
were not a little flattered to see our grandfather in a place of so
much honour; and because commonly, on the self-same day, we used to
visit him, quite modestly, in order that we might, when my grandmother
had emptied the pepper into her spice box, lay hold of a cup or small
rod, a pair of gloves or an old _Räder Albus._[2] These symbolical
ceremonies, restoring antiquity as if by magic, could not be explained
to us without leading us back into past times and informing us of the
manners, customs, and feelings of those early ancestors who were so
strangely made present to us, by pipers and deputies seemingly risen
from the dead, and by tangible gifts, which might be possessed by
ourselves.

These venerable solemnities were followed, in the fine season, by many
festivals, delightful for us children, which took place in the open
air, outside of the city. On the right shore of the Maine going down,
about half an hour's walk from the gate, there rises a sulphur-spring,
neatly enclosed and surrounded by aged lindens. Not far from it
stands the _Good-People's-Court_, formerly a hospital erected for the
sake of the waters. On the commons around, the herds of cattle from
the neighbourhood were collected on a certain day of the year; and
the herdsmen, together with their sweethearts, celebrated a rural
festival, with dancing and singing, with all sorts of pleasure and
clownishness. On the other side of the city lay a similar but larger
common, likewise graced with a spring and still finer lindens. Thither,
at Whitsuntide, the flocks of sheep were driven; and, at the same
time, the poor, pale orphan children were allowed to come out of their
walls into the open air; for the thought had not yet occurred that
these destitute creatures, who must some time or other help themselves
through the world, ought soon to be brought in contact with it; that
instead of being kept in dreary confinement, they should rather be
accustomed to serve and to endure; and that there was every reason to
strengthen them physically and morally from their infancy. The nurses
and maids, always ready to hike a walk, never failed to carry or
conduct us to such places, even in our first years; so that these rural
festivals belong to the earliest impressions that I can recall.

Meanwhile, our house had been finished, and that too in tolerably short
time, because everything had been judiciously planned and prepared,
and the needful money provided. We now found ourselves all together
again, and felt comfortable: for, when a well-considered plan is once
carried out, we forget he various inconveniences of the means that were
necessary to its accomplishment. The building, for a private residence,
was roomy enough; light and cheerful throughout, with broad staircases,
agreeable parlours, and a prospect of the gardens that could be enjoyed
easily from several of the windows. The internal completion, and what
pertained to mere ornament and finish, was gradually accomplished, and
served at the same time for occupation and amusement.

The first thing brought into order was my father's collection of
books, the best of which, in calf and half-calf binding, were to
ornament the walls of his office and study. He possessed the beautiful
Dutch editions of the Latin classics, which for the sake of outward
uniformity he had endeavoured to procure all in quarto; and also
many other works relating to Roman antiquities, and the more elegant
jurisprudence. The most eminent Italian poets were not wanting, and for
Tasso he showed a great predilection. There were also the best and most
recent Travels; and he took great delight in correcting and completing
Keyssler and Nemeiz from them. Nor had he omitted to surround himself
with all needful assistants to learning, such as dictionaries of
various languages, and encyclopedias of science and art, which with
much else adapted to profit and amusement, might be consulted at will.

The other half of this collection, in neat parchment bindings, with
very beautifully written titles, was placed in a separate attic. The
acquisition of new books, as well as their binding and arrangement,
he pursued with great composure and love of order: and he was much
influenced in his opinion by the critical notices that ascribed
particular merit to any work. His collection of juridical treatises was
annually increased by some volumes.

Next, the pictures, which in the old house had hung about
promiscuously, were now collected and symmetrically hung on the walls
of a cheerful room near the study, all in black frames, set off with
gilt mouldings. My father had a principle, which he often and strongly
expressed, that one ought to employ the living Masters, and to spend
less upon the departed, in the estimation of whom prejudice greatly
concurred. He had the notion that it was precisely the same with
pictures as with Rhenish wines, which, though age may impart to them a
higher value, can be produced in any coming year of just as excellent
quality as in years past. After the lapse of some time, the new wine
also becomes old, quite as valuable and perhaps more delicious. This
opinion he chiefly confirmed by the observation that many old pictures
seemed to derive their chief value for lovers of art from the fact
that they had become darker and browner; and that the harmony of tone
in such pictures was often vaunted. My father, on the other hand,
protested that he had no fear that the new pictures would not also turn
black in time, though whether they were likely to gain anything by this
he was not so positive.

[Side-note: Frankfurt Artists.]

In pursuance of these principles, he employed for many years the
whole of the Frankfort artists:--the painter HIRT, who excelled in
animating oak and beech woods, and other so-called rural scenes, with
cattle; TRAUTMANN, who had adopted Rembrandt as his model, and had
attained great perfection in inclosed lights and reflections, as well
as in effective conflagrations, so that he was once ordered to paint
a companion-piece to a Rembrandt; SCHÜTZ, who diligently elaborated
landscapes of the Rhine country, in the manner of SACHTLEBENS; and
JUNKER, who executed with great purity flower and fruit pieces, still
life, and figures quietly employed, after the models of the Dutch.
But now, by the new arrangement, by more convenient room, and still
more by the acquaintance of a skilful artist, our love of art was again
quickened and animated. This artist was SEEKATZ, a pupil of Brinkmann,
court-painter at Darmstadt, whose talent and character will be more
minutely unfolded in the sequel.

In this way, the remaining rooms were finished, according to their
several purposes. Cleanliness and order prevailed throughout. Above
all, the large panes of plate-glass contributed towards a perfect
lightness, which had been wanting in the old house for many causes, but
chiefly on account of the panes, which were for the most part round. My
father was cheerful on account of the success of his undertaking, and
if his good humour had not been often interrupted because the diligence
and exactness of the mechanics did not come up to his wishes, a happier
life than ours could not have been conceived, since much good partly
arose in the family itself, and partly flowed from without.

But an extraordinary event deeply disturbed the Boy's peace of mind,
for the first time. On the 1st of November, 1755, the earthquake at
Lisbon took place, and spread a prodigious alarm over the world, long
accustomed to peace and quiet. A great and magnificent capital, which
was, at the same time, a trading and mercantile city, is smitten,
without warning, by a most fearful calamity. The earth trembles and
totters, the sea roars up, ships dash together, houses fall in, and
over them churches and towers, the royal palace is in part swallowed
by the waters, the bursting land seems to vomit flames, since smoke
and fire are seen everywhere amid the ruins. Sixty thousand persons,
a moment before in case and comfort, fall together, and he is to be
deemed most fortunate who is no longer capable of a thought or feeling
about the disaster. The flames rage on, and with them rage a troop
of desperadoes, before concealed, or set at large by the event. The
wretched survivors are exposed to pillage, massacre, and every outrage:
and thus, on all sides, Nature asserts her boundless capriciousness.

[Side-note: Earthquake at Lisbon.]

Intimations of this event had spread over wide regions more quickly
than the authentic reports: slight shocks had been felt in many places:
in many springs, particularly those of a mineral nature, an unusual
receding of the waters had been remarked; and so much, the greater was
the effect of the accounts themselves, which were rapidly circulated,
at first in general terms, but finally with dreadful particulars.
Hereupon, the religious were neither wanting in reflections, nor the
philosophic in grounds for consolation, nor the clergy in warnings. So
complicated an event arrested the attention of the world for a long
time; and, as additional and more detailed accounts of the extensive
effects of this explosion came from every quarter, the minds already
aroused by the misfortunes of strangers, began to be more and more
anxious about themselves and their friends. Perhaps the demon of terror
had never so speedily and powerfully diffused his terrors over the
earth.

The Boy, who was compelled to put up with frequent repetitions of
the whole matter, was not a little staggered. God, the Creator and
Preserver of Heaven and Earth, whom the explanation of the first
article of the Creed declared so wise and benignant, having given
both the just and the unjust a prey to the same destruction, had not
manifested Himself, by any means, in a fatherly character. In vain
the young mind strove to resist these impressions. It was the more
impossible, as the wise and scripture-learned could not themselves
agree as to the light in which such a phenomenon should be regarded.

The next summer gave a closer opportunity of knowing directly that
angry God, of whom the Old Testament records so much. A sudden
hail-storm, accompanied by thunder and lightning, violently broke the
new panes at the back of our house, which looked towards the west,
damaged the new furniture, destroyed some valuable books and other
things of worth, and was the more terrible to the children, as the
whole household, quite beside themselves, dragged them into a dark
passage, where, on their knees, with frightful groans and cries, they
thought to conciliate the wrathful Deity. Meanwhile, my father, who
was alone self-possessed, forced open and unhinged the window-frames,
by which we saved much glass, but made a broader inlet for the rain
that followed the hail, so that after we were finally quieted, we found
ourselves in the rooms and on the stairs completely surrounded by
floods and streams of water.

These events, startling as they were on the whole, did not greatly
interrupt the course of instruction which my father himself had
undertaken to give us children. He had passed his youth in the Cobourg
Gymnasium, which stood as one of the first among German educational
institutions. He had there laid a good foundation in languages, and
other matters reckoned part of a learned education, had subsequently
applied himself to jurisprudence at Leipzig, and had at last taken
his degree at Giessen. His dissertation, "_Electa de aditione
Hereditatis_," which had been earnestly and carefully written, is yet
cited by jurists with approval.

It is a pious wish of all fathers to see what they have themselves
failed to attain, realized in their sons, as if in this way they
could live their lives over again, and, at last, make a proper use
of their early experience. Conscious of his acquirements, with the
certainty of faithful perseverance, and distrusting the teachers of
the day, my father undertook to instruct his own children, allowing
them to take particular lesson from particular masters only so far as
seemed absolutely necessary. A pedagogical _dilettantism_ was already
beginning to show itself everywhere. The pedantry and heaviness of the
masters appointed in the public schools had probably given rise to
this evil. Something better was sought for, but it was forgotten how
defective all instruction must be, which is not given by persons who
are teachers by profession.

My father had prospered in his own career tolerably according to his
wishes: I was to follow the same course, only more easily, and much
farther. He prized my natural endowments the more, because he was
himself wanting in them; for he had acquired everything only by means
of unspeakable diligence, pertinacity, and repetition. He often assured
me, early and late, both in jest and earnest, that with my talents he
would have deported himself very differently, and would not have turned
them to such small account.

[Side-note: Juvenile Studies.]

By means of a ready apprehension, practice, and a good, memory, I very
soon outgrew the instructions which my father and the other teachers
were able to give, without being thoroughly grounded in anything.
Grammar displeased me, because I regarded it as a mere arbitrary law;
the rules seemed ridiculous, inasmuch as they were invalidated by so
many exceptions, which had all to be learned by themselves. And if the
first Latin work had not been in rhyme, I should have got on but badly
in that; but as it was, I hummed and sang it to myself readily enough.
In the same way we had a Geography in memory-verses, in which the most
wretched doggerel best served to fix the recollection of that which was
to be retained: _e. g.:_

    Upper-Yssel has many a fen,
    Which makes it hateful to all men.

The forms and inflections of language I caught with ease; and I also
quickly unravelled what lay in the conception of a thing. In rhetoric,
composition, and such matters, no one excelled me, although I was often
put back for faults of grammar. Yet these were the attempts that gave
my father particular pleasure, and for which he rewarded me with many
presents of money, considerable for such a lad.

My father taught my sister Italian in the same room in which I had to
commit Cellarius to memory. As I was soon ready with my task, and was
yet obliged to sit quiet, I listened with my book before me, and very
readily caught the Italian, which struck me as an agreeable softening
of Latin.

Other precocities, with respect to memory and the power to combine,
I possessed in common with those children who thus acquire an early
reputation. For that reason my father could scarcely wait for me to
go to college. He very soon declared, that I must study jurisprudence
in Leipzig, for which he retained a strong predilection, and I was
afterwards to visit some other university and take my degree. As for
this second one he was indifferent which I might choose, except that
he had for some reason or other a disinclination to Göttingen, to my
disappointment, since it was precisely there that I had placed such
confidence and high hopes.

He told me further, that I was to go to Wetzlar and Ratisbon as well as
to Vienna, and thence towards Italy, although he repeatedly mentioned
that Paris should first be seen, because after coming out of Italy
nothing else could be pleasing.

These tales of my future youthful travels, often as they were repeated,
I listened to eagerly, the more since they always led to accounts of
Italy, and at last to a description of Naples. His otherwise serious
and dry manner seemed on these occasions to relax and quicken, and thus
a passionate wish awoke in us children to participate in the paradise
he described.

Private lessons, which now gradually multiplied, were shared with the
children of the neighbours. This learning in common did not advance
me; the teachers followed their routine; and the rudeness, sometimes
the ill-nature, of my companions, interrupted the brief hours of study
with tumult, vexation, and disturbance. Chrestomathies, by which
learn learning is made pleasant and varied, had not yet reached us.
Cornelius Nepos, so dry to young people, the New Testament which was
much too easy, and which by preaching and religious instructions had
been rendered even common-place, Cellarius and Pasor could impart no
kind of interest; on the other hand, a certain rage for rhyme and
versification, a consequence of reading the prevalent German poets,
took complete possession of us. Me it had seized much earlier, as I
had found it agreeable to pass from the rhetorical to the poetical
treatment of subjects.

We boys held a Sunday assembly where each of us was to produce original
verses. And here I was struck by something strange, which long caused
me uneasiness. My poems, whatever they might be, always seemed to me
the best. But I soon remarked, that my competitors who brought forth
very lame affairs, were in the same condition, and thought no less of
themselves. Nay, what appeared yet more suspicious, a good lad (though
in such matters altogether unskilful), whom I liked in other respects,
but who had his rhymes made by his tutor, not only regarded these as
the best, but was thoroughly persuaded they were his own, as he always
maintained in our confidential intercourse. Now, as this illusion and
error was obvious to me, the question one day forced itself upon me,
whether I myself might not be in the same state, whether those poems
were not really better than mine, and whether I might not justly appear
to those boys as mad as they to me? This disturbed me much and long;
for it was altogether impossible for me to find any external criterion
of the truth; I even ceased from producing, until at length I was
quieted by my own light temperament, and the feeling of my own powers,
and lastly by a trial of skill--started on the spur of the moment by
our teachers and parents, who had noted our sport--in which I came off
well and won general praise.

No libraries for children had at that time been established. The old
had themselves still childish notions, and found it convenient to
impart their own education to their successors. Except the _Orbis
Pictus_ of Amos Comenius, no book of the sort fell into our hands; but
the large folio Bible, with copperplates by Merian, was diligently gone
over leaf by leaf: Gottfried's Chronicles, with plates by the same
master, taught us the most notable events of Universal History; the
_Acerra Philologica_ added thereto all sorts of fables, mythologies and
wonders; and, as I soon became familiar with Ovid's Metamorphoses, the
first books of which in particular I studied carefully, my young brain
was rapidly furnished with a mass of images and events, of significant
and wonderful shapes and occurrences, and I never felt time hang upon
my hands, as I always occupied myself in working over, repeating, and
reproducing these acquisitions.

[Side-note: Popular Works.]

A more salutary moral effect than that of these rude and hazardous
antiquities, was produced by Fénelon's _Telemachus_, with which I first
became acquainted in Neukirch's translation, and which, imperfectly
as it was executed, had a sweet and beneficent influence on my mind.
That _Robinson Crusoe_ was added in due time, follows in the nature
of things; and it may be imagined that the _Island of Falsenberg_
was not wanting. Lord Anson's _Voyage round the Globe_ combined the
dignity of truth with the rich fancies of fable, and while our thoughts
accompanied this excellent seaman, we were conducted over all the
world, and endeavoured to follow him with our fingers on the globe. But
a still richer harvest was to spring up before me, when I lighted on a
mass of writings, which, in their present state, it is true, cannot be
called excellent, but the contents of which, in a harmless way, bring
near to us many a meritorious action of former times.

The publication, or rather the manufacture, of those books which have
at a later day become so well known and celebrated under the name
_Volkschriften, Volksbücher_ (popular works or books), was carried on
in Frankfort. The enormous sales they met with, led to their being
almost illegibly printed from stereotypes on horrible blotting-paper.
We children were so fortunate as to find these precious remains of the
Middle Ages every day on a little table at the door of a dealer in
cheap books, and to obtain them at the cost of a couple of _kreutzer._
The Eulenspiegel, the Four Sons of Haimon, the Emperor Octavian, the
Fair Melusina, the Beautiful Magelone, Fortunatus, with the whole race
down to the Wandering Jew, were all at our service, as often as we
preferred the relish of these works to the taste of sweet things. The
greatest benefit of this was, that when we had read through or damaged
such a sheet, it could soon be reprocured and swallowed a second time.

As a family pic-nic in summer is vexatiously disturbed by a sudden
storm, which transforms a pleasant state of things into the very
reverse, so the diseases of childhood fall unexpectedly on the most
beautiful season of early life. And thus it happened with me. I had
just purchased Fortunatus with his Purse and Wishing-hat, when I was
attacked by a restlessness and fever which announced the small-pox.
Inoculation was still with us considered very problematical, and
although it had already been intelligibly and urgently recommended
by popular writers, the German physicians hesitated to perform an
operation that seemed to forestall Nature. Speculative Englishmen,
therefore, had come to the Continent and inoculated, for a considerable
fee, the children of such persons as were opulent and free from
prejudices. Still the majority were exposed to the old disease; the
infection raged through families, killed and disfigured many children;
and few parents dared to avail themselves of a method, the probable
efficacy of which had been abundantly confirmed by the result. The
evil now invaded our house and attacked me with unusual severity.
My whole body was sown over with spots, and my race covered, and
for several days I lay blind and in great pain. They tried the only
possible alleviation, and promised me heaps of gold if I would keep
quiet and not increase the mischief by rubbing and scratching. I
controlled myself, while, according to the prevailing prejudice, they
kept me as warm as possible, and thus only rendered my suffering more
acute. At last, after a woful time, there fell as it were a mask from
my face. The blotches had left no visible mark upon the skin, but the
features were plainly altered. I myself was satisfied merely with
seeing the light of day again, and gradually putting off my spotted
skin; but others were pitiless enough to remind me often of my previous
condition; especially a very lively aunt, who had formerly regarded
me with idolatry, but in after years could seldom look at me without
exclaiming--"The deuce, cousin! what a fright he's grown!" Then she
would tell me circumstantially how I had once been her delight, and
what attention she had excited when she carried me about; and thus I
early learned that people very often subject us to a severe atonement
for the pleasure which we have afforded them.

[Side-note: Diseases of Childhood.]

I neither escaped measles, nor chicken-pox, nor any other of the
tormenting demons of childhood; and I was assured each time that it
was a great piece of good luck that this malady was now past for ever.
But, alas! another again threatened in the back-ground, and advanced.
All these things increased my propensity to reflection; and as I
had already practised myself in fortitude, in order to remove the
torture of impatience, the virtues which I had heard praised in the
Stoics appeared to me highly worthy of imitation, and the more so, as
something similar was commended by the Christian doctrine of patience.

While on the subject of these family diseases, I will mention a brother
about three years younger than myself, who was likewise attacked by
that infection, and suffered not a little from it. He was of a tender
nature, quiet and capricious, and we were never on the most friendly
terms. Besides, he scarcely survived the years of childhood. Among
several other children born afterwards, who like him did not live long,
I only remember a very pretty and agreeable girl, who also soon passed
away; so that, after the lapse of some years, my sister and I remained
alone, and were therefore the more deeply and affectionately attached
to each other.

These maladies and other unpleasant interruptions were in their
consequences doubly grievous; for my father, who seemed to have laid
down for himself a certain calendar of education and instruction, was
resolved immediately to repair every delay, and imposed double lessons
upon the young convalescent. These were not hard for me to accomplish,
but were so far troublesome, that they hindered, and to a certain
extent repressed, my inward development, which had taken a decided
direction.

From these didactic and pedagogic oppressions, we commonly fled to
my grandfather and grandmother. Their house stood in the _Friedberg_
street, and appeared to have been formerly a fortress; for, on
approaching it, nothing was seen but a large gate with battlements,
which were joined on either side to the two neighbouring houses. On
entering through a narrow passage, we reached at last a tolerably broad
court, surrounded by irregular buildings, which were now all united
into one dwelling. We usually hastened at once into the garden, which
extended to a considerable length and breadth behind the buildings, and
was very well kept. The walks were mostly skirted by vine trellises;
one part of the space was used for vegetables, and another devoted to
flowers, which from spring till autumn adorned in rich succession the
borders as well as the beds. The long wall erected towards the south
was used for some well-trained espalier peach-trees, the forbidden
fruit of which ripened temptingly before us through the summer. Yet we
rather avoided this side, because we here could not satisfy our dainty
appetites; and we turned to the side opposite, where an interminable
row of currant and gooseberry bushes furnished our voracity with a
succession of harvests till autumn. Not less important to us was an
old, high, wide-spreading mulberry-tree, both on account of its fruits,
and because we were told that the silk-worms fed upon its leaves. In
this peaceful region my grandfather was found every evening, tending
with genial care and with his own hand the finer growths of fruits and
flowers; while a gardener managed the drudgery. He was never vexed by
the various toils which were necessary to preserve and increase a fine
show of pinks. The branches of the peach-trees were carefully tied to
the espaliers with his own hands, in a fan-shape, in order to bring
about a full and easy growth of the fruit. The sorting of the bulbs of
tulips, hyacinths, and plants of a similar nature, as well as the care
of their preservation, he entrusted to none; and I still with pleasure
recall to my mind how diligently he occupied himself in inoculating
the different varieties of roses. That he might protect himself from
the thorns, he put on a pair of those ancient leather gloves, of which
three pair were given him annually at the Piper's Court, so that there
was no dearth of the article. He wore also a loose dressing-gown, and a
folded black velvet cap upon his head, so that he might have passed for
an intermediate person between Alcinoüs and Laërtes.

[Side-note: Goethe's Maternal Grandfather.]

All this work in the garden he pursued as regularly and with as much
precision as his official business; for, before he came down, he always
arranged the list of causes for the next day, and read the legal
papers. In the morning he proceeded to the Council House, dined after
his return, then nodded in his easy chair, and so went through the same
routine every day. He conversed little, never exhibited any vehemence
and I do not remember ever to have seen him angry. All that surrounded
him was in the fashion of the olden time. I never perceived any
alteration in his wainscotted room. His library contained, besides law
works, only the earliest books of travels, sea voyages, and discoveries
of countries. Altogether I can call to mind no situation more adapted
than his to awaken the feeling of uninterrupted peace and eternal
duration.

But the reverence which we entertained for this venerable old man was
raised to the highest degree by a conviction that he possessed the
gift of prophecy, especially in matters that pertained to himself and
his destiny. It is true he revealed himself to no one, distinctly and
minutely, except to my grandmother; yet we were all aware that he was
informed of what was going to happen, by significant dreams. He assured
his wife, for instance, at a time when he was still junior Councillor,
that on the first vacancy he would obtain the place left open on
the bench of the _Schöffen_; and soon afterwards when one of those
officers actually died of apoplexy, my grandfather gave orders that
his house should be quietly got ready prepared on the day of electing
and balloting, to receive his guests and congratulators. Sure enough,
the decisive gold ball was drawn in his favour. The simple dream by
which he had learned this, he confided to his wife as follows: He had
seen himself in the ordinary full assembly of Councilmen, where all
went on just as usual. Suddenly, the late _Schöff_ rose from his seat,
descended the steps, pressed him in the most complimentary manner to
take the vacant place, and then departed by the door.

Something like this occurred on the death of the _Schultheiss._ They
make no delay in supplying this place, as they always have to fear that
the Emperor will at some time resume his ancient right of nominating
the officer. On this occasion, the messenger of the Court came at
midnight to summon an extraordinary session for the next morning;
and as the light in his lantern was about to expire, he asked for a
candle's end to help him on his way. "Give him a whole one," said my
grandfather to the ladies, "he takes the trouble all on my account."
This expression anticipated the result--he was made _Schultheiss_;
and what rendered the circumstance particularly remarkable was, that
although his representative was the third and last to draw at the
ballot, the two silver balls first came out, leaving the golden ball at
the bottom of the bag for him.

Perfectly prosaic, simple, and without a trace of the fantastic
or miraculous, were the other dreams, of which we were informed.
Moreover, I remember that once, as a boy, I was turning over his
books and memoranda, and found among some other remarks which related
to gardening, such sentences as these: "To-night N. N. came to me
and said----" the name and revelation being written in cipher; or
"This night I saw----" all the rest being again in cipher, except the
conjunctions and similar words, from which nothing could be learned.

It is worthy of note also, that persons who showed no signs of
prophetic insight at other times, acquired, for the moment, while
in his presence, and that by means of some sensible evidence,
presentiments of diseases or deaths which were then occurring in
distant places. But no such gift has been transmitted to any of his
children or grandchildren, who for the most part have been hearty
people, enjoying life, and never going beyond the Actual.

While on this subject, I remember with gratitude many kindnesses I
received from them in my youth. Thus, for example, we were employed and
entertained in many ways when we visited the second daughter, married
to the druggist Melbert, whose house and shop stood near the market, in
the midst of the liveliest and most crowded part of the town. There we
could look down from the windows pleasantly enough upon the hurly-burly
in which we feared to lose ourselves; and though, at first, of all the
goods in the shop, nothing had much interest for us but the liquorice,
and the little brown stamped cakes made from it, we became in time
better acquainted with the multitude of articles bought and sold in
that business. This aunt was the most vivacious of all the family. When
my mother, in her early years, took pleasure in being neatly dressed,
working at some domestic occupation, or reading a book, the other,
on the contrary, ran about the neighbourhood to pick up neglected
children, take care of them, comb them, and carry them round, as
indeed she did me for a good while. At a time of public festivities,
such as coronations, it was impossible to keep her at home. When a
little child, she had already scrambled for the money scattered on such
occasions; and it was related of her, that once when she had got a good
many together, and was looking at them with great delight in the palm
of her hand, it was struck by somebody, and all her well-earned booty
vanished at a blow. There was another incident of which she was very
proud. Once, while standing on a post as the Emperor Charles VII. was
passing, at a moment when all the people were silent, she shouted a
vigorous "Vivat!" into the coach, which made him take off his hat to
her, and thank her quite graciously for her bold salutation.

Everything in her house was stirring, lively, and cheerful, and we
children owed her many a gay hour.

[Side-note: Religious Instruction.]

In a quieter situation, which was however suited to her character,
was a second aunt, married to the Pastor Stark, incumbent of St.
Catharine's Church. He lived much alone, in accordance with his
temperament and vocation, and possessed a fine library. Here I first
became acquainted with Homer, in a prose translation, which may be
found in the seventh part of Herr Von Loen's new collection of the
most remarkable travels, under the title, _Homer's Description of the
Conquest of the Kingdom of Troy_, ornamented with copper-plates, in the
theatrical French taste. These pictures perverted my imagination to
such a degree, that for a long time I could conceive the Homeric heroes
only under such forms. The incidents themselves gave me unspeakable
delight; though I found great fault with the work for affording us no
account of the capture of Troy, and breaking off so abruptly Math the
death of Hector. My uncle, to whom I mentioned this defect, referred me
to Virgil, who perfectly satisfied my demands.

It will be taken for granted, that we children had among our other
lessons, a continued and progressive instruction in religion. But the
Church-Protestantism imparted to us was, properly speaking, nothing
but a kind of dry morality: ingenious exposition was not thought
of; and the doctrine appealed neither to the understanding nor to
the heart. For that reason, there were various secessions from the
Established Church. Separatists, Pietists, Herrnhuter (Moravians),
Quiet-in-the-Lands, and others differently named and characterized
sprang up, all of whom were animated by the same purpose of approaching
the Deity, especially through Christ, more closely than seemed to them
possible under the forms of the established religion.

The Boy heard these opinions and sentiments constantly spoken of;
for the clergy as well as the laity divided themselves into _pro_
and _con._ The minority were composed of those who dissented more or
less broadly, but their modes of thinking attracted by originality,
heartiness, perseverance, and independence. All sorts of stories were
told of their virtues and of the way in which they were manifested.
The reply of a pious master-tinman was especially noted, who, when
one of his craft attempted to shame him by asking "who is really
your confessor?" answered with great cheerfulness and confidence in
the goodness of his cause,--"I have a famous one--no less than the
confessor of King David."

Things of this sort naturally made an impression on the Boy, and led
him into similar states of mind. In fact, he came to the thought that
he might immediately approach the great God of Nature, the Creator and
Preserver of Heaven and Earth, whose earlier manifestations of wrath
had been long forgotten in the beauty of the world, and the manifold
blessings in which we participate while upon it. The way he took to
accomplish this was very curious.

The Boy had chiefly kept to the first article of Belief. The God who
stands in immediate connexion with nature, and owns and loves it as his
work, seemed to him the proper God, who might be brought into closer
relationship with man, as with everything else, and who would take
care of him, as of the motion of the stars, the days and seasons, the
animals and plants. There were texts of the Gospels which explicitly
stated this. The Boy could ascribe no form to this Being; he therefore
sought Him in His works, and would, in the good Old Testament fashion,
build Him an altar. Natural productions were set forth as images of
the world, over which a flame was to bum, signifying the aspirations
of man's heart towards his Maker. He brought out of the collection of
natural objects which he possessed, and which had been increased as
chance directed, the best ores and other specimens.

[Side-note: The Boy-Priest.]

But the next difficulty was, as to how they should be arranged and
raised into a pile. His father possessed a beautiful red-lackered
music-stand, ornamented with gilt flowers, in the form of a four-sided
pyramid, with different elevations, which had been found convenient
for quartets, but lately was not much in use. The Boy laid hands on
this, and built up his representatives of Nature one above the other
in steps, so that it all looked quite pretty and at the same time
sufficiently significant. On an early sunrise his first worship of God
was to be celebrated, but the young priest had not yet settled how
to produce a flame which should at the same time emit an agreeable
odour. At last it occurred to him to combine the two, as he possessed
a few fumigating pastils, which diffused a pleasant fragrance with a
glimmer, if not with a flame. Nay, this soft burning and exhalation
seemed a better representation of what passes in the heart, than
an open flame. The sun had already risen for a long time, but the
neigbouring houses concealed the East. At last it glittered above
the roofs, a burning-glass was at once taken up and applied to the
pastils, which were fixed on the summit in a fine porcelain saucer.
Everything succeeded according to the wish, and the devotion was
perfect. The altar remained as a peculiar ornament of the room which
had been assigned him in the new house. Every one regarded it only
as a well-arranged collection of natural curiosities. The Boy knew
better, but concealed his knowledge. He longed for a repetition of the
solemnity. But unfortunately, just as the most opportune sun arose,
the porcelain cup was not at hand; he placed the pastils immediately
on the upper surface of the stand; they were kindled, and so great was
the devotion of the priest, that he did not observe, until it was too
late, the mischief his sacrifice was doing. The pastils had burned
mercilessly into the red lacker and beautiful gold flowers, and as if
some evil spirit had disappeared, had left their black, ineffaceable
footprints. By this the young priest was thrown into the most extreme
perplexity. The mischief could be covered up, it was true, with the
larger pieces of his show-materials, but the spirit for new offerings
was gone, and the accident might almost be considered a hint and
warning of the danger there always is in wishing to approach the Deity
in such a way.


[1] A chief judge or magistrate of the town.

[2] An old silver coin.



SECOND BOOK.


All that has been hitherto recorded indicates that happy and easy
condition in which nations exist during a long peace. But nowhere
probably is such a beautiful time enjoyed in greater comfort than in
cities living under their own laws, and large enough to include a
considerable number of citizens, and so situated as to enrich them by
trade and commerce. Strangers find it to their advantage to come and
go, and are under a necessity of bringing profit in order to acquire
profit. Even if such cities rule but a small territory, they are
the better qualified to advance their internal prosperity, as their
external relations expose them to no costly undertakings or alliances.

Thus, the Frankforters passed a series of prosperous years during my
childhood; but scarcely, on the 28th of August, 1756, had I completed
my seventh year, than that world-renowned war broke out, which was
also to exert great influence upon the next seven years of my life.
Frederick the Second, King of Prussia, had fallen upon Saxony, with
sixty thousand men; and instead of announcing his invasion by a
declaration of war, he followed it up with a manifesto, composed by
himself, as it was said, which explained the causes that had moved
and justified him in so monstrous a step. The world, which saw itself
appealed to not merely as spectator but as judge, immediately split
into two parties, and our family was an image of the great whole.

My grandfather, who, as _Schöff_ of Frankfort, had carried the
coronation canopy over Francis the First, and had received from the
Empress a heavy gold chain with her likeness, took the Austrian side
along with some of his sons-in-law and daughters. My father having
been nominated to the imperial council by Charles the Seventh,
and sympathising sincerely in the fate of that unhappy monarch,
leaned towards Prussia, with the other and smaller half of the
family. Our meetings, which had been held on Sundays for many years
uninterruptedly, were very soon disturbed. The misunderstandings so
common among relatives by marriage, now first found a form in which
they could be expressed. Contention, discord, silence, and separation
ensued. My grandfather, otherwise a serene, quiet, and easy man,
became impatient. The women vainly endeavoured to smother the flames;
and after some unpleasant scenes, my father was the first to quit the
society. At home now we rejoiced undisturbed in the Prussian victories,
which were commonly announced with great glee by our vivacious aunt.
Every other interest was forced to give way to this, and we passed the
rest of the year in perpetual agitation. The occupation of Dresden, the
moderation of the king at the outset, his slow but secure advances, the
victory at Lowositz, the capture of the Saxons, were so many triumphs
for our party. Everything that could be alleged for the advantage of
our opponents was denied or depreciated; and as the members of the
family on the other side did the same, they could not meet in the
streets without disputes arising, as in _Romeo and Juliet._

[Side-note: Family Disputes.]

Thus I also was then a Prussian in my views, or, to speak more
correctly, a Fritzian; since what cared we for Prussia? It was the
personal character of the great king that worked upon all hearts. I
rejoiced with my father in our conquests, readily copied the songs of
triumph, and almost more willingly the lampoons directed against the
other party, poor as the rhymes might be.

As the eldest grandson and godchild, I had dined every Sunday since my
infancy with my grandfather and grandmother, and the hours so spent
had been the most delightful of the whole week. But now I relished no
morsel that I tasted, because I was compelled to hear the most horrible
slanders of my hero. Here blew another wind, here sounded another tone
than at home. My liking and even my respect for my grandfather and
grandmother fell off. I could mention nothing of this to my parents,
but avoided the matter, both on account of my own feelings, and because
I had been warned by my mother. In this way I was thrown back upon
myself; and as in my sixth year, after the earthquake at Lisbon, the
goodness of God had become to me in some measure suspicious, so I began
now, on account of Frederick the Second, to doubt the justice of the
public. My heart was naturally inclined to reverence, and it required
a great shock to stagger my faith in anything that was venerable. But
alas! they had commended good manners and a becoming deportment to
us, not for their own sake, but for the sake of the people. What will
people say? was always the cry, and I thought that the people must
be right good people, and would know how to judge of anything and
everything. But my experience went just to the contrary. The greatest
and most signal services were defamed and attacked; the noblest deeds,
if not denied, were at least misrepresented and diminished; and this
base injustice was done to the only man who was manifestly elevated
above all his contemporaries, and who daily proved what he was able
to do,--and that, not by the populace, but by distinguished men, as I
took my grandfather and uncles to be. That parties existed, and that he
himself belonged to a party, had never entered into the conceptions of
the Boy. He, therefore, believed himself all the more right, and dared
hold his own opinion for the better one, since he and those of like
mind appreciated the beauty and other good qualities of Maria Theresa,
and even did not grudge the Emperor Francis his love of jewelry and
money. That Count Daun was often called an old dozer, they thought
justifiable.

But now I consider the matter more closely, I trace here the germ
of that disregard and even disdain of the public, which clung to me
for a whole period of my life, and only in later days was brought
within bounds by insight and cultivation. Suffice it to say, that the
perception of the injustice of parties had even then a very unpleasant,
nay, an injurious effect upon the Boy, as it accustomed him to separate
himself from beloved and highly-valued persons. The quick succession
of battles and events left the parties neither quiet nor rest. We ever
found a malicious delight in reviving and re-sharpening those imaginary
evils and capricious disputes; and thus we continued to tease each
other, until the occupation of Frankfort by the French some years
afterwards, brought real inconvenience into our homes.

[Side-note: In-door Amusements.]

Although to most of us the important events occurring in distant parts
served only for topics of ardent controversy, there were others who
perceived the seriousness of the times, and feared that the sympathy
of France might open a scene of war in our own vicinity. They kept
us children at home more than before, and strove in many ways to
occupy and amuse us. With this view, the puppet-show bequeathed by our
grandmother was again brought forth, and arranged in such a way that
the spectators sat in my gable room, while the persons managing and
performing, as well as the theatre itself as far as the proscenium,
found a place in the room adjoining. We were allowed, as a special
favour, to invite first one and then another of the neighbours'
children as spectators, and thus at the outset I gained many friends;
but the restlessness inherent in children, did not suffer them to
remain long a patient audience. They interrupted the play, and we
were compelled to seek a younger public, which could at any rate be
kept in order by the nurses and maids. The original drama to which
the puppets had been specially adapted, we had learnt by heart, and
in the beginning this was exclusively performed. Soon growing weary
of it, however, we changed the dresses and decorations, and attempted
various other pieces, which were indeed on too grand a scale for so
narrow a stage. Although this presumption spoiled and finally quite
destroyed what we performed, such childish pleasures and employments
nevertheless exercised and advanced in many ways my power of invention
and representation, my fancy and a certain technical skill, to a degree
which in any other way could not perhaps have been secured in so short
a time, in so confined a space, and at so little expense.

I had early learned to use compasses and ruler, because all the
instructions they gave me in geometry were forthwith put into practice,
and I occupied myself greatly with pasteboard-work. I did not stop at
geometrical figures, little boxes, and such things, but invented pretty
pleasure-houses adorned with pilasters, steps, and flat roofs. However,
but little of this was completed.

Far more persevering was I, on the other hand, in arranging, with
the help of our domestic (a tailor by trade), an armoury for the
service of our plays and tragedies, which we ourselves performed
with delight when we had outgrown the puppets. My playfellows, too,
prepared for themselves such armouries, which they regarded as quite
as fine and good as mine; but I had made provision not for the wants
of one person only, and could furnish several of the little band with
every requisite, and thus made myself more and more indispensable to
our little circle. That such games tended to factions, quarrels, and
blows, and commonly came to a sad end in tumult and vexation, may
easily be supposed. In such cases certain of my companions generally
took part with me, while others sided against me; though many changes
of party occurred. One single boy, whom I will-call Pylades, urged by
the others, once only left my party, but could scarcely for a moment
maintain his hostile position. We were reconciled amid many tears, and
for a long time afterwards kept faithfully together.

To him, as well as other well-wishers, I could render myself very
agreeable by telling tales, which they most delighted to near when I
was the hero of my own story. It greatly rejoiced them to know that
such wonderful things could befall one of their own playfellows; nor
was it any harm that they did not understand how I could find time and
space for such adventures, as they must have been pretty well aware
of all my comings and goings, and how I was occupied the entire day.
Not the less necessary was it for me to select the localities of these
occurrences, if not in another world, at least in another spot; and
yet all was told as having taken place only to-day or yesterday. They
rather, therefore, deceived themselves, than were imposed upon by me.
If I had not gradually learned, in accordance with the instincts of my
nature, to work up these visions and conceits into artistic forms, such
vain-glorious beginnings could not have gone on without producing evil
consequences for myself in the end.

Considering this impulse more closely, we may see in it that
presumption with which the poet authoritatively utters the greatest
improbabilities, and requires every one to recognise as real whatever
may in any way seem to him, the inventor, as true.

But what is here told only in general terms, and by way of reflection,
will perhaps become more apparent and interesting by means of an
example. I subjoin, therefore, one of these tales, which, as I often
had to repeat it to my comrades, still hovers entire in my imagination
and memory.


THE NEW PARIS.

A BOY'S LEGEND.

On the night before Whit Sunday, not long since, I dreamed that I
stood before a mirror, engaged with the new summer clothes which my
dear parents had given me for the holiday. The dress consisted, as you
know, of shoes of polished leather, with large silver buckles, fine
cotton stockings, black nether garments of serge, and a coat of green
baracan with gold buttons. The waistcoat of gold cloth was cut out of
my father's bridal waistcoat. My hair had been frizzled and powdered,
and my curls stuck out from my head like little wings; but I could
not finish dressing myself, because I kept confusing the different
articles, the first always falling off as soon as I was about to put
on the next. In this dilemma, a young and handsome man came to me, and
greeted me in the friendliest manner. "O! you are welcome!" said I,
"I am very glad to see you here." "Do you know me, then?" replied he,
smiling. "Why not?" was my no less smiling answer; "you are Mercury--I
have often enough seen you represented in pictures." "I am, indeed,"
replied he; "and am sent to you by the gods on an important errand.
Do you see these three apples?"--he stretched forth his hand, and
showed me three apples, which it could hardly hold, and which were as
wonderfully beautiful as they were large, the one of a red, the other
of a yellow, the third of a green colour. One could not help thinking
they were precious stones made into the form of fruit. I would have
snatched them, but he drew back, and said, "You must know, in the first
place, that they are not for you. You must give them to the three
handsomest youths of the city, who then, each according to his lot,
will find wives to the utmost of their wishes. Take them, and success
to you!" said he, as he departed, leaving the apples in my open hands.
They appeared to me to have become still larger. I held them up at
once against the light and found them quite transparent; but soon they
expanded upwards, and became three beautiful little ladies, about as
large as middle-sized dolls, whose clothes were of the colours of the
apples. They glided gently up my fingers, and when I was about to catch
at them, to make sure of one at least, they had already soared high and
far, and I had to put up with the disappointment. I stood there alt
amazed and petrified, holding up my hands and staring at my fingers,
as if there were still something on them to see. Suddenly I beheld,
upon the very tips, a most lovely girl dancing, smaller than those, but
pretty and lively, and as she did not fly away like the others, but
remained dancing, now on one finger-point now on another, I regarded
her for a long while with admiration. And, as she pleased me so much,
I thought in the end I could catch her, and made as I fancied a very
adroit grasp. But at the moment I felt such a blow on my head, that I
fell down stunned, and did not awake from my stupor till it was time to
dress myself and go to church.

During the service I often recalled those images to mind; and also when
I was eating dinner at my grand-father's table. In the afternoon, I
wished to visit some friends, partly to show myself in my now dress,
with my hat under my arm and my sword by my side, and partly to return
their visits. I found no one at home, and, as I heard that they were
gone to the gardens, I resolved to follow them, and pass the evening
pleasantly. My way led towards the entrenchments, and I came to the
spot which is rightly called the Bad Wall; for it is never quite safe
from ghosts there. I walked slowly, and thought of my three goddesses,
but especially of the little nymph; and often held up my fingers, in
hopes she might be kind enough to balance herself there again. With
such thoughts I was proceeding, when I saw in the wall on my left hand
a little gate, which I did not remember to have ever noticed before.
It looked low, but its pointed arch would have allowed the tallest man
to enter. Arch and wall were chiselled out in the handsomest way, both
by mason and sculptor; but it was the door itself which first properly
attracted my attention. The old brown wood, though slightly ornamented,
was crossed with broad bands of brass, wrought both in relief and
intaglio. The foliage on these, with the most natural birds sitting in
it, I could not sufficiently admire. But, what seemed most remarkable,
no keyhole could be seen, no latch, no knocker; and from this I
conjectured that the door could be opened only from within. I was not
in error; for when I went nearer, in order to touch the ornaments,
it opened inwards, and there appeared a man whose dress was somewhat
long, wide, and singular. A venerable beard enveloped his chin, so
that I was inclined to think him a Jew. But he, as if he had divined
my thoughts, made the sign of the Holy Cross, by which he gave me to
understand that he was a good Catholic Christian. "Young gentleman,
how came you here, and what are you doing?"--he said to me, with a
friendly voice and manner. "I am admiring," I replied, "the workmanship
of this door; for I have never seen anything like it, except in some
small pieces in the collections of amateurs." "I am glad," he answered,
"that you like such works. The door is much more beautiful inside. Come
in, if you like." My heart, in some degree, failed me. The mysterious
dress of the porter, the seclusion, and a something, I know not what,
that seemed to be in the air, oppressed me. I paused, therefore, under
the pretext of examining the outside still longer; and at the same
time I cast stolen glances into the garden, for a garden it was which
had opened before me. Just inside the door I saw a space. Old linden
trees, standing at regular distances from each other, entirely covered
it with their thickly interwoven branches, so that the most numerous
parties, during the hottest of the day, might have refreshed themselves
in the shade. Already I had stepped upon the threshold, and the old
man contrived gradually to allure me on. Properly speaking, I did not
resist; for I had always heard that a prince or sultan in such a case
must never ask whether there be danger at hand. I had my sword by my
side, too; and could I not soon have finished with the old man, in case
of hostile demonstrations? I therefore entered perfectly reassured; the
keeper closed the door, which bolted so softly that I scarcely heard
it. He now showed me the workmanship on the inside, which in truth
was still more artistic than the outside, explained it to me, and at
the same time manifested particular good-will. Being thus entirely
at my ease, I let myself be guided in the shaded space by the wall,
that formed a circle, where I found much to admire. Niches tastefully
adorned with shells, corals, and pieces of ore, poured a profusion of
water from the mouths of Tritons into marble basins. Between them were
aviaries and other lattice-work, in which squirrels frisked about,
guinea-pigs ran hither and thither, with as many other pretty little
creatures as one could wish to see. The birds called and sang to us as
we advanced; the starlings particularly chattered the silliest stuff.
One always cried, Paris! Paris! and the other Narcissus! Narcissus! as
plainly as a schoolboy can say them. The old man seemed to continue
looking at me earnestly while the birds called out thus, but I feigned
not to notice it, and had in truth no time to attend to him; for I
could easily perceive that we went round and round, and that this
shaded space was in fact a great circle, which inclosed another much
more important. Indeed we had actually reached the small door again,
and it seemed as though the old man would let me out. But my eyes
remained directed towards a golden railing, which seemed to hedge round
the middle of this wonderful garden, and which I had found means enough
of observing in our walk, although the old man managed to keep me
always close to the wall, and therefore pretty far from the centre. And
now, just as he was going to the door, I said to him, with a bow, "You
have been so extremely kind to me, that I would fain venture to make
one more request before I part from you. Might I not look more closely
at that golden railing, which appears to inclose in a very wide circle
the interior of the garden?" "Very willingly," replied he: "but in that
case you must submit to some conditions." "In what do they consist?" I
asked hastily. "You must leave here your hat and sword, and must not
let go my hand while I accompany you." "Most willingly," I replied;
and laid my hat and sword on the nearest stone bench. Immediately he
grasped my left hand with his right, held it fast, and led me with some
force straight forwards. When we reached the railing, my wonder changed
into amazement. On a high socle of marble stood innumerable spears
and partisans, ranged beneath each other, joined by their strangely
ornamented points, and forming a complete circle. I looked through the
intervals, and saw just behind a gently flowing piece of water, bounded
on both sides by marble, and displaying in its clear depths a multitude
of gold and silver fish, which moved about now slowly and now swiftly,
now alone and now in shoals. I would also fain have looked beyond the
canal, to see what there was in the heart of the garden. But I found,
to my great sorrow, that the other side of the water was bordered by
a similar railing, and with so much art, that to each interval on
this side exactly fitted a spear or partisan on the other. These and
the other ornaments rendered it impossible for one to see through,
stand as one would. Besides, the old man, who still held me fast,
prevented me from moving freely. My curiosity, meanwhile, after all
that I had seen, increased more and more; and I took heart to ask the
old man whether one could not pass over. "Why not?" returned he, "but
on new conditions." When I asked him what these were, he gave me to
understand that I must put on other clothes. I was satisfied to do so;
he led me back towards the wall, into a small neat room, on the sides
of which hung many kinds of garments, all of which seemed to approach
the oriental costume. I soon changed my dress. He confined my powdered
hair under a many coloured net, after having to my horror violently
dusted it out. Now standing before a great mirror, I found myself quite
handsome in my disguise, and pleased myself better than in my formal
Sunday clothes. I made gestures and leaped as I had seen the dancers
do at the Fair-theatre. In the midst of this I looked in the glass,
and saw by chance the image of a niche which was behind me. On its
white ground hung three green cords, each of them twisted up in a way
which from the distance I could not clearly discern. I therefore turned
round rather hastily, and asked the old man about the niche as well as
the cords. He very courteously took a cord down, and showed it to me.
It was a band of green silk of moderate thickness; the ends of which
joined by green leather with two holes in it, gave it the appearance
of an instrument for no very desirable purpose. The thing struck me as
suspicious, and I asked the old man the meaning. He answered me very
quietly and kindly, "This is for those who abuse the confidence which
is here readily shown them." He hung the cord again in its place, and
immediately desired me to follow him; for this time he did not hold me,
and so I walked freely beside him.

My chief curiosity now was to discover where the gate and bridge, for
passing through the railing and over the canal, might be; since as yet
I had not been able to find anything of the kind. I therefore watched
the golden fence very narrowly as we hastened towards it. But in a
moment my sight failed; lances, spears, halberds, and partisans, began
unexpectedly to rattle and quiver, and this strange movement ended
in all the points sinking towards each other, just as if two ancient
hosts, armed with pikes, were about to charge. The confusion to the
eyes, the clatter to the ears, was hardly to be borne; but infinitely
surprising was the sight when falling perfectly level, they covered the
circle of the canal, and formed the most glorious bridge that one can
imagine. For now a most variegated garden parterre met my sight. It
was laid out in curvilinear beds, which, looked at together, formed a
labyrinth of ornaments; all with green borders of a low woolly plant,
which I had never seen before; all with flowers, each division of
different colours, which being likewise low and close to the ground,
allowed the plan to be easily traced. This delicious sight, which I
enjoyed in the full sunshine, quite rivetted my eyes. But I hardly
knew where I was to set my foot; for the serpentine paths were most
delicately laid with blue sand, which seemed to form upon the earth a
darker sky, or a sky seen in the water: and so I walked for a while
beside my conductor, with my eyes fixed upon the ground, until at last
I perceived that, in the middle of this round of beds and flowers,
there was a great circle of cypresses or poplar-like trees, through
which one could not see, because the lowest branches seemed to spring
out of the ground. My guide, without taking me directly the shortest
way, led me nevertheless immediately towards that centre: and how was
I astonished, when on entering the circle of high trees, I saw before
me the peristyle of a magnificent garden-house, which seemed to have
similar prospects and entrances on the other sides! The heavenly music
which streamed from the building, transported me still more than this
model of architecture. I fancied that I heard now a lute, now a harp,
now a guitar, and now something tinkling, which did not belong to any
of these instruments. The door which we approached opened soon after a
light touch by the old man. But how was I amazed, when the porteress,
who came out, perfectly resembled the delicate girl who had danced
upon my fingers in the dream! She greeted me as if we were already
acquainted, and invited me to walk in. The old man remained behind, and
I went with her through a short passage, arched and finely ornamented,
to the middle hall, the splendid dome-like ceiling of which attracted
my gaze on my entrance, and filled me with astonishment. Yet my eye
could not linger long on this, being allured down by a more charming
spectacle. On a carpet, directly under the middle of the cupola, sat
three women, in a triangle, clad in three different colours; one red,
the other yellow, the third green. The seats were gilt, and the carpet
was a perfect flower-bed. In their arras lay the three instruments
which I had been able to distinguish from the outside; for being
disturbed by my arrival, they had stopped their playing. "Welcome!"
said the middle one, who sat with her face to the door, in a red dress,
and with the harp. "Sit down by Alert, and listen, if you are a lover
of music."

Now first I remarked that there was a rather long bench placed
obliquely before them, on which lay a mandoline. The pretty girl
took it up, sat down, and drew me to her side. Now also I looked at
the second lady on my right. She wore the yellow dress, and had the
guitar in her hand; and if the harp-player was dignified in form,
grand in features, and majestic in her deportment, one might remark in
the guitar-player an easy grace and cheerfulness. She was a slender
blonde--while the other was adorned by dark brown hair. The variety
and accordance of their music could not prevent me from remarking the
third beauty, in the green dress, whose lute-playing was for me at once
touching and striking. She was the one who seemed to notice me the
most, and to direct her music to me; only I could not make up my mind
about her; for she appeared to me now tender, now whimsical, now frank,
now self-willed, according as she changed her mien and mode of playing.
Sometimes she seemed to wish to move me, sometimes to teaze me; but
do what she would, she got little out of me; for my little neighbour,
by whom I sat elbow to elbow, had gained me entirely to herself; and
while I clearly saw in those three ladies the Sylphides of my dream,
and recognised the colours of the apples, I conceived that I had no
cause to detain them. The pretty little maiden I would rather have
captured, if I had not but too feelingly remembered the blow which she
had given me in my dream. Hitherto she had remained quite quiet with
her mandoline; but when her mistresses had ceased, they commanded her
to perform some pleasant little piece. Scarcely had she jingled off
some dancing tune, in a most exciting manner, than she sprang up; I
did the same. She played and danced; I was hurried on to accompany her
steps, and we executed a kind of little ballet, with which the ladies
seemed satisfied; for as soon as we had done, they commanded the little
girl to refresh me with something nice till supper should come in. I
had indeed forgotten that there was anything in the world beyond this
paradise. Alert led me back immediately into the passage by which I
had entered. On one side of it she had two well-arranged rooms. In
that in which she lived, she set before me oranges, figs, peaches, and
grapes; and I enjoyed with great gusto both the fruits of foreign lands
and those of our own not yet in season. Confectionary there was in
profusion; she filled, too, a goblet of polished crystal with foaming
wine; but I had no need to drink, as I had refreshed myself with the
fruits. "Now we will play," said she, and led me into the other room.
Here all looked like a Christmas fair; but such costly and exquisite
things were never seen in a Christmas booth. There were all kinds of
dolls, dolls' clothes, and dolls' furniture; kitchens, parlours, and
shops, and single toys innumerable. She led me round to all the glass
cases, in which these ingenious works were preserved. But she soon
closed again the first cases, and said--"That is nothing for you, I
know well enough. Here," she said, "we could find building materials,
walls and towers, houses, palaces, churches, to put together a great
city. But this does not entertain me. We will take something else,
which will be pleasant alike to both of us." Then she brought out some
boxes, in which I saw an army of little soldiers piled one upon the
other, of which I must needs confess that I had never seen anything
so beautiful. She did not leave me time to examine them closely in
detail, but took one box under her arm, while I seized the other.--"We
will go," she said, "upon the golden bridge. There one plays best with
soldiers; the lances give at once the direction in which the armies are
to be opposed to each other." We had now reached the golden trembling
floor; and below me I could hear the waters gurgle, and the fishes
splash, while I knelt down to range my columns. All, as I now saw, were
cavalry. She boasted that she had the Queen of the Amazons as leader of
her female host. I, on the contrary, found Achilles and a very stately
Grecian cavalry. The armies stood facing each other, and nothing could
have been seen more beautiful. They were not flat leaden horsemen like
ours, but man and horse were round and solid, and most finely wrought;
nor could one conceive how they kept their balance, for they stood of
themselves, without a support for their feet.

Both of us had inspected our hosts with much self-complacency, when she
announced the onset. We had found ordnance in our chests, viz., little
boxes full of well-polished agate balls. With these we were to fight
against each other from a certain distance, while, however, it was an
express condition that we should not throw with more force than was
necessary to upset the figures, as none of them were to be injured. Now
the cannonade began on both sides, and at first it succeeded to the
satisfaction of us both. But when my adversary observed that I aimed
better than she, and might in the end win the victory, which depended
on the majority of pieces remaining upright, she came nearer, and her
girlish way of throwing had then the desired result. She prostrated
a multitude of my best troops, and the more I protested the more
eagerly did she throw. This at last vexed me, and I declared that I
would do the same. In fact, I not only went nearer, but in my rage
threw with much more violence, so that it was not long before a pair
of her little centauresses flew in pieces. In her eagerness she did
not instantly notice it, but I stood petrified when the broken figures
joined together again of themselves; Amazon and horse became again one
whole, and also perfectly close, set up a gallop from the golden bridge
under the lime-trees, and running swiftly backwards and forwards, were
lost in their career, I know not how, in the direction of the wall.
My fair opponent had hardly perceived this, when she broke out into
loud weeping and lamentation, and exclaimed that I had caused her an
irreparable loss, which was far greater than could be expressed. But
I, by this time provoked, was glad to annoy her, and blindly flung a
couple of the remaining agate balls with force into the midst of her
army. Unhappily I hit the queen, who had hitherto, during our regular
game, been excepted. She flew in pieces, and her nearest officers were
also shivered. But they swiftly set themselves up again, and started
off like the others, galloping very merrily about under the lime-trees,
and disappearing against the wall. My opponent scolded and abused me;
but being now in full play, I stooped to pick up some agate balls
which rolled about upon the golden lances. It was my fierce desire to
destroy her whole army. She, on the other hand, not idle, sprang at
me, and gave me a box on the ear which made my head ring again. Having
always heard that a hearty kiss was the proper response to a girl's
box of the ear, I took her by the ears, and kissed her repeatedly. But
she gave such a piercing cry as frightened even me; I let her go, and
it was fortunate that I did so; for in a moment I knew not what was
happening to me. The ground beneath me began to quake and rattle; I
soon remarked that the railings again set themselves in motion; but
I had no time to consider, nor could I get a footing so as to fly.
I feared every instant to be pierced, for the partisans and lances,
which had lifted themselves up, were already slitting my clothes. It
is sufficient to say that, I know not how it was, hearing and sight
failed me, and I recovered from my swoon and terror at the foot of a
lime-tree, against which the pikes in springing up had thrown me. As
I awoke, my anger awakened also, and violently increased when I heard
from the other side the gibes and laughter of my opponent, who had
probably reached the earth somewhat more softly than I. Thereupon I
sprang up, and as I saw the little host, with its leader Achilles,
scattered around me, having been driven over with me by the rising of
the rails, I seized the hero first and threw him against a tree. His
resuscitation and flight now pleased me doubly, a malicious pleasure
combining with the prettiest sight in the world; and I was on the point
of sending all the other Greeks after him, when suddenly hissing waters
spurted at me on all sides, from stones and walls, from ground and
branches; and wherever I turned dashed against me crossways.

My light garment was in a short time wet through; it was already rent,
and I did not hesitate to tear it entirely off my body. I cast away my
slippers, and one covering after another. Nay, at last I found it very
agreeable to let such a shower-bath play over me in the warm day. Now,
being quite naked, I walked gravely along between these welcome waters,
where I thought to enjoy myself for some time. My anger cooled, and I
wished for nothing more than a reconciliation with my little adversary.
But, in a twinkling the water stopped, and I stood drenched upon the
saturated ground. The presence of the old man, who appeared before me
unexpectedly, was by no means welcome; I could have wished, if not to
hide, at least to clothe myself. The shame, the shivering, the effort
to cover myself in some degree, made me cut a most piteous figure.
The old man employed the moment in venting the severest reproaches
against me. "What hinders me," he exclaimed, "from taking one of the
green cords, and fitting it, if not to your neck, to your back?" This
threat I took in very ill part. "Refrain," I cried, "from such words,
even from such thoughts, for otherwise you and your mistresses will be
lost." "Who then are you," he asked in defiance, "who dare speak thus?"
"A favourite of the gods," I said, "on whom it depends whether those
ladies shall find worthy husbands and pass a happy life, or be left to
pine and wither in their magic cell." The old man stepped some paces
back. "Who has revealed that to you?" he inquired, with astonishment
and concern. "Three apples," I said--"three jewels." "And what
reward do you require?" he exclaimed. "Before all things, the little
creature," I replied, "who has brought me into this accursed state."
The old man cast himself down before me, without shrinking from the
wet and miry soil; then he arose without being wetted, took me kindly
by the hand, led me into the hall, clad me again quickly, and I was
soon once more decked out and frizzled in my Sunday fashion as before.
The porter did not speak another word; but before he let me pass the
entrance, he stopped me, and showed me some objects on the wall over
the way, while, at the same time, he pointed backwards to the door. I
understood him; he wished to imprint the objects on my mind, that I
might the more certainly find the door, which had unexpectedly closed
behind me. I now took good notice of what was opposite to me. Above
a high wall rose the boughs of extremely old nut-trees, and partly
covered the cornice at the top. The branches reached down to a stone
tablet, the ornamented border of which I could perfectly recognise,
though I could not read the inscription. It rested on the top-stone of
a niche, in which a finely-wrought fountain poured water from cup to
cup into a great basin, that formed, as it were, a little pond, and
disappeared in the earth. Fountain, inscription, nut-trees, all stood
directly one above another; I would paint it as I saw it.

Now, it may well be conceived how I passed this evening and many
following days, and how often I repeated to myself this story, which
even I could hardly believe. As soon as it was in any degree possible,
I went again to the Bad Wall, at least to refresh my remembrance of
these signs, and to look at the precious door. But, to my great
amazement, I found ad changed. Nut-trees, indeed, overtopped the
wall, but they did not stand immediately in contact. A tablet also
was inserted in the wall, but far to the right of the trees, without
ornament, and with a legible inscription. A niche with a fountain was
found far to the left, but with no resemblance whatever to that which I
had seen; so that I almost believed that the second adventure was, like
the first, a dream; for of the door there is not the slightest trace.
The only thing that consoles me is the observation, that these three
objects seem always to change their places. For in repeated visits to
the spot, I think I have noticed that the nut-trees have moved somewhat
nearer together, and that the tablet and the fountain seem likewise to
approach each other. Probably, when all is brought together again, the
door, too, will once more be visible; and I will do my best to take up
the thread of the adventure. Whether I shall be able to tell you what
further happens, or whether it will be expressly forbidden me, I cannot
say.

       *       *       *       *       *

This tale, of the truth of which my playfellows vehemently strove to
convince themselves, received great applause. Each of them visited
alone the place described, without confiding it to me or the others,
and discovered the nut-trees, the tablet, and the spring, though
always at a distance from each other; as they at last confessed to me
afterwards, because it is not easy to conceal a secret at that early
age. But here the contest first arose. One asserted that the objects
did not stir from the spot and always maintained the same distance: a
second averred that they did move, and that too away from each other:
a third agreed with the latter as to the first point of their moving,
though it seemed to him that the nut-tree, tablet, and fountain rather
drew near together: while a fourth had something still more wonderful
to announce, which was, that the nut-trees were in the middle, but that
the tablet and the fountain were on sides opposite to those which I had
stated. With respect to the traces of the little door they also varied.
And thus they furnished me an early instance of the contradictory news
men can hold and maintain in regard to matters quite simple and easily
cleared up. As I obstinately refused the continuation of my tale, a
repetition of the first part was often desired. I was on my guard,
however, not to change the circumstances much, and by the uniformity
of the narrative I converted the fable into truth in the minds of my
hearers.

Yet I was averse to falsehood and dissimulation, and altogether by
no means frivolous. Rather, on the contrary, the inward earnestness
with which I had early begun to consider myself and the world, was
seen even in my exterior, and I was frequently called to account,
often in a friendly way, and often in raillery, for a certain dignity
which I had assumed. For, although good and chosen friends were
certainly not wanting to me, we were always a minority against those
who found pleasure in assailing us with wanton rudeness, and who
indeed often awoke us in no gentle fashion from that legendary and
self-complacent dreaming in which we--I by inventing, and my companions
by sympathising--were too readily absorbed. Thus we learned once more,
that instead of sinking into effeminacy and fantastic delights, there
was reason rather for hardening ourselves, in order either to bear or
to counteract inevitable evils.

[Side-note: Juvenile Stoicism.]

Among the stoical exercises which I cultivated, as earnestly as it
was possible for a lad, was even the endurance of bodily pain. Our
teachers often treated us very unkindly and unskilfully, with blows and
cuffs, against which we hardened ourselves all the more as obstinacy
was forbidden under the severest penalties. A great many of the sports
of youth, moreover, depend on a rivalry in such endurances; as, for
instance, when they strike each other alternately, with two fingers
or the whole fist, till the limbs are numbed, or when they bear
the penalty of blows, incurred in certain games, with more or less
firmness; when in wrestling or scuffling they do not let themselves
be perplexed by the pinches of a half-conquered opponent; or finally,
when they suppress the pain inflicted for the sake of teasing, and even
treat with indifference the nips and ticklings with which young persons
are so active towards each other. Thus we gain a great advantage, of
which others cannot speedily deprive us.

But as I made a sort of boast of this impassiveness, the importunity
of the others was increased; and, since rude barbarity, knows no
limits, it managed to force me beyond my bounds. Let one case suffice
for several. It happened once that the teacher did not come for the
usual hour of instruction. As long as we children were all together,
we entertained ourselves quite agreeably; but when my adherents, after
waiting long enough, went away, and I remained alone with three of my
enemies, these took it into their heads to torment me, to shame me,
and to drive me away. Having left me an instant in the room, they came
back with switches, which they had made by quickly cutting up a broom.
I noted their design, and as I supposed the end of the hour near, I at
once resolved not to resist them till the clock struck. They began,
therefore, without remorse, to lash my legs and calves in the cruellest
fashion. I did not stir, but soon felt that I had miscalculated, and
that such pain greatly lengthened the minutes. My wrath grew with my
endurance, and at the first stroke of the hour, I grasped the one who
least expected it by the hair behind, hurled him to the earth in an
instant, pressing my knee upon his back; the second, a younger and
weaker ore, who attacked me from behind, I drew by the head under my
arm, and almost throttled him with the pressure. The last, and not the
weakest, still remained; and my left hand only was left for my defence.
But I seized him by the clothes, and with a dexterous twist on my part,
and an over precipitate one on his, I brought him down and struck his
face on the ground. They were not wanting in bites, pinches, and kicks,
but I had nothing but revenge in my limbs as well as in my heart. With
the advantage which I had acquired, I repeatedly knocked their heads
together. At last they raised a dreadful shout of murder, and were
were soon surrounded by all the inmates of the house. The switches
scattered around, and my legs, which I had bared of the stockings, soon
bore witness for me. They put off the punishment, and let me leave the
house; but I declared that in future, on the slightest offence, I would
scratch out the eyes, tear off the ears, of any one of them, if not
throttle him.

This event, though, as usually happens in childish affairs, it was
soon forgotten, and even laughed over, was yet the cause that these
instructions in common became fewer, and at last entirely ceased. I was
thus again, as formerly, kept more at home, where I found my sister
Cornelia, who was only one year younger than myself, a companion always
growing more agreeable.

Still, I will not leave this topic without narrating some more stories
of the many vexations caused me by my playfellows; for this is the
instructive part of such moral communications, that a man may learn how
it has gone with others, and what he also has to expect from life; and
that whatever comes to pass, he may consider that it happens to him
as a man, and not as one specially fortunate or unfortunate. If such
knowledge is of little use for avoiding evils, it is very serviceable
so far as it qualifies us to understand our condition, and bear or even
to overcome it.

Another general remark will not be out of place here, which is, that as
the children of the cultivated classes grow up, a great contradiction
appears. I refer to the fact, that they are urged and trained, by
parents and teachers, to deport themselves moderately, intelligently,
and even wisely; to give pain to no one from petulance or arrogance,
and to suppress all the evil impulses which may be developed in them;
but yet, on the other hand, while the young creatures are engaged in
this discipline, they have to suffer from others that which in them
is reprimanded and punished. In this way, the poor things are brought
into a sad strait between the natural and civilised states, and after
restraining themselves for a while, break out according to their
characters into cunning or violence.

[Side-note: Rudeness of Juvenile Companions.]

Force is rather to be put down by force; but a well-disposed child,
inclined to love and sympathy, has little to oppose to scorn and
ill-will. Though I managed pretty well to keep off the active assaults
of my companions, I was by no means equal to them in sarcasm and abuse;
because he who merely defends himself in such cases, is always a loser.
Attacks of this sort, consequently, when they went so far as to excite
anger, were repelled with physical force, or at least excited strange
reflections in me, which could not be without results. Among other
advantages which my ill-wishers grudged me, was the pleasure I took in
the relations that accrued to the family from my grandfather's position
of Schultheiss, since, as he was the first of his class, this had no
small effect on those belonging to him. Once, when after the holding
of the Piper's-court, I appeared to pride myself on having seen my
grandfather in the midst of the council, one step higher than the rest,
enthroned, as it were, under the portrait of the Emperor, one of the
boys said to me in derision, that like the peacock contemplating his
feet, I should cast my eyes back to my paternal grandfather, who had
been keeper of the Willow-inn, and would never have aspired to thrones
and coronets. I replied that I was in no wise ashamed of that, as it
was the glory and honour of our native city that all its citizens might
consider each other equal, and every one derive profit and honour
from his exertions in his own way. I was sorry only that the good man
had been so long dead; for I had often yearned to know him in person,
had many times gazed upon his likeness, nay, had visited his tomb,
and had at least derived pleasure from the inscription on the simple
monument of that past existence to which I was indebted for my own.
Another ill-wisher, who was the most malicious of all, took the first
aside, and whispered something in his ear, while they still looked at
me scornfully. My gall already began to rise, and I challenged them to
speak out. "What is more, then, if you will have it," continued the
first, "this one thinks you might go looking about a long time before
you could find your grandfather!" I now threatened them more vehemently
if they did not more clearly explain themselves. Thereupon they brought
forward an old story, which they pretended to have overheard from their
parents, that my father was the son of some eminent man, while that
good citizen had shown himself willing to take outwardly the paternal
office. They had the impudence to produce all sorts of arguments; as,
for example, that our property came exclusively from our grandmother,
that the other collateral relations, who lived in Friedburg and other
places, were all alike destitute of property, and other reasons of the
sort, which could merely derive their weight from malice. I listened to
them more composedly than they expected, for they stood ready to fly
the very moment that I should make a gesture as if I would seize their
hair. But I replied quite calmly, and in substance, "that even this was
no great injury to me. Life was such a boon, that one might be quite
indifferent as to whom one had to thank for it, since at least it must
be derived from God, before whom we all were equals." As they could
make nothing of it, they let the matter drop for this time; we went on
playing together as before, which among children is an approved mode of
reconciliation.

[Side-note: Goethe's Reputed Grandfather.]

Still those spiteful words inoculated me with a sort of moral disease,
which crept on in secret. It would not have displeased me at all to
have been the grandson of any person of consideration, even if it had
not been in the most lawful way. My acuteness followed up the scent--my
imagination was excited, and my sagacity put in requisition. I began to
investigate the allegation, and invented or found for it new grounds of
probability. I had heard little said of my grandfather, except that his
likeness, together with my grandmother's, had hung in a parlour of the
old house; both of which, after the building of the new one, had been
kept in an upper chamber. My grandmother must have been a very handsome
woman, and of the same age as her husband. I remembered, also, to have
seen in her room the miniature of a handsome gentleman in uniform,
with star and order, which, after her death, and during the confusion
of house-building, had disappeared with many other small pieces of
furniture. These, and many other things, I put together in my childish
head, and exercised that modern poetical talent which contrives to
obtain the sympathies of the whole cultivated world by a marvellous
combination of the important events of human life.

But as I did not venture to trust such an affair to any one, or even
to ask the most remote questions concerning it, I was not wanting in
a secret diligence, in order to get, if possible somewhat nearer to
the matter. I had heard it explicitly maintained, that sons often
bore a decided resemblance to their fathers or grandfathers. Many of
our friends, especially Councillor Schneider, a friend of the family,
were connected by business with all the princes and noblemen of the
neighbourhood, of whom, including both the ruling and the younger
branches, not a few had estates on the Rhine and Maine, and in the
intermediate country, and who at times honoured their faithful agents
with their portraits. These, which I had often seen on the walls from
my infancy, I now regarded with redoubled attention, seeking whether I
could not detect some resemblance to my father or even to myself, which
too often happened to lead me to any degree of certainty. For now it
was the eyes of this, now the nose of that, which seemed to indicate
some relationship. Thus these marks led me delusively backwards and
forwards; and though in the end I was compelled to regard the reproach
as a completely empty tale, the impression remained, and I could not
from time to time refrain from privately calling up and testing all the
noblemen whose images had remained very clear in my fancy. So true is
it that whatever inwardly confirms man in his self conceit, or flatters
his secret vanity, is so highly desirable to him, that he does not ask
further, whether in other respects it may turn to his honour or his
disgrace.

But instead of mingling here serious and even reproachful reflections,
I rather turn my look away from those beautiful times; for who is
able to speak worthily of the fulness of childhood? We cannot behold
the little creatures which flit about before us otherwise than-with
delight, nay, with admiration; for they generally promise more than
they perform, and it seems that nature, among the other roguish tricks
that she plays us, here also especially designs to make sport of us.
The first organs she bestows upon children coming into the world, are
adapted to the nearest immediate condition of the creature, which,
unassuming and artless, makes use of them in the readiest way for its
present purposes. The child, considered in and for itself, with its
equals, and in relations suited to its powers, seems so intelligent
and rational, and at the same time so easy, cheerful, and clever,
that one can hardly wish it further cultivation. If children grew up
according to early indications, we should have nothing but geniuses;
but growth is not merely development; the various organic systems which
constitute one man, spring one from another, follow each other, change
into each other, supplant each other, and even consume each other; so
that after a time scarcely a trace is to be found of many aptitudes and
manifestations of ability. Even when the talents of the man have on the
whole a decided direction, it will be hard for the greatest and most
experienced connoisseur to declare them beforehand with confidence,
although afterwards it is easy to remark what has pointed to a future.

By no means, therefore, is it my design wholly to comprise the stories
of my childhood in these first books; but I will rather afterwards
resume and continue many a thread which ran through the early years
unnoticed. Here, however, I must remark what an increasing influence
the incidents of the war gradually exercised upon our sentiments and
mode of life.

The peaceful citizen stands in a wonderful relation to the great events
of the world. They already excite and disquiet him from a distance,
and even if they do not touch him, he can scarcely refrain from an
opinion and a sympathy. Soon he takes a side, as his character or
external circumstances may determine. But when such grand fatalities,
such important changes, draw nearer to him, then with many outward
inconveniences remains that inward discomfort, which doubles and
sharpens the evil and destroys the good which is still possible. Then
he has really to suffer from friends and foes, often more from those
than from these, and he knows not how to secure and preserve either his
interests or his inclinations.

[Side-note: Feelings of The Frankforters in 1757.]

The year 1757, which still passed in perfectly civic tranquillity,
kept us, nevertheless, in great uneasiness of mind. Perhaps no other
was more fruitful of events than this. Conquests, achievements,
misfortunes, restorations, followed one upon another, swallowed up and
seemed to destroy each other; yet the image of Frederick, his name and
glory, soon hovered again above all. The enthusiasm of his worshippers
grew always stronger and more animated, the hatred of his enemies more
bitter, and the diversity of opinion, which separated even families,
contributed not a little to isolate citizens, already sundered in many
ways and on other grounds. For in a city like Frankfort, where three
religions divide the inhabitants into three unequal masses, where
only a few men, even of the ruling faith, can attain to political
power, there must be many wealthy and educated persons who are thrown
back upon themselves, and, by means of studies and tastes, form for
themselves an individual and secluded existence. It will be necessary
for us to speak of such men, now and hereafter, if we are to bring
before us the peculiarities of a Frankfort citizen of that time.

My father, immediately after his return from his travels, had in his
own way formed the design, that to prepare himself for the service
of the city, he would undertake one of the subordinate offices, and
discharge its duties without emolument, if it were conferred upon
him without balloting. In the consciousness of his good intentions,
and according to his way of thinking and the conception which he had
of himself, he believed that he deserved such a distinction, which
indeed was not conformable to law or precedent. Consequently, when his
suit was rejected, he fell into ill-humour and disgust, vowed that he
would never accept of any place, and in order to render it impossible,
procured the title of Imperial Councillor, which the Schultheiss and
elder _Schöffen_ bear as a special honour. He had thus made himself an
equal of the highest, and could not begin again at the bottom. The same
impulse induced him also to woo the eldest daughter of the Schultheiss,
so that he was excluded from the council on this side also. He was now
of that number of recluses who never form themselves into a society.
They are as much isolated in respect to each other as they are in
regard to the whole, and the more so as in this seclusion the character
becomes more and more uncouth. My father, in his travels and in the
world which he had seen, might have formed some conception of a more
elegant and liberal mode of life than was, perhaps, common among his
fellow-citizens. In this respect, however, he was not entirely without
predecessors and associates.

The name of UFFENBACH is well known. At that time there was a Schöff
von Uffenbach, who was generally respected. He had been in Italy, had
applied himself particularly to music, sang an agreeable tenor, and
having brought home a fine collection of pieces, concerts and oratorios
were performed at his house. Now, as he sang in these himself, and held
musicians in great favour, it was not thought altogether suitable to
his dignity, and his invited guests, as well as the other people of the
country, allowed themselves many a jocose remark on the matter.

I remember, too, a BARON VON HAKEL, a rich nobleman, who being married,
but childless, occupied a charming house in the Antonius-street, fitted
up with all the appurtenances of a dignified position in life. He also
possessed good pictures, engravings, antiques, and much else which
generally accumulates with collectors and lovers of art. From time to
time he asked the more noted personages to dinner, and was beneficent
in a careful way of his own, since he clothed the poor in his own
house, but kept back their old rags, and gave them a weekly charity, on
condition that they should present themselves every time clean and neat
in the clothes bestowed on them. I can recall him but indistinctly, as
a genial, well-made man; but more clearly his auction, which I attended
from beginning to end, and, partly by command of my father, partly from
my own impulse, purchased many things that are still to be found in my
collections.

At an earlier date than this--so early that I scarcely set eyes upon
him--JOHN MICHAEL VON LOEN gained considerable repute in the literary
world, as well as at Frankfort Not a native of Frankfort, he settled
there, and married a sister of my grandmother Textor, whose maiden-name
was Lindheim. Familiar with the court and political world, and
rejoicing in a renewed title of nobility, he had acquired reputation by
daring to take part in the various excitements which arose in Church
and State. He wrote the _Count of Rivera_, a didactic romance, the
subject of which is made apparent by the second title, "or, the Honest
Man at Court." This work was well received, because it insisted on
morality even in courts, where prudence only is generally at home; and
thus his labour brought him applause and respect. A second work, for
that very reason, would be accompanied by more danger. He wrote _The
Only True Religion_, a book designed to advance tolerance, especially
between Lutherans and Calvinists. But here he got in a controversy
with the theologians: one Dr. Benner, of Giessen, in particular,
wrote against him. Von Loen rejoined; the contest grew violent and
personal, and the unpleasantness which arose from it caused him to
accept the office of President at Lingen, which Frederick II. offered
him, supposing that he was an enlightened, unprejudiced man, and not
averse to the new views that more extensively obtained in France. His
former countrymen, whom he left in some displeasure, averred that he
was not contented there, nay, could not be so, as a place like Lingen
was not to be compared with Frankfort. My father also doubted whether
the President would be happy, and asserted that the good uncle would
have done better not to connect himself with the king, as it was
generally hazardous to get too near him, extraordinary sovereign as
he undoubtedly was; for it had been seen how disgracefully the famous
Voltaire had been arrested in Frankfort, at the requisition of the
Prussian Resident Freitag, though he had formerly stood so high in
favour, and had been regarded as the king's teacher in French poetry.
There was no want, on such occasions, of reflections and examples,
to warn one against courts and princes' service, of which a native
Frankforter could scarcely form a conception.

[Side-note: Dr. Orth.]

An excellent man, Dr. ORTH, I will only mention by name, because here
I have not so much to erect a monument to the deserving citizens of
Frankfort, but rather refer to them so far forth as their renown or
personal character had some influence upon me in my earliest years.
Dr. Orth was a wealthy man, and was also of that number who never
took part in the government, although perfectly qualified to do so by
his knowledge and penetration. The antiquities of Germany, and more
especially of Frankfort, have been much indebted to him; he published
remarks on the so-called _Reformation of Frankfort_, a work in which
the statutes of the state are collected. The historical portions of
this book I diligently read in my youth.

VON OCHSENSTEIN, the eldest of the three brothers whom I have mentioned
above as our neighbours, had not been remarkable during his lifetime,
in consequence of his recluse habits, but became the more remarkable
after his death, by leaving behind him a direction that common
working-men should carry him to the grave, early in the morning,
in perfect silence, and without an attendant or follower. This was
done, and the affair excited great attention in the city, where they
were accustomed to the most pompous funerals. All who discharged the
customary offices on such occasions, rose against the innovation.
But the stout patrician found imitators in all classes, and though
such ceremonies were derisively called ox-burials,[1] they came into
fashion, to the advantage of many of the more poorly-provided families,
while funeral parades were less and less in vogue. I bring forward this
circumstance, because it presents one of the earlier symptoms of that
tendency to humility and equality, which in the second half of the last
century was manifested in so many ways, from above downwards, and broke
out in such unlooked-for effects.

Nor was there any lack of antiquarian amateurs. There were cabinets of
pictures, collections of engravings, while the curiosities of our own
country especially were zealously sought and hoarded. The older decrees
and mandates of the imperial city, of which no collection had been
prepared, were carefully searched for in print and manuscript, arranged
in the order of time, and preserved with reverence, as a treasure of
native laws and customs. The portraits of Frankforters, which existed
in great number, were also brought together, and formed a special
department of the cabinets.

Such men my father appears generally to have taken as his models. He
was wanting in none of the qualities that pertain to an upright and
respectable citizen. Thus, after he had built his house, he put his
property of every sort into order. An excellent collection of maps
by Schenck and other geographers at that time eminent, the aforesaid
decrees and mandates, the portraits, a chest of ancient weapons, a case
of remarkable Venetian glasses, cups and goblets, natural curiosities,
works in ivory, bronzes, and a hundred other things, were separated and
displayed, and I did not fail, whenever an auction occurred, to get
some commission for the increase of his possessions.


[Side-note: The Senkenbergs.]

I must still speak of one important family, of which I had heard
strange things since my earliest years, and of some of whose members
I myself lived to see a great deal that was wonderful--I mean the
SENKENBERGS. The father, of whom I have little to say, was an opulent
man. He had three sons, who even in their youth uniformly distinguished
themselves as oddities. Such things are not well received in a limited
city, where no one is suffered to render himself conspicuous, either
for good or evil. Nicknames and odd stories, long kept in memory,
are generally the fruit of such singularity. The father lived at the
corner of Hare-street _(Hasengasse)_, which took its name from a sign
on the house, that represented one hare at least, if not three hares.
They consequently called these three brothers only the three Hares,
which nick-name they could not shake off for a long while. But as
great endowments often announce themselves in youth in the form of
singularity and awkwardness, so was it also in this case. The eldest
of the brothers was the _Reichshofrath_ (Imperial Councillor) von
Senkenberg afterwards so celebrated. The second was admitted into
the magistracy, and displayed, eminent abilities, which, however, he
subsequently abused in a pettifogging and even infamous way, if not to
the injury of his native city, certainly to that of his colleagues.
The third brother, a physician and man of great integrity, but who
practised little, and that only in high families, preserved even in
his old age a somewhat whimsical exterior. He was always very neatly
dressed, and was never seen in the street otherwise than in shoes and
stockings, with a well-powdered curled wig, and his hat under his arm.
He walked on rapidly, but with a singular sort of stagger, so that
he was sometimes on one and sometimes on the other side of the way,
and formed a complete zigzag as he went. The wags said that he made
this irregular step to get out of the way of the departed souls, who
might follow him in a straight line, and that he imitated those who are
afraid of a crocodile. But all these jests and many merry sayings were
transformed at last into respect for him, when he devoted his handsome
dwelling-house in Eschenheimer-street, with court, garden, and all
other appurtenances, to a medical establishment, where, in addition
to a hospital designed exclusively for the citizens of Frankfort,
a botanic garden, an anatomical theatre, a chemical laboratory, a
considerable library, and a house for the director, were instituted in
a way of which no university need have been ashamed.

Another eminent man, whose efficiency in the neighbourhood and whose
writings, rather than his presence, had a very important influence upon
me, was CHARLES FREDERICK VON MOSER, who was perpetually referred to
in our district for his activity in business. He also had a character
essentially moral, which as the vices of human nature frequently gave
him trouble, inclined him to the so-called pious. Thus, what Von
Loen had tried to do in respect to court life, he would have done
for business-life, introducing into it a more conscientious mode
of proceeding. The great number of small German courts gave rise
to a multitude of princes and servants, the former of whom desired
unconditional obedience, while the latter, for the most part, would
work or serve only according to their own convictions. Thus arose an
endless conflict, and rapid changes and explosions, because the effects
of an unrestricted course of proceeding become much sooner noticeable
and injurious on a small scale than on a large one. Many families were
in debt, and Imperial Commissions of Debts were appointed: others found
themselves sooner or later on the same road; while the officers either
reaped an unconscionable profit, or conscientiously made themselves
disagreeable and odious. Moser wished to act as a statesman and man of
business, and here his hereditary talent, cultivated to a profession,
gave him a decided advantage; but he at the same time wished to act
as a man and a citizen, and surrender little as possible of his moral
dignity. His _Prince and Servant_, his _Daniel in the Lions' Den_, his
_Relics_, paint throughout his own condition, in which he felt himself
not indeed tortured, but always cramped. They all indicate impatience
in a condition, to the bearings of which one cannot reconcile oneself,
yet from which one cannot get free. With this mode of thinking and
feeling, he was, indeed, often compelled to seek other employments,
which, on account of his great cleverness, were never wanting. I
remember him as a pleasing, active, and at the same time gentle man.

[Side-note: Klopstock's "Messiah."]

The name of KLOPSTOCK had already produced a great effect upon us, even
at a distance. In the outset, people wondered how so excellent a man
could be so strangely named; but they soon got accustomed to this, and
thought no more of the meaning of the syllables. In my father's library
I had hitherto found only the earlier poets, especially those who in
his day had gradually appeared and acquired fame. All these had written
in rhyme, and my father held rhyme as indispensable in poetical works.
Canitz, Hagedorn, Drollinger, Gellert, Creuz, Haller, stood in a row,
in handsome calf bindings, to these were added Neukirch's _Telemachus_,
Koppen's _Jerusalem Delivered_, and other translations. I had from
my childhood diligently read through the whole of these works, and
committed portions to memory, whence I was often called upon to amuse
the company. A vexatious era on the other hand opened upon my father,
when through Klopstock's _Messiah_, verses, which seemed to him no
verses, became an object of public admiration.[2] He had taken good
care not to buy this book; but the friend of the family, Councillor
Schneider, smuggled it in, and slipped it into the hands of my mother
and her children.

On this man of business, who read but little, the _Messiah_, as soon
as it appeared, made a powerful impression. Those pious feelings, so
naturally expressed, and yet so beautifully elevated, that agreeable
language, even if considered merely as harmonious prose, had so won
the otherwise dry man of business, that he regarded the first ten
cantos, of which alone we are properly speaking, as the finest Book
of Devotion, and once every year in Passion week, when he managed to
escape from business, read it quietly through by himself, and thus
refreshed himself for the entire year. In the beginning he thought to
communicate his emotions to his old friend; but he was much shocked
when forced to perceive an incurable dislike cherished against a book
of such valuable substance, merely because of what appeared to him
an indifferent external form. It may readily be supposed that their
conversation often reverted to this topic; but both parties diverged
more and more widely from each other, there were violent scenes, and
the compliant man was at last pleased to be silent on his favourite
work, that he might not lose, at the same time, a friend of his youth,
and a good Sunday meal.

It is the most natural wish of every man to make proselytes, and how
much did our friend find himself rewarded in secret, when he discovered
in the rest of the family hearts so openly disposed for his saint.
The copy which he used only one week during the year, was devoted to
us all the remaining time. My mother kept it secret, and we children
took possession of it when we could, that in leisure hours, hidden in
some nook, we might learn the most striking passages by heart, and
particularly might impress the most tender as well as the most violent
parts on our memory, as quickly as possible.

Porcia's dream we recited in a sort of rivalry, and divided between
us the mid dialogue of despair between Satan and Adramelech, who have
been cast into the Red Sea. The first part, as the strongest, had
been assigned to me, and the second, as a little more pathetic, was
undertaken by my sister. The alternate and horrible but well-sounding
curses flowed only thus from our mouths, and we seized every
opportunity to accost each other with these infernal phrases.

One Saturday evening, in winter--my father always had himself shaved
over night, that on Sunday morning he might dress himself for church
at his ease--we sat on a footstool behind the stove, and muttered our
customary imprecations in a tolerably low voice, while the barber was
putting on the lather. But now Adramelech had to lay his iron hands on
Satan; my sister seized me with violence, and recited, softly enough,
but with increasing passion:--

    "Give me thine aid, I intreat thee, will worship thee, if thou requirest,
    Thee, thou monster abandoned, yes thee, of all criminals blackest;
    Aid me, I suffer the tortures of death, which is vengeful, eternal,
    Once, in the times gone by, with a hot fierce hate I could hate thee,
    Now I can hate thee no more! E'en this is the sharpest of tortures."

[Side-note: Klopstock's "Messiah."]

Thus far all went on tolerably; but loudly, with a dreadful voice, she
cried the following words:--

   "How am I crushed!"

The good surgeon was startled, and emptied the lather-basin into my
father's bosom. There was a great uproar, and a severe investigation
Wis held, especially with respect to the mischief which might have
been done if the shaving had been actually going forward. In order to
relieve ourselves of all suspicious of wantonness in the affair, we
confessed our Satanic characters, and the misfortune occasioned by the
hexameters was so apparent, that they were again condemned and banished.

Thin children and common people are accustomed to transform the great
and sublime into a sport, and even a jest; and how indeed could they
otherwise abide and tolerate it?


[1] A pun upon the name of Ochsenstein.--_Trans._

[2] The _Messiah_ is written in hexameter verse.--_Trans._



THIRD BOOK.


At that time the general interchange of personal good wishes made the
city very lively on New Year's day. Those who otherwise did not easily
leave home, donned their best clothes, that for a moment they might be
friendly and courteous to their friends and patrons. The festivities at
my grandfather's house on this day were pleasures particularly desired
by us children. At early dawn the grandchildren had already assembled
there to hear the drums, oboes, clarionets, trumpets, and cornets
played upon by the military, the city musicians, and whoever else might
furnish his tones. The New Year's gifts, sealed and superscribed,
were divided by us children among the humbler congratulators, and, as
the day advanced, the number of those of higher rank increased. The
relations and intimate friends appeared first, then the subordinate
officials; even the gentlemen of the council did not fail to pay their
respects to the _Schultheiss_, and a select number were entertained in
the evening in rooms which were else scarcely opened throughout the
year. The tarts, biscuits, marchpane, and sweet wine had the greatest
charm for the children, and, besides, the _Schultheiss_ and the two
Burgomasters annually received from some institutions some article of
silver, which was then bestowed upon the grandchildren and godchildren
in regular gradation. In fine, this small festival was not wanting in
any of those things which usually glorify the greatest.

[Side-note: Occupation of Frankfort by the French.]

The New Year's day of 1759 approached, as desirable and pleasant to us
children as any preceding one, but full of import and foreboding to
older persons. To the passage of the French troops people certainly
had become accustomed, and they happened often, but they had been
most frequent in the last days of the past year. According to the
old usage of an imperial town, the warder of the chief tower sounded
his trumpet whenever troops approached, and on this New Year's day
he would not leave off, which was a sign that large bodies were in
motion on several sides. They actually marched through the city in
greater masses on this day, and the people ran to see them pass by. We
had generally been used to see them go through in small parties, but
these gradually swelled, and there was neither power nor inclination
to stop them. In short, on the 2nd of January, after a column had come
through Sachsenhausen over the bridge, through the Fahrgasse, as far
as the Police Guard House--it halted, overpowered the small company
which escorted it, took possession of the before-mentioned Guard House,
marched down the Zeil, and after a slight resistance, the main guard
were also obliged to yield. In a moment the peaceful streets were
turned into a scene of war. The troops remained and bivouacked there
until lodgings were provided for them by regular billetting.

This unexpected, and, for many years, unheard-of burden weighed heavily
upon the comfortable citizens, and to none could it be more cumbersome
than to my father, who was obliged to take foreign military inhabitants
into his scarcely finished house, to open for them his well-furnished
reception rooms, which were generally closed, and to abandon to the
caprices of strangers all that he had been used to arrange and keep
so carefully. Siding as he did with the Prussians, he was now to find
himself besieged in his own chambers by the French;--it was, according
to his way of thinking, the greatest misfortune that could happen to
him. Had it, however, been possible for him to have taken the matter
more easily, he might have saved himself and us many sad hours, since
he spoke French well, and could deport himself with dignity and grace
in the daily intercourse of life. For it was the King's Lieutenant
who was quartered on us, and he, although a military person, had only
to settle civil occurrences, disputes between soldiers and citizens,
and questions of debt and quarrels. This was the Count Thorane, a
native of Grasse in Provence, not far from Antibes; a tall, thin, stem
figure, with a face much disfigured by the small pox, black fiery eyes,
and a dignified, reserved demeanour. His first entrance was at once
favourable for the inmates of the house. They spoke of the different
apartments, some of which were to be given up, and others retained
by the family; and when the Count heard a picture-room mentioned, he
immediately requested permission although it was already night, at
least to give a hasty look at the pictures by candlelight. He took
extreme pleasure in these things, behaved in the most obliging manner
to my father who accompanied him, and when he heard that the greater
part of the artists were still living, and resided in Frankfort and its
neighbourhood, he assured us that he desired nothing more than to know
them as soon as possible, and to employ them.

But even this sympathy in respect to art could not change my father's
feelings nor bend his character. He permitted what he could not
prevent, but kept at a distance in inactivity, and the uncommon state
of things around him was intolerable to him, even in the veriest trifle.

[Side-note: Count Thorane.]

Count Thorane behaved himself meanwhile in an exemplary manner. He
would not even have his maps nailed on the walls, that he might not
injure the new hangings. His people were skilful, quiet, and orderly;
but, in truth, as during the whole day and a part of the night there
was no quiet with him, one complainant quickly following another,
arrested persons being brought in and led out, and all officers and
adjutants being admitted to his presence;--as, moreover, the Count
kept an open table every day; it made in the moderately-sized house,
arranged only for a family, and with but one open staircase running
from top to bottom, a movement and a buzzing like that in a beehive,
although everything was managed with moderation, gravity, and severity.

As mediator between the irritable master of the house, who became daily
more of a hypochondriac self-tormentor, and his well-intentioned, but
stem and precise military guest, there was a pleasant interpreter, a
handsome, corpulent, lively man, who was a citizen of Frankfort, spoke
French well, knew how to adapt himself to everything, and only made
a jest of many little annoyances. Through him my mother had sent a
representation to the Count of the situation in which she was placed,
owing to her husband's state of mind. He had explained the matter so
skilfully--had laid before him the new and scarcely furnished house,
the natural reserve of the owner, his occupation in the education
of his family--and all that could be said to the same effect, that
the Count, who in his capacity took the greatest pride in the utmost
justice, integrity, and honourable conduct, resolved here also to
behave in an exemplary manner to those upon whom he was quartered,
and, indeed, never swerved from this resolution under varying
circumstances during the several years he stayed with us.

My mother possessed some knowledge of Italian, a language not
altogether unknown to any of the family; she therefore resolved to
learn French immediately, for which purpose the interpreter, for whose
child she had stood godmother during these stormy times, and who now
therefore, as a gossip,[1] felt a redoubled interest in our house,
devoted every spare moment to his child's godmother--for he lived
directly opposite--and above all, he taught her those phrases which she
would be obliged to use in her personal intercourse with the Count.
This succeeded admirably. The Count was flattered by the pains taken by
the mistress of the house at her years, and as he had a cheerful, witty
vein in his character, and he liked to exhibit a certain dry gallantry,
a most friendly relation arose between them, and the allied godmother
and father could obtain whatever they wanted from him.

As I said before, if it had been possible to cheer up my father,
this altered state of things would have caused little inconvenience.
The Count practised the severest disinterestedness; he even declined
receiving gifts which pertained to his situation; the most trifling
thing which could have borne the appearance of bribery, he rejected
angrily, and even punished. His people were most strictly forbidden to
put the proprietor of the house to the least expense. We children, on
the contrary, were bountifully supplied from the dessert. To give an
idea of the simplicity of those times, I must take this opportunity to
mention that my mother grieved us excessively one day by throwing away
the ices which had been sent us from the table, because she would not
believe it possible for the stomach to bear real ice, however it might
be sweetened.

Besides these dainties, which we gradually learned to enjoy and to
digest with perfect ease, it was very agreeable for us children to
be in some measure released from fixed hours of study and strict
discipline. My father's ill-humour increased, he could not resign
himself to the unavoidable. How he tormented himself, my mother, the
interpreter, the councillors, and all his friends, only to rid him
of the Count! In vain they represented to him that under existing
circumstances the presence of such a man in the house was an actual
benefit, and that the removal of the Count would be followed by a
constant succession of officers or of privates. None of these arguments
had any effect. To him the present seemed so intolerable, that his
indignation prevented his conceiving anything worse that could follow.

In this way his activity, which he had been used chiefly to employ
upon us, was crippled. The lessons he gave us were no longer required
with the former exactness, and we tried to gratify our curiosity for
military and other public proceedings as much as possible, not only at
home, but also in the streets, which was the more easily done, as the
front door, open day and night, was guarded by sentries who paid no
attention to the running to and fro of restless children.

The many affairs which were settled before the tribunal of the Royal
Lieutenant had quite a peculiar charm, from his making it a point
to accompany his decisions with some witty, ingenious, or lively
turn. What he decreed was strictly just, his manner of expressing it
whimsical and piquant. He seemed to have taken the Duke of Ossuna as
his model. Scarcely a day passed in which the interpreter did not tell
some anecdote or other of this kind to amuse us and my mother. This
lively man had made a little collection of such Selomonian decisions;
but I only remember the general impression, and cannot recall to my
mind any particular case.

By degrees we became better acquainted with the strange character of
the Count. This man clearly understood his own peculiarities, and as
there were times in which he was seized with a sort of dejection,
hypochondria, or by whatever name we may call the evil demon, he
withdrew into his room at such hours, which were often lengthened into
days, saw no one but his valet, and in urgent cases could not even be
prevailed upon to receive any one. But as soon as the Evil Spirit had
left him, he appeared as before, active, mild, and cheerful. It might
be inferred from the talk of his valet, Saint Jean, a small, thin man
of lively good-nature, that in his earlier years he had caused a great
misfortune when overcome by this temper; and that therefore, in so
important a position as his, exposed to the eyes of all the world, he
had earnestly resolved to avoid similar aberrations.

[Side-note: The Frankfort Painters.]

During the very first days of the Count's residence with us, all the
Frankfort artists, as Hirt, Schütz, Trautmann, Nothnagel, and Junker,
were called to him. They showed their finished pictures, and the Count
bought what were for sale. My pretty, light room in the gable-end of
the attic was given up to him, and immediately turned into a cabinet
and studio, for he designed to keep all the artists at work for a long
time, especially Seekatz of Darmstadt, whose pencil, particularly in
simple and natural representations, highly pleased him. He therefore
caused to be sent from Grasse, where his elder brother possessed a
handsome house, the dimensions of all the rooms and cabinets; then
considered with the artists, the divisions of the walls, and fixed
accordingly upon the size of the large oil-pictures, which were not
to be set in frames, but to be fastened upon the walls like pieces
of tapestry. And now the work went on zealously. Seekatz undertook
country scenes, and succeeded extremely well in his old people and
children, which were copied directly from nature. His young men did
not answer so well, they were almost all too thin, and his women
failed from the opposite cause. For as he had a little, fat, good, but
unpleasant-looking wife, who would let him have no model but herself,
he could produce nothing agreeable. He was also obliged to exceed
the usual size of his figures. His trees had truth, but the foliage
was over minute. He was a pupil of Brinkmann, whose pencil in easel
pictures is not contemptible.

Schütz, the landscape painter, had perhaps the best of the matter.
He was thoroughly master of the Rhine country, and of the sunny tone
which animates it in the fine season. Nor was he entirely unaccustomed
to work on a larger scale, and then he showed no want of execution or
keeping. His paintings were of a cheerful cast.

Trautmann _Rembrandtized_ some resurrection-miracles out of the New
Testament, and alongside of them set fire to villages and mills. One
cabinet was entirely allotted to him, as I found from the designs of
the rooms. Hirt painted some good oak and beech forests. His cattle
were praiseworthy. Junker, accustomed to the imitation of the most
elaborate Dutch, was least able to manage this tapestry-work, but he
condescended to ornament many compartments with flowers and fruits for
a handsome price.

As I had known all these men from my earliest youth, and had often
visited them in their studios, and as the Count also liked to have me
with him, I was present at the suggestions, consultations, and orders,
as well as at the deliveries of the pictures, and ventured to speak my
opinion freely when sketches and designs were handed in. I bad already
gained among amateurs, particularly at auctions, which I attended
diligently, the reputation of being able to tell at once what any
historical picture represented, whether taken from Biblical or Profane
History, or from Mythology; and even if I did not always hit upon the
meaning of allegorical pictures, there was seldom any one present who
understood it better than I. Often had I persuaded the artists to
represent this or that subject, and I now joyfully made use of these
advantages. I still remember writing a circumstantial essay, in which I
described twelve pictures which were to exhibit the history of Joseph;
some of them were executed.

After these achievements, which were certainly laudable in a boy, I
will mention a little disgrace which happened to me within this circle
of artists. I was well acquainted with all the pictures which had been
from time to time brought into that room. My youthful curiosity left
nothing unseen or unexplored. I once found a little black box behind
the stove; I did not fail to investigate what might be concealed in
it, and drew back the bolt without long deliberation. The picture
contained was certainly of a kind not usually exposed to view, and
although I tried to bolt it again immediately, I was not quick enough.
The Count entered and caught me--"Who allowed you to open that box?" he
asked, with all his air of a Royal Lieutenant. I had not much to say
for myself, and he immediately pronounced my sentence in a very stern
manner. "For eight days," said he, "you shall not enter this room." I
made a bow, and walked out. Even this order I obeyed most punctually,
so that the good Seekatz, who was then at work in the room, was very
much annoyed, for he liked to have mo about him; and, out of a little
spite, I carried my obedience so far, that I left Seekatz's coffee,
which I generally brought him, upon the threshold. He was then obliged
to leave his work and fetch it, which he took so ill, that he almost
conceived a dislike to me.

[Side-note: French Theatre.]

It now seems necessary to state more circumstantially, and to make
intelligible how, under these circumstances, I made my way with more
or less ease through the French language, which, however, I had never
learned. Here, too, my natural gift was of service to me, enabling
me easily to catch the sound of a language, its movement, accent,
tone, and all other outward peculiarities. I knew many words from the
Latin; Italian suggested still more; and by listening to servants and
soldiers, sentries and visitors, I soon picked up so much that, if
I could not join in conversation, I could at any rate manage single
questions and answers. All this, however, was little compared to the
profit I derived from the theatre. My grandfather had given me a free
ticket, which I used daily, in spite of my father's reluctance, by dint
of my mother's support. There I sat in the pit, before a foreign stage,
and watched the more narrowly the movement and the expression, both
of gesture and speech, as I understood little or nothing of what was
said, and therefore could only derive entertainment from the action and
the tone of voice. I understood least of comedy, because it was spoken
rapidly, and related to the affairs of common life, of the phrases of
which I knew nothing. Tragedy was not so often played, and the measured
step, the rhythm of the Alexandrines, the generality of the expression,
made it more intelligible to me in every way. It was not long before
I took up Racine, which I found in my father's library, and declaimed
the pieces to myself, in the theatrical style and manner, as the organ
of my ear and the organ of speech, so nearly akin to that, had caught
it, and this with considerable animation, although I could not perceive
the connexion of a whole speech. I even learned entire passages by
rote, like a trained talking-bird, which was easier to me, from having
previously committed to memory passages from the Bible which are
generally unintelligible to a child, and accustomed myself to reciting
them in the tone of the Protestant preachers. The versified French
comedy was then much in vogue; the pieces of Destouches, Marivaux, and
La CHAISE, were often produced, and I still remember distinctly many
characteristic figures. Of those of Molière I recollect less. What made
the greatest impression upon me was the _Hypermnestra_ of Lemière,
which, as a new piece, was brought out with care and often repeated.
The _Devin du Village, Rose et Colas, Annette Lubin_, made each a
very pleasant impression upon me. I can even now recall the youths
and maidens decorated with ribands, and their gestures. It was not
long before the wish arose in me to see the interior of the theatre,
for which many opportunities were offered me. For as I had not always
patience to hear out the whole pieces, and often carried on all sorts
of games with other children of my age in the corridors, and in the
milder season even before the door, a handsome, lively boy joined us,
who belonged to the theatre, and whom I had seen in many little parts,
though only casually. He came to a better understanding with me than
with the rest, as I could turn my French to account with him, and he
the more attached himself to me because there was no boy of his age
or his nation at the theatre, or anywhere in the neighbourhood. We
also went together at other times, as well as during the play, and
even while the representations went on he seldom left me in peace. He
was a most delightful little braggart, chattered away charmingly and
incessantly, and could tell so much of his adventures, quarrels, and
other strange incidents, that he amused me wonderfully, and I learned
from him in four weeks more of the language, and of the power of
expressing myself in it, than can be imagined; so that no one knew how
I had attained the foreign tongue all at once, as if by inspiration.

In the very earliest days of our acquaintance he took me with him upon
the stage, and led me especially to the _foyers_, where the actors
and actresses remained during the intervals of the performance, and
dressed and undressed. The place was neither convenient nor agreeable,
for they had squeezed the theatre into a concert-room, so that there
were no separate chambers for the actors behind the stage. A tolerably
large room adjoining, which had formerly served for card-parties, was
now mostly used by both sexes in common, who appeared to feel as little
ashamed before each other as before us children, if there was not
always the strictest propriety in putting on or changing the articles
of dress. I had never seen anything of the kind before, and yet from
habit, after repeated visits, I soon found it quite natural.

[Side-note: "Derones" and his Sister.]

It was not long before a very peculiar interest of my own arose. Young
Derones, for so I will call the boy whose acquaintance I still kept up,
was, with the exception of his boasting, a youth of good manners, and
very courteous demeanour. He made me acquainted with his sister, a girl
who was a few years older than we were, and a very pleasant, well-grown
girl, of regular form, brown complexion, black hair and eyes; her
whole deportment had about it something quiet, even sad. I tried to
make myself agreeable to her in every way, but I could not attract her
notice. Young girls think themselves far advanced beyond younger boys,
and while aspiring to young men, they assume the manner of an aunt
towards the boy whose first inclination is turned towards them.--With a
younger brother of his I had no acquaintance.

Often, when their mother had gone to rehearsals, or was out visiting,
we met at her house to play and amuse ourselves. I never went there
without presenting the fair one with a flower, a fruit, or something
else, which she always received very courteously, and thanked me for
most politely, but I never saw her sad look brighten, and found no
trace of her having given me a further thought. At last I fancied I
had discovered her secret. The boy showed me a crayon-drawing of a
handsome man, behind his mother's bed, which was hung with elegant silk
curtains, remarking at the same time, with a sly look, that this was
not papa, but just the same as papa; and as he glorified this man, and
told me many things in his circumstantial and ostentatious manner, I
thought I had discovered that the daughter might belong to the father,
but the other two children to the intimate friend. I thus explained to
myself her melancholy look, and loved her for it all the more.

My liking for this girl assisted me in bearing the extravagances of her
brother, who was not always within bounds. I had often to endure prolix
accounts of his exploits, how he had already often fought, without
wishing to injure the other--all for the mere sake of honour. He had
always contrived to disarm his adversary, and had then forgiven him;
nay, he was such a good fencer, that he was once very much perplexed by
striking the sword of his opponent up into a high tree, so that it was
not easy to be got again.

What much facilitated my visits to the theatre was, that my free
ticket, coming from the hands of the _Schultheiss_, gave me access to
any of the seats, and therefore also to those in the proscenium. This
was very deep, after the French style, and was bordered on both sides
with seats, which, surrounded by a low rail, ascended in several rows
one behind another, so that the first seats were but a little elevated
above the stage. The whole was considered a place of special honour,
and was generally used only by officers, although the nearness of the
actors destroyed, I will not say all illusion, but, in a measure,
all enjoyment. I have thus experienced and seen with my own eyes the
usage or abuse of which Voltaire so much complains. If, when the
house was very full at such time as troops were passing through the
town, officers of distinction strove for this place of honour, which
was generally occupied already, some rows of benches and chairs were
placed in the proscenium on the stage itself, and nothing remained
for the heroes and heroines but to reveal their secrets in the very
limited space between the uniforms and orders. I have even seen the
_Hypermnestra_ performed under such circumstances.

The curtain did not fall between the acts, and I must yet mention
a strange custom which I thought quite extraordinary, as its
inconsistency with art was to me, as a good German boy, quite
unendurable. The theatre was considered the greatest sanctuary, and
any disturbance occurring there would have been instantly resented
as the highest crime against the majesty of the public. Therefore in
all comedies, two grenadiers stood with their arms grounded, in full
view, at the two sides of the back scene, and were witnesses of all
that occurred in the bosom of the family. Since, as I said before, the
curtain did not fall between the acts, two others, while music struck
up, relieved guard, by coming from the wings, directly in front of
the first, who retired in the same measured manner. Now, if such a
practice was well fitted to destroy all that in the theatre is called
illusion, this is the more striking, because it was done at a time
when, according to Diderot's principles and examples, the most _natural
naturalness_ was required upon the stage, and a perfect deception was
proposed as the proper aim of theatrical art. Tragedy, however, was
absolved from any such military-police regulations, and the heroes of
antiquity had the right of guarding themselves; nevertheless, the same
grenadiers stood near enough behind the side-scenes.

I will also mention that I saw Diderot's "Father of a Family," and
"The Philosophers" of Palissot, and still perfectly remember the figure
of the philosopher in the latter piece going upon all fours, and biting
into a raw head of lettuce.

[Side-note: Duel with "Derones."]

All this theatrical variety could not, however, keep us children
always in the theatre. In fine weather we played in front of it, and
in the neighbourhood, and committed all manner of absurdities, which,
especially on Sundays and festivals, by no means corresponded to our
personal appearance; for I and my comrades then appeared dressed as I
described myself in the tale, with the hat under the arm, and a little
sword, the hilt of which was ornamented with a large silk knot. One
day when we had long gone in this way, and Derones had joined us, he
took it into his head to assert to me that I had insulted him, and must
give him satisfaction. I could not, in truth, conceive what was the
cause of this; but I accepted his challenge, and was going to draw my
sword. However, he assured me that in such cases it was customary to
go to secluded spots, in order to be able to settle the matter more
conveniently. We therefore went behind some barns, and placed ourselves
in the proper position. The duel took place in a somewhat theatrical
style, the blades clashed, and the thrusts followed close upon each
other; but in the heat of the combat he remained with the point of his
sword lodged in the knot of my hilt. This was pierced through, and he
assured me that he had received the most complete satisfaction; then
embraced me, also theatrically, and we went to the next coffee-house
to refresh ourselves with a glass of almond-milk after our mental
agitation, and to knit more closely the old bond of friendship.

On this occasion I will relate another adventure which also happened to
me at the theatre, although at a later time. I was sitting very quietly
in the pit with one of my playmates, and we looked with pleasure at a
_pas seul_, which was executed with much skill and grace by a pretty
boy about our own age--the son of a French dancing-master who was
passing through the city. After the fashion of dancers, he was dressed
in a close vest of red silk, which ending in a short hoop-petticoat,
like a runner's apron, floated above the knee. We had given our meed
of applause to this young artist with the whole public, when--I know
not how--it occurred to me to make a moral reflection. I said to
my companion, "How handsomely this boy was dressed, and how well he
looked; who knows in how tattered a jacket he may sleep to-night!"--All
had already risen, but the crowd prevented our moving. A woman who had
sat by me, and who was now standing close beside me, chanced to be the
mother of the young artist, and felt much offended by my reflection.
Unfortunately, she knew German enough to understand me, and spoke it
just as much as was necessary to scold. She abused me violently. Who
was I, she would like to know, that had a right to doubt the family and
respectability of this young man? At all events, she would be bound he
was as good as I, and his talents might probably procure him a fortune,
of which I could not even venture to dream. This moral lecture she
read me in the crowd, and made those about me wonder what rudeness I
had committed. As I could neither excuse myself nor escape from her, I
was really embarrassed, and when she paused for a moment, said without
thinking, "Well! why do you make such a noise about it?--to-day red,
to-morrow dead."[2] These words seemed to strike the woman dumb. She
stared at me, and moved away from me as soon as it was in any degree
possible. I thought no more of my words; only, some time afterwards,
they occurred to me, when the boy, instead of continuing to perform,
became ill, and that very dangerously. Whether he died or not, I cannot
say.

Such intimations, by an unseasonably or even improperly spoken word,
were held in repute even by the ancients, and it is very remarkable
that the forms of belief and of superstition have always remained the
same among all people and in all times.

From the first day of the occupation of our city, there was no lack of
constant diversion, especially for children and young people. Plays and
balls, parades, and marches through the town, attracted our attention
in all directions. The last particularly were always increasing, and
the soldiers' life seemed to us very merry and agreeable.

[Side-note: Marshal de Broglio.]

The residence of the King's Lieutenant at our house procured us the
advantage of seeing by degrees all the distinguished persons in the
French army, and especially of beholding close at hand the leaders
whose names had already been made known to us by reputation. Thus we
looked from stairs and landing-places, as if from galleries, very
conveniently upon the generals who passed by. Before all I remember
the PRINCE SOUBISE as a handsome, courteous gentleman, but most
distinctly the MARECHAL DE BROGLIO, who was a younger man, not tall,
but well-built, lively, active, and abounding in keen glances.

He often came to the King's Lieutenant, and it was soon remarked
that the conversation was on weighty matters. We had scarcely become
accustomed to having strangers quartered upon us in the first three
months, when a rumour was obscurely circulated that the Allies were
on the march, and that Duke Ferdinand of Brunswick was coming to
drive the French from the Maine. Of these, who could not boast of
any especial success in war, no high opinion was held, and after the
battle of Rossbach it was thought they might be dispersed. The greatest
confidence was placed in Duke Ferdinand, and all those favourable to
Prussia awaited with eagerness their delivery from the yoke hitherto
borne. My father was in somewhat better spirits--my mother was
apprehensive. She was wise enough to see that a small present evil
might easily be exchanged for a great affliction; since it was but
too plain that the French would not advance to meet the Duke, but
would wait an attack in the neighbourhood of the city. A defeat of the
French, a flight, a defence of the city, if it were only to cover their
rear and hold the bridge, a bombardment, a sack--all these presented
themselves to the excited imagination, and gave anxiety to both
parties. My mother, who could bear everything but suspense, imparted
her fears to the Count through the interpreter. She received the answer
usual in such cases: she might be quite easy, for there was nothing to
fear, and should keep quiet and mention the matter to no one.

Many troops passed through the city; we learned that they halted
at Bergen. The coming and going, the riding and running constantly
increased, and our house was in an uproar day and night. At this time
I often saw Marshal de Broglio, always cheerful, always the same in
look and manner, and I was afterwards pleased to find a man whose form
had made such a good and lasting impression upon me, so honourably
mentioned in history.

Thus, after an unquiet Passion-week, the Good-Friday of 1759 arrived.
A profound stillness announced the approaching storm. We children were
forbidden to quit the house: my father had no quiet, and went out. The
battle began: I ascended to the garret, where indeed I was prevented
seeing the country round, but could very well hear the thunder of
cannon and the general discharge of musketry. After some hours we saw
the first symptoms of the battle in a line of wagons, in which the
wounded, with various sad mutilations and gestures, were slowly drawn
by us, to be taken to the convent of St. Mary, now transformed into a
hospital. The compassion of the citizens was instantly moved. Beer,
wine, bread, and money were distributed to those who were yet able
to take them. But when, some time after, wounded and captive Germans
were seen in the train, the pity knew no limits, and it seemed as if
everybody would strip himself of every moveable that he possessed to
assist his suffering countrymen.

The prisoners, however, were an evidence of a battle unfavourable to
the allies. My father, whose party feelings made him quite certain that
these would come off victorious, had the violent temerity to go forth
to meet the expected victors, without thinking that the beaten party
must pass over him in their flight. He first repaired to his garden
before the Friedberg gate, where he found everything lonely and quiet,
then he ventured to the Bernheim heath, where he soon descried various
stragglers of the army, who were scattered and amused themselves by
shooting at the boundary-stones, so that the rebounding lead whizzed
round the head of the inquisitive wanderer. He therefore considered
it more prudent to go back, and learned on enquiry what the report of
the firing might have before informed him, that all stood well for the
French, and that there was no thought of retreating. Reaching home in
an ill-humour, the sight of his wounded and captured countrymen brought
him altogether out of his usual self-command. He also caused various
donations to be given to the passers by, but only the Germans were to
have them, which was not always possible, as fate had packed together
both friend and foe.

My mother and we children, who had already relied on the Count's word,
and had therefore passed a tolerably quiet day, were highly rejoiced,
and my mother doubly consoled, the next day, when having consulted
the oracle of her treasure-box, by the prick of a needle, she received
a very comfortable answer, both for present and future. We wished our
father similar faith and feelings; we flattered him as much as we
could; we entreated him to take some food, from which he had abstained
all day; but he repulsed our caresses and every enjoyment, and betook
himself to his chamber. Our joy, however, was not interrupted; the
affair was decided; the King's Lieutenant, who, against his habit, had
been on horseback to-day, at last returned home, where his presence was
more necessary than ever. We sprang to meet him, kissed his hands, and
testified our delight. This seemed much to please him. "Well," said
he more kindly than usual, "I am glad also for your sakes, my dear
children." He immediately ordered that sweetmeats, sweet wine, and the
best of everything should be given us, and went to his room, already
surrounded by a crowd of the urgent, the demanding, and the suppliant.

[Side-note: Quarrel with Count Thorane.]

We had now a fine collation, pitied our poor father who would not
partake of it, and pressed our mother to call him in; but she, more
prudent than we, well knew how distasteful such gifts would be to
him. In the meantime she had prepared some supper, and would readily
have sent a portion up to his room, but he never tolerated such an
irregularity even in the most extreme cases; and after the sweet
things were removed, we endeavoured to persuade him to come down into
the ordinary dining-room. At last he allowed himself to be persuaded
unwillingly, and we had no notion of the mischief which we were
preparing for him and ourselves. The staircase ran through the whole
house, along all the ante-rooms. My father in coming down had to go
directly past the Count's apartment. This ante-room was so full of
people, that the Count, to get through much at once, resolved to come
out, and this happened unfortunately at the moment when my father
descended. The Count met him cheerfully, greeted him, and remarked,
"You will congratulate yourselves and us that this dangerous affair is
so happily terminated." "By no means!" replied my father in a rage;
"would that it had driven you to the devil, even if I had gone with
you." The Count restrained himself for a moment, and then broke out
with wrath--"You shall pay for this," cried he; "you shall find that
you have not thus insulted the good cause and myself for nothing!"

My father, meanwhile, came down very calmly, seated himself near us,
seemed more cheerful than before, and began to eat. We were glad of
this, unconscious of the dangerous method in which he had rolled the
stone from his heart. Soon afterwards my mother was called out, and
we had great pleasure in chattering to our father about the sweet
things the Count had given us. Our mother did not return. At last the
interpreter came in. At a hint from him we were sent to bed; it was
already late, and we willingly obeyed. After a night quietly slept
through, we heard of the violent commotion which had shaken the house
the previous evening. The King's Lieutenant had instantly ordered my
father to be led to the guard-house. The subalterns well knew that
he was never to be contradicted; yet they had often earned thanks by
delaying the execution of his orders. The interpreter, whose presence
of mind never forsook him, contrived to excite this disposition in them
very strongly. The tumult, moreover, was so great, that a delay brought
with it its own concealment and excuse. He had called out my mother,
and put the adjutant, as it were, into her hands, that by prayers and
representations she might gain a brief postponement of the matter.
He himself hurried up to the Count, who with great self-command had
immediately retired into the inner room, and would rather allow the
most urgent affair to stand still, than wreak on an innocent person the
ill-humour once excited in him, and give a decision derogatory to his
dignity.

The address of the interpreter to the Count, the train of the whole
conversation, were often enough repeated to us by the fat interpreter,
who prided himself not a little on the fortunate result, so that I can
still describe it from recollection.

[Side-note: The "Gossip" and Count Thorane.]

The interpreter had ventured to open the cabinet and enter, an act
which was severely prohibited. "What do you want?" shouted the Count,
angrily. "Out with you!--no one but St. Jean has a right to enter here."

"Well, suppose I am St. Jean for a moment," answered the interpreter.

"It would need a powerful imagination for that! Two of him would not
make one such as you. Retire!"

"Count, you have received a great gift from heaven, and to that I
appeal."

"You think to flatter me! Do not fancy you will succeed."

"You have the great gift, Count, even in moments of passion--in moments
of rage, of listening to the opinions of others."

"Well, well, the question now is just about opinions, to which I have
listened too long. I know but too well that we are not liked here, and
that these citizens look askance at us."

"Not all!"

"Very many. What! These towns will be imperial towns, will they?
They saw their emperor elected and crowned, and when, being unjustly
attacked, he is in danger of losing his dominions and surrendering to
an usurper; when he fortunately finds faithful allies who pour out
their blood and treasure in his behalf--they will not put up with the
slight burden that falls to their share, towards humbling the enemy!"

"But you have long known these sentiments, and have endured them like
a wise man; they are, besides, held only by a minority. A few, dazzled
by the splendid qualities of the enemy, whom you yourself prize as an
extraordinary man, a few only--as you are aware."

"Yes, indeed! I have known and suffered it too long, otherwise this man
would not have presumed to utter such insults to my face, and at the
most critical moment. Let them be as many as they please, they shall
be punished in the person of this their audacious representative, and
perceive what they have to expect."

"Only delay, Count."

"In certain things one cannot act too promptly."

"Only a little delay, Count."

"Neighbour, you think to mislead me into a false step; you shall not
succeed."

"I would neither lead you into a false step nor restrain you from
one; your resolution is just; it becomes the Frenchman and the King's
Lieutenant; but consider that you are also Count Thorane!"

"He has no right to interfere here."

"But the gallant man has a right to be heard."

"What would he say then?"

"King's Lieutenant," he would begin, "you have so long had patience
with so many gloomy, untoward, bungling men, if they were not really
too bad. This man has certainly been too bad, but control yourself,
King's Lieutenant, and every one will praise and extol you on that
account."

"You know I can often endure your jests, but do not abuse my good-will.
These men--are they then completely blinded? Suppose we had lost the
battle, what would have been their fate at this moment? We fight up to
the gates, we shut up the city, we halt, we defend ourselves to cover
our retreat over the bridge. Think you, the enemy would have stood with
his hands before him? He throws grenades, and what he has at hand, and
they catch where they can. This house-holder--what would he have? Hero,
in these rooms, a bomb might now have burst, and another have followed
it;--in these rooms, the cursed China-paper of which I have spared,
incommoding myself, by not nailing up my maps! They ought to have spent
the whole day on their knees."

How many would have done that!"

"They ought to have prayed for a blessing on us, and to have gone out
to meet the generals and officers with tokens of honour and joy, and
the wearied soldiers with refreshments. Instead of this, the poison of
party-spirit destroys the fairest and happiest moments of my life, won
by so many cares and efforts."

"It is party-spirit; but you will only increase it by the punishment
of this man. Those who think with him will proclaim you a tyrant and
a barbarian:--they will consider him a martyr, who has suffered for
the good cause; and even those of the other opinion, who are now his
opponents, will see in him only their fellow-citizen, will pity him,
and while they confess your justice, will yet feel that you have
proceeded too severely."

"I have listened to you too much already,--now, away with you!"

"Hear only this. Remember this is the most unheard-of thing that could
befall this man, this family. You have had no reason to be edified
by the good-will of the master of the house; but the mistress has
anticipated all your wishes, and the children have regarded you as
their undo. With this single blow, you will for ever destroy the peace
and happiness of this dwelling. Indeed, I may say, that a bomb falling
into the house, would not have occasioned greater desolation. I have so
often admired your self-command, Count; give me this time opportunity
to adore you. A warrior is worthy of honour who considers himself a
guest in the house of an enemy; but here there is no enemy, only a
mistaking man. Control yourself, and you will acquire an everlasting
fame."

"That would be odd," replied the Count, with a smile.

"Merely natural," continued the interpreter; "I have not sent the wife
and children to your feet, because I know you detest such scenes; but
I will depict to you this wife and these children, how they will thank
you. I will depict them to you conversing all their lives of the battle
of Bergen, and of your magnanimity on this day, relating it to their
children, and children's children, and inspiring even strangers with
their own interest for you: an act of this kind can never perish."

"But you do not hit my weak side yet, interpreter! About posthumous
fame I am not in the habit of thinking; that is for others, not for me;
but to do right at the moment, not to neglect my duty, not to prejudice
my honour--that is my care. We have already had too many words; now
go--and receive the thanks of the thankless, whom I spare."

[Side-note: Thorane's Magnanimity.]

The interpreter, surprised and moved by this unexpectedly favourable
issue, could not restrain his tears, and would have kissed the Count's
hands. The Count motioned him off, and said severely and seriously,
"You know I cannot bear such things." And with these words he went
into the ante-room, to attend to his pressing affairs, and hear the
claims of so many expectant persons. So the matter was disposed of, and
the next morning we celebrated with the remnants of the yesterday's
sweetmeats, the passing over of an evil through the threatenings of
which we had happily slept.

Whether the interpreter really spoke so wisely, or merely so painted
the scene to himself, as one is apt to do after a good and fortunate
action, I will not decide; at least he never varied it in repeating
it. Indeed, this day seemed to him both the most anxious and the most
glorious in his life.

One little incident will show how the Count in general rejected all
false parade, never assumed a title which did not belong to him, and
how witty he was in his more cheerful moods.

A man of the higher class, who was one of the abstruse, solitary
Frankforters, thought he must complain of the quartering of the
soldiers upon him. He came in person, and the interpreter proffered him
his services, but the other supposed that he did not need them. He came
before the Count with a most becoming bow, and said, "Your excellency!"
The Count returned the bow, as-well as the "excellency." Struck by this
mark of honour, and not supposing but that the title was too humble,
he stooped lower, and said, "Monseigneur." "Sir," said the Count, very
seriously, "we will not go further, or else we may easily bring it to
Majesty." The ether gentleman was extremely confused, and had not a
word to utter. The interpreter, standing at some distance, and apprised
of the whole affair, was wicked enough not to move, but the Count,
with much cheerfulness, continued, "Well now, for instance, sir, what
is your name?" "Spangenberg," replied the other. "And mine," said the
Count, "is Thorane. Spangenberg, what is your business with Thorane?
Now, then, let us sit down; the affair shall at once be settled."

And thus the affair was indeed settled at once, to the great
satisfaction of the person I have here named Spangenberg, and the
same evening, in our family circle, the story was not only told by
the waggish interpreter, but was given with all the circumstances and
gestures.

After these confusions, disquietudes, and grievances, the former
security and thoughtlessness soon returned, in which the young
particularly live from day to day, if it be in any degree possible. My
passion for the French theatre grew with every performance. I did not
miss an evening, though on every occasion, when after the play I sat
down with the family to supper,--often putting up-with the remains,--I
had to endure the constant reproaches of my father, that theatres were
useless, and would lead to nothing. In these cases I adduced all and
every argument which is at hand for the apologists of the stage when
they fall into a difficulty like mine. Vice in prosperity and virtue
in misfortune, are in the end set right by poetical justice. Those
beautiful examples of misdeeds punished, _Miss Sarah Sampson_, and
the _Merchant of London_, were very energetically cited on my part;
but, on the other hand, I often came off worst when the _Fouberies de
Scapin_, and others of the sort, were in the bill, and I was forced to
bear reproaches for the delight felt by the public in the deceits of
intriguing servants, and the successful follies of prodigal young men.
Neither party was convinced; but my father was very soon reconciled to
the theatre when he saw that I advanced with incredible rapidity in the
French language.

[Side-note: Juvenile Attempt at the Drama.]

Men are so constituted that everybody would rather undertake himself
what he sees done by others, whether he has aptitude for it or not.
I had soon exhausted the whole range of the French stage; several
pieces I had already witnessed for the third and fourth times; all
had passed before my eyes and mind, from the stateliest tragedy to
the most frivolous after-piece; and as when a child I had presumed to
imitate Terence, I did not fail now as a boy, on a much more inciting
occasion, to copy the French forms to the best of my ability and
want of ability. There were then performed some half-mythological,
half-allegorical pieces in the taste of PIRON; they partook somewhat
of the nature of parody, and were much liked. These representations
particularly attracted me: the little gold wings of a lively Mercury,
the thunderbolt of a disguised Jupiter, an amorous Danaë, or by
whatever name a fair one visited by the gods might be called, if indeed
it were not a shepherdess or huntress to whom they descended. And as
elements of this kind, from _Ovid's >Metamorphosis_, or the _Pantheon
Mythicum_ of Pomey, were humming in swarms about my head--I had soon
put together in my imagination a little piece of the kind, of which I
can only say that the scene was rural, and that there was no lack in
it of king's daughters, princes, or gods. Mercury, especially, made so
vivid an impression on my senses, that I could almost be sworn that I
had seen him with my own eyes.

I presented my friend Derones with a very neat copy, made by myself,
which he accepted with quite a special grace, and with a truly
patronizing air, glanced hastily over the manuscript, pointed out a
few grammatical blunders, found some speeches too long, and at last
promised to examine and judge the work more attentively when he had
the requisite leisure. To my modest question, whether the piece could
by any chance be performed, he assured me that it was not altogether
impossible. In the theatre, he said, a great deal went by favour, and
he would support me with all his heart: only the affair must be kept
private; for he had himself once on a time surprised the directors with
a piece of his own, and it would certainly have been acted if it had
not been too soon detected that he was the author. I promised him all
possible silence; and already saw in my mind's eye the name of my piece
posted up in large letters on the comers of the streets and squares.

Light-minded as my friend generally was, the opportunity of playing the
master was but too desirable. He read the piece through with attention,
and while he sat down with me to make some trivial alterations,
turned the whole thing, in the course of the conversation, completely
topsy-turvy, so that not one stone remained on another. He struck out,
added, took away one character, substituted another,--in short, went
on with the maddest wantonness in the world, so that my hair stood on
end. My previous persuasion that he must understand the matter, allowed
him to have his way, for he had often laid before me so much about the
Three Unities of Aristotle, the regularity of the French drama, the
probability, the harmony of the verse, and all that belongs to these,
that I was forced to regard him, not merely as informed, but thoroughly
grounded. He abused the English and scorned the Germans; in short, he
laid before me the whole dramaturgic litany which I have so often in my
life been compelled to hear.

Like the boy in the fable, I carried my mangled offspring home, and
strove in vain to bring it to life. As, however, I would not quite
abandon it, I caused a fair copy of my first manuscript, after a few
alterations, to be made by our clerk, which I presented to my father,
and thus gained so much that for a long time he let me eat my supper in
quiet after the play was over.

[Side-note: Dramatic Theories.]

This unsuccessful attempt had made me reflective, and I resolved now to
learn at the very sources, these theories, these laws, to which every
one appealed, but which had become suspicious to me chiefly through
the impoliteness of my arrogant master. This was not indeed difficult,
but laborious. I immediately read Corneille's _Treatise on the Three
Unities_, and learned from that how people would have it, but why
they desired it so was by no means clear to me; and what was worst of
all, I fell at once into still greater confusion when I made myself
acquainted with the disputes on the _Cid_, and read the prefaces in
which Corneille and Racine are obliged to defend themselves against the
critics and public. Here at least I plainly saw that no man knew what
he wanted; that a piece like _the Cid_, which had produced the noblest
effect, was to be condemned at the command of an all-powerful cardinal;
that Racine, the idol of the French living in my day, who had now also
become my idol--(for I had got intimately acquainted with him when
Schöff Von Olenschlager made us children act _Britannicus_, in which
the part of Nero fell to me)--that Racine, I say, even in his own day,
was not able to get on with the amateurs nor critics. Through all this
I became more perplexed than ever, and after having pestered myself a
long time with this talking backwards and forwards, and theoretical
quackery of the previous century, threw them to the dogs, and was the
more resolute in casting all the rubbish away, the more I thought I
observed that the authors themselves who had produced excellent things,
when they began to speak about them, when they set forth the grounds
of their treatment, when they desired to defend, justify, or excuse
themselves, were not always able to hit the proper mark. I hastened
back again, therefore, to the living present, attended the theatre far
more zealously, read more scrupulously and connectedly, so that I had
perseverance enough this time to work through the whole of Racine and
Molière, and a great part of Corneille.

The King's Lieutenant still lived at our house. He in no respect
had changed his deportment, especially towards us; but it was
observable, and the interpreter made it still more evident to us,
that he no longer discharged his duties with the same cheerfulness
and zeal as at the outset, though always with the same rectitude
and fidelity. His character and habits, which showed the Spaniard
rather than the Frenchman; his caprices, which were not without their
influence on his business; his unbending will under all circumstances;
his susceptibility as to everything that concerned his person or
reputation--all this together might perhaps sometimes bring him into
conflict with his superiors. Add to this, that he had been wounded in
a duel, which had arisen in the theatre, and it was deemed wrong that
the King's Lieutenant, himself chief of police, should have committed
a punishable offence. As I have said, all this may have contributed to
make him live more retired, and here and there perhaps to act with less
energy.

Meanwhile, a considerable part of the pictures he had ordered had been
delivered. Count Thorane passed his leisure hours in examining them,
while in the aforesaid gable-room he had them nailed up, canvas after
canvas, large and small, side by side, and because there was want of
space, even one over another, and then taken down and rolled up. The
works were constantly inspected anew; the parts that were considered
the most successful were repeatedly enjoyed; but there was no want of
wishes that this or that had been differently done.

Hence arose a new and very singular operation. As one painter best
executed figures, another middle-grounds and distances, a third trees,
a fourth flowers, it struck the Count that these talents might perhaps
be combined in the paintings, and that in this way perfect works might
be produced. A beginning was made at once, by having for instance
some beautiful cattle painted into a finished landscape. But because
there was not always adequate room for all, and a few sheep more or
less was no great matter to the cattle-painter, the largest landscape
proved in the end too narrow. Now also the painter of figures had to
introduce the shepherd, and some travellers; these deprived each other
of air, as we may say; and we marvelled that they were not all stifled,
even in the most open country. No one could anticipate what was to
come of the matter, and when it was finished it gave no satisfaction.
The painters were annoyed. They had gained something by their first
orders, but lost by these after-labours, though the Count paid for
them also very liberally. And as the parts worked into each other in
one picture by several hands, produced no good effect after all the
trouble, every one, at last, fancied that his own work had been spoiled
and destroyed by that of the others; hence the artists were within a
hair's-breadth of falling out, and becoming irreconcilably hostile
to each other. These alterations, or rather additions, were made in
the before-mentioned studio, where I remained quite alone with the
artists; and it amused me to hunt out from the studies, particularly of
animals, this or that individual or group, and to propose it for the
foreground or the distance, in which respect they many times, either
from conviction or kindness, complied with my wishes.

[Side-note: The Painter Seekatz.]

The partners in this affair were therefore greatly discouraged,
especially Seekatz, a very hypochondriacal, retired man, who indeed by
his incomparable humour was the best of companions among friends, but
who, when he worked, desired to work alone, abstracted and perfectly
free. This man, after solving difficult problems, and finishing them
with the greatest diligence and the warmest love, of which he was
always capable, was forced to travel repeatedly from Darmstadt to
Frankfort, either to change something in his own pictures, or to touch
up those of others, or even to allow, under his superintendence, a
third person to convert his pictures into a variegated mess. His
peevishness augmented, his resistance became more decided, and a great
deal of effort was necessary on our part to guide this "gossip"--for he
was one also--according to the Count's wishes. I still remember that
when the boxes were standing ready to pack up all the pictures, in the
order in which the upholsterer at their place of destination might
fix them up at once, a small but indispensable bit of afterwork was
demanded, but Seekatz could not be moved to come over. He had, by way
of conclusion, done the best he could, having represented in paintings
to be placed over the doors, the four elements as children and boys,
after life, and having expended the greatest care, not only on the
figures, but on the accessories. These were delivered and paid for, and
he thought he was quit of the business for ever; but now he was to come
over again, that he might enlarge, by a few touches of his pencil, some
figures, the size of which was too small. Another, he thought, could do
it just as well; he had already set about some new work; in short, he
would not come. The time for sending off the pictures was at hand; they
must also have opportunity to dry; every delay was precarious; and the
Count, in despair, was about to have him fetched in military fashion.
We all wished to see the pictures finally gone, and found at last no
expedient than for the gossip interpreter to seat himself in a wagon,
and fetch over the refractory subject, with his wife and child. He was
kindly received by the Count, well treated, and at last dismissed with
liberal payment.

After the pictures had been sent away, there was great peace in the
house. The gable-room in the attic was cleaned and given up to me; and
my father, when he saw the boxes go, could not refrain from wishing
to send off the Count after them. For much as the tastes of the Count
coincided with his own, much as he must have rejoiced to see his
principle of patronizing living artists so generously followed out by
a man richer than himself, much as it may have flattered him that his
collection had been the occasion of bringing so considerable a profit
to a number of brave artists in a pressing time, he nevertheless felt
such a repugnance to the foreigner who had intruded into his house,
that he could not think well of any of his doings. One ought to employ
painters, but not degrade them to paper-stainers; one ought to be
satisfied with what they have done, according to their conviction
and ability, even if it does not thoroughly please one, and not be
perpetually carping at it. In short, in spite of all the Count's
own generous endeavours, there could, once for all, be no mutual
understanding. My father only visited that room when the Count was at
table, and I can recall but one instance, when, Seekatz having excelled
himself, and the wish to see these pictures having brought the whole
house together, my father and the Count met, and manifested a common
pleasure in these works of art, which they could not take in each other.

[Side-note: Departure of Thorane.]

Scarcely, therefore, had the house been cleared of the chests and
boxes, than the plan for removing the Count, which had formerly been
begun, but was afterwards interrupted, was resumed. The endeavour
was made to gain justice by representations, equity by entreaties,
favour by influence, and the quarter-masters were prevailed upon to
decide thus: the Count was to change his lodgings, and our house, in
consideration of the burden borne day and night for several years
uninterruptedly, was to be exempt for the future from billetting. But,
to furnish a plausible pretext for this, we were to take in lodgers on
the first floor, which the Count had occupied, and thus render a new
quartering as it were impossible. The Count, who after the separation
from his dear pictures felt no further peculiar interest in the house,
and hoped moreover to be soon recalled and placed elsewhere, was
pleased to move without opposition to another good residence, and left
us in peace and good-will. Soon afterwards he quitted the city, and
received different appointments in gradation, but, it was rumoured, not
to his own satisfaction. Meantime, he had the pleasure of seeing the
pictures which he had preserved with so much care felicitously arranged
in his brother's chateau; he wrote sometimes, sent dimensions, and had
different pieces executed by the artists so often named. At last we
heard nothing further about him, except after several years we were
assured that he had died as governor of one of the French colonies in
the West Indies.


[1] The obsolete word "gossip" has been revived as an equivalent for
the German "_Gevatter._" But it should be observed that this word not
only signifies godfather, but that the person whose child has another
person for godfather (or godmother) is that person's _Gevatter_, or
_Gevatterin_ (feminine).

[2] A German proverb, "Heute roth, morgen todt."



FOURTH BOOK.


Much inconvenience as the quartering of the French had occasioned
us, we had become so accustomed to it, that we could not fail to
miss it, nor could we children fail to feel as if the house were
deserted. Moreover it was not decreed that we should again attain
perfect family unity. New lodgers were already agreed upon, and after
some sweeping and scouring, planing and rubbing with bees'-wax,
painting and varnishing, the house was completely restored again. The
chancery-director Moritz, with his family, very worthy friends of
my parents, moved in. He was not a native of Frankfort, but an able
jurist and man of business, and managed the legal affairs of many small
princes, counts, and lords. I never saw him otherwise than cheerful
and pleasant, and diligent with his law papers. His wife and children,
gentle, quiet, and benevolent, did not indeed increase the sociableness
of our house, for they kept to themselves; but a stillness, a peace
returned, which we had not enjoyed for a long time. I now again
occupied my attic room, in which the ghosts of the many pictures
sometimes hovered before me, while I strove to frighten them away by
labour and study.

The Counsellor of Legation Moritz, a brother of the chancellor, came
from this time often to our house. He was even more a man of the world,
had a handsome figure, while his manners were easy and agreeable. He
also managed the affairs of different persons of rank, and on occasions
of meetings of creditors and imperial commissions frequently came into
contact with my father. They had a nigh opinion of each other, and
commonly stood on the side of the creditors, though they were generally
obliged to perceive, much to their vexation, that a majority of the
agents on such occasions are usually gained over to the side of the
debtors. The counsellor of legation readily communicated his knowledge,
was a friend to the** mathematics, and as these did not occur in his
present course of life, he made himself a pleasure by helping me on
in this branch of study. I was thus enabled to finish my architectural
sketches more accurately than heretofore, and to profit more by the
instruction of a drawing-master, who now also occupied us an hour every
day.

[Side-note: Lessons in Drawing.]

This good old man was indeed only half an artist. We were obliged to
draw and combine strokes, from which eyes and noses, lips and ears,
nay, at last, whole faces and heads, were to arise, but of natural or
artistic forms there was no thought. We were tormented a long while
with this _quid pro quo_ of the human figure, and when the so-called
Passions of Le Brun were given us to copy, it was supposed at last that
we had made great progress. But ever, these caricatures did not improve
us. Then we went off to landscapes, foliage, and all the things which
in ordinary instruction are practised without consistency or method.
Finally we dropped into close imitation and neatness of strokes,
without troubling ourselves about the merit or taste of the original.

In these attempts our father led the way in an exemplary manner.
He had never drawn, but he was unwilling to remain behind now that
his children pursued this art, and would give, even in his old age,
an example how they should proceed in their youth. Several heads,
therefore, of Piazetta, from his well-known sheets in small octavo,
he copied with an English lead-pencil upon the finest Dutch paper.
In these he not only observed the greatest clearness of outline, but
most accurately imitated the hatching of the copper-plate with a light
hand--only too slightly, as in his desire to avoid hardness he brought
no keeping into his sketches. Yet they were always soft and accurate.
His unrelaxing and untiring assiduity went so far, that he drew the
whole considerable collection number by number, while we children
jumped from one head to another, and chose only those that pleased us.

About this time the long-debated project, long under consideration,
for giving us lessons in music, was earned into effect; and the last
impulse to it certainly deserves mention. It was settled that we should
learn the harpsichord; but there was always a dispute about the choice
of a master. At last I went once accidentally into the room of one of
my companions, who was just taking his lesson on the harpsichord, and
found the teacher a most charming man. For each finger of the right
and left hand he had a nickname, by which he indicated in the merriest
way when it was to be used. The black and white keys were likewise
symbolically designated, and even the tones appeared under figurative
names. Such a motley company worked most pleasantly together. Fingering
and time seemed to become perfectly easy and obvious, and while the
scholar was put into the best humour, everything else succeeded
beautifully.

[Side-note: The Eccentric Music-master.]

Scarcely had I reached home, than I importuned my parents to set about
the matter in good earnest at last, and give us this incomparable man
for our master on the harpsichord. They hesitated, and made inquiries;
they indeed heard nothing bad of the teacher; but, at the same time,
nothing particularly good. Meanwhile I had informed my sister of all
the droll names; we could hardly wait for the lesson, and succeeded in
having the man engaged.

The reading of the notes began first, but as no jokes occurred
here, we comforted ourselves with the hope that when we went to the
harpsichord, and the fingers were needed, the jocular method would
commence. But neither keys nor fingering seemed to afford opportunity
for any comparisons. Dry as the notes were, with their strokes on and
between the five lines, the black and white keys were no less so:
and not a syllable was heard either of "thumbling," "point-erling,"
or "goldfinger," while the countenance of the man remained as
imperturbable during his dry teaching as it had been before during his
dry jests. My sister reproached me most bitterly for having deceived
her, and actually believed that it was all an invention of mine. But I
was myself confounded and learned little, though the man at once went
regularly enough to work; for I kept always expecting that the former
jokes would make their appearance, and so consoled my sister from one
day to another. They did not reappear, however, and I should never have
been able to explain the riddle if another accident had not solved it
for me.

One of my companions came in during a lesson, and at once all the
pipes of the humorous _jet d'eau_ were opened; the "thumblings" and
"pointerlings," the "pickers" and "stealers," as he used to call
the fingers, the "falings" and "galings," meaning "f" and "g," the
"fielings" and "gielings," meaning "f" and "g" sharp,[1] became once
more extant, and made the most wonderful mannikins. My young friend
could not leave off laughing, and was rejoiced that one could learn in
such a merry manner. He vowed that he would give his parents no peace
until they had given him such an excellent man for a teacher.

And thus the way to two arts was early enough opened to me, according
to the principles of a modern theory of education, merely by good
luck, and without any conviction that I should be furthered therein
by a native talent. My father maintained that everybody ought to
learn drawing; for which reason, he especially venerated the Emperor
Maximilian, by whom this had been expressly commanded. He therefore
held me to it more steadily than to music, which, on the other hand,
he especially recommended to my sister, and even out of the hours
for lessons kept her fast, during a good part of the day, at her
harpsichord.

But the more I was in this way made to press on, the more I wished
to press forward of myself, and my hours of leisure were employed in
all sorts of curious occupations. From my earliest years I felt a
love for the investigation of natural things. It is often regarded
as an instinct of cruelty that children like at last to break, tear,
and devour objects with which for a long time they have played, and
which they have handled in various manners. Yet even in this way is
manifested the curiosity, the desire of learning how such things hang
together, how they look within. I remember that as a child, I pulled
flowers to pieces to see how the leaves were inserted into the calyx,
or even plucked birds to observe how the feathers were inserted into
the wings. Children are not to be blamed for this, when even our
naturalists believe they get their knowledge oftener by separation and
division than by union and combination,--more by killing than by making
alive.

An armed loadstone, very neatly sewed up in scarlet cloth, was one day
destined to experience the effects of this spirit of inquiry. For the
secret force of attraction which it exercised not only on the little
iron bar attached to it, but which was of such a kind that it could
gain strength and could daily bear a heavier weight--this mysterious
virtue had so excited my admiration, that for a long time I was pleased
with merely staring at its operation. But at last I thought I might
arrive at some nearer revelation by tearing away the external covering.
This was done, but I became no wiser in consequence, as the naked iron
taught me nothing further. This also I took off, and I held in my hand
the mere stone, with which I never grew weary of making experiments
of various kinds on filings and needles--experiments from which my
youthful mind drew no further advantage beyond that of a varied
experience. I could not manage to reconstruct the whole arrangement;
the parts were scattered, and I lost the wondrous phenomenon at the
same time with the apparatus.

Nor was I more fortunate in putting together an electrical machine.
A friend of the family, whose youth had fallen in the time when
electricity occupied all minds, often told us how as a child he had
desired to possess such a machine, had got together the principal
requisites, and by the aid of an old spinning-wheel and some medicine
bottles, had produced tolerable results. As he readily and frequently
repeated the story, and imparted to us some general information on
electricity, we children found the thing very plausible, and long
tormented ourselves with an old spinning-wheel and some medicine
bottles, without producing even the smallest result. We nevertheless
adhered to our belief, and were much delighted when at the time of
the fair, among other rarities, magical and legerdemain tricks,
an electrical machine performed its marvels, which, like those of
magnetism, were at that time already very numerous.

The want of confidence in the public method of instruction was daily
increasing. People looked about for private tutors, and because single
families could not afford the expense, several of them united to attain
their object. Yet the children seldom agreed, the young man had not
sufficient authority, and after frequently repeated vexations, there
were only angry partings. It is not surprising, therefore, that other
arrangements were thought of which should be more permanent as well as
more advantageous.

[Side-note: Pfeil's Boarding-School.]

The thought of establishing boarding-schools (_Pensionen_) had
arisen from the necessity which every one felt for having the French
language taught and communicated orally. My father had brought up
a young person who had been his footman, valet, secretary, and in
short successively all in all. This man, whose name was Pfeil, spoke
French well. After he had married, and his patrons had to think of a
situation for him, they hit upon the plan of making him establish a
boarding-school, which extended gradually into a small academy, in
which everything necessary, and at last even Greek and Latin, were
taught. The extensive connexions of Frankfort caused young French and
English men to be brought to this establishment, that they might learn
German and be otherwise cultivated. Pfeil, who was a man in the prime
of life, and of the most wonderful energy and activity, superintended
the whole very laudably, and as he could never be employed enough, and
was obliged to keep music-teachers for his scholars, he set about music
on the occasion, and practised the harpsichord with such zeal that,
without having previously touched a note, he very soon played with
perfect readiness and spirit. He seemed to have adopted my father's
maxim, that nothing can more cheer and excite young people, than when
at mature years one declares one's self again a learner, and at an age
when new accomplishments are acquired with difficulty, one endeavours,
nevertheless, by zeal and perseverance, to excel the younger, who are
more favoured by nature.

By this love of harpsichord-playing Pfeil was led to the instruments
themselves, and while he hoped to obtain the best, came into connexion
with Frederici of Gera, whose instruments were celebrated far and wide.
He took a number of them on sale, and had now the joy of seeing not
only one piano, but many, set up in his residence, and of practising
and being heard upon them.

The vivacity of this man brought a great rage for music into our house.
My father remained on lasting good terms with him up to certain points
of dispute. A large piano of Frederici was purchased also for us,
which I, adhering to my harpsichord, hardly touched, but which so much
increased the troubles of my sister, as, to do proper honour to the new
instrument, she had to spend some time longer every day in practice;
while my father as overseer, and Pfeil as a model and encouraging
friend, alternately took their positions at her side.

A singular taste of my father caused much inconvenience to us
children. This was the cultivation of silk, of the advantages of which,
when it should be more widely extended, he had a high opinion. Some
acquaintances at Hanau, where the breeding of the worms was carried
on with great care, gave him the immediate impulse. At the proper
season, the eggs were sent to him from that place, and as soon as the
mulberry-trees showed sufficient leaves, they had to be stripped, and
the scarcely visible creatures were most diligently tended. Tables and
stands, with boards, were set up in a garret chamber, to afford them
more room and sustenance; for they grew rapidly, and after their last
change of skin were so voracious, that it was scarcely possible to get
leaves enough to feed them; nay, they had to be fed day and night, as
everything depends upon there being no deficiency of nourishment when
the great and wondrous change is about to take place in them. If the
weather was favourable, this business might indeed be regarded as a
pleasant amusement; but if the cold set in, so that the mulberry-trees
suffered, it was exceedingly troublesome. Still more unpleasant was it
when rain fell during the last epoch, for these creatures cannot at
all endure moisture, and the wet leaves had to be carefully wiped and
dried, which could not always be done quite perfectly; and for this, or
perhaps some other reason also, various diseases came among the flock,
by which the poor things were swept off in thousands. The corruption
which ensued produced a smell really pestilential, and because the dead
and diseased had to be taken away and separated from the healthy, the
business was indeed extremely wearisome and repulsive, and caused many
an unhappy hour to us children.

After we had one year passed the finest weeks of the spring and summer
in tending the silk-worms, we were obliged to assist our father in
another business, which, though simpler, was no less troublesome. The
Roman views, which, bound by black rods at the top and bottom, had
hung for many years on the walls of the old house, had become very
yellow, through the light, dust, and smoke, and not a little unsightly
through the flies. If such uncleanliness was not to be tolerated in the
new house, yet, on the other hand, these pictures had gained in value
to my father, in consequence of his longer absence from the places
represented. For in the outset such copies only serve to refresh and
vivify the impressions shortly before received. They seem trifling
in comparison, and at the best only a melancholy substitute. But as
the remembrance of the original forms fades more and more, the copies
imperceptibly assume their place, they become as dear to us as those
once were, and what we at first contemned, now gains esteem and
affection. Thus it is with all copies, and particularly with portraits.
No one is easily satisfied with the counterfeit of an object still
present, but how we value every _silhouette_ of one who is absent or
departed.

In short, with this feeling of his former extravagance, my father
wished that these engravings might be restored as much as possible.
It was well known that this could be done by bleaching; and the
operation, always critical with large plates; was undertaken under
rather unfavourable circumstances. For the large boards on which the
smoked engravings were moistened and exposed to the sun, stood in the
gutters before the garret windows, leaning against the roof, and were
therefore liable to many accidents. The chief point was, that the paper
should never thoroughly dry, but must be kept constantly moist. This
was the duty of my sister and myself; and the idleness, which would
have been otherwise so desirable, was excessively annoying, on account
of the tedium and impatience, and the watchfulness which allowed of no
distraction. The end, however, was attained, and the bookbinder who
fixed each sheet upon thick paper, did his best to match and repair the
margins, which had been here and there torn by our inadvertence. All
the sheets together were bound in a volume, and for this time preserved.

[Side-note: Lessons in English.]

That we children might not be wanting in every variety of life and
learning, a teacher of the English language must announce himself just
at this time, who pledged himself to teach English to anybody not
entirely raw in languages, within four weeks; and to advance him to
such a degree that, with some diligence, he could help himself further.
His price was moderate, and he was indifferent as to the number of
scholars at one lesson. My father instantly determined to make the
attempt, and took lessons, in connexion with my sister and myself, from
this expeditious master. The hours were faithfully kept; there was no
want of repeating our lessons; other exercises were neglected rather
than this, during the four weeks; and the teacher parted from us, and
we from him, with satisfaction. As he remained longer in the town,
and found many employers, he came from time to time to look after us
and to help us, grateful that we had been among the first who placed
confidence in him, and proud to be able to cite us as examples to the
others.

My father, in consequence of this, entertained a new anxiety that
English might neatly stand in the series of my other studies in
languages. Now, I will confess that it became more and more burdensome
for me to take my occasions for study now from this grammar or
collection of examples, now from that; now from one author, now from
another, and thus to divert my interest in a subject every hour. It
occurred to me, therefore, that I might despatch all at once, and I
invented a romance of six or seven brothers and sisters, who, separated
from each other and scattered over the world, should communicate with
each other alternately as to their conditions and feelings. The eldest
brother gives an account in good German of all the manifold objects and
incidents of his journey. The sister, in a ladylike style, with short
sentences and nothing but stops, much as _Siegwart_ was afterwards
written, answers now him, now the other brothers, partly about domestic
matters, and partly about affairs of the heart. One brother studies
theology, and writes a very formal Latin, to which he often adds a
Greek postscript. To another brother, holding the place of mercantile
clerk at Hamburgh, the English correspondence naturally falls, while
a still younger one at Marseilles has the French. For the Italian was
found a musician, on his first trip into the world; while the youngest
of all, a sort of pert nestling, had applied himself to Jew-German,
the other languages having been cut off from him, and by means of his
frightful cyphers brought the rest of them into despair, and my parents
into a hearty laugh at the good notion.

I sought for matter to fill up this singular form by studying the
geography of the countries in which my creations resided, and by
inventing for those dry localities all sorts of human incidents, which
had some affinity with the characters and employments of my heroes.
Thus my exercise-books became much more voluminous, my father was
better satisfied, and I was much sooner made aware of the acquirements
and the sort of readiness in which I was wanting.

Now, as such things once begun have no end and no limits, so it
happened in the present case; for, while I strove to attain the
odd Jew-German, and to write it as well as I could read it, I soon
discovered that I ought to know Hebrew, from which alone the modern
corrupted dialect could be derived and handled with any certainty.
I consequently explained the necessity of my learning Hebrew to my
father, and earnestly besought his consent, for I had a still higher
object. Everywhere I heard it said that to understand the Old as well
as the New Testament, the original languages were requisite. The latter
I could read quite easily, because, that there might be no want of
exercise even on Sundays, the so-called Epistles and Gospels had, after
church, to be recited, translated, and in some measure explained. I now
designed doing the same thing with the Old Testament, the peculiarities
of which had always especially interested me.

[Side-note: Rector Albrecht.]

My father, who did not like to do anything by halves, determined to
request the rector of our Gymnasium, one Dr. ALBRECHT, to give me
private lessons weekly, until I should have acquired what was most
essential in so simple a language, for he hoped that if it would not be
despatched as soon as English was learned, it could at least be managed
in double the time.

Rector Albrecht was one of the most original figures in the world,
short, broad, but not fat, ill-shaped without being deformed,--in
short, an Æsop in gown and wig. His more than seventy-years-old face
was completely twisted into a sarcastic smile, while his eyes always
remained large, and, though red, were always brilliant and intelligent.
He lived in the old cloister of the Barefoot Friars, the seat of the
Gymnasium. Even as a child, I had often visited him in company with
my parents, and had, with a kind of trembling delight, glided through
the long dark passages, the chapels transformed into reception-rooms,
the place broken up and full of stairs and corners. Without annoying
me, he questioned me familiarly whenever we met, and praised and
encouraged me. One day, on the changing of the pupil's places after a
public examination, he saw me standing as a mere spectator, not far
from his chair, while he distributed the silver _præmia virtutis et
diligentia._ I was probably gazing very eagerly upon the little bag out
of which he drew the medals; he nodded to me, descended a step, and
handed me one of the silver pieces. My joy was great, although others
thought that this gift bestowed upon a boy not belonging to the school
was out of all order. But for this the good old man cared but little,
having always played the eccentric, and that in a striking manner.
He had a very good reputation as a schoolmaster, and understood his
business, although age no more allowed him to practise it thoroughly.
But almost more than by his own infirmities was he hindered by greater
circumstances, and, as I already knew, he was satisfied neither with
the consistory, the inspectors, the clergy, nor the teachers. To his
natural temperament, which inclined to satire, and the watching for
faults and defects, he allowed free play, both in his programs and
his public speeches, and as Lucian was almost the only writer whom he
read and esteemed, he spiced all that he said and wrote with biting
ingredients.

Fortunately for those with whom he was dissatisfied, he never went
directly to work, but only jeered at the defects which he wanted to
reprove, with hints, allusions, classic passages, and Scripture texts.
His delivery, moreover--he always read his discourses--was unpleasant,
unintelligible, and, above all, was often interrupted by a cough, but
more frequently by a hollow paunch-convulsing laugh, with which he
was wont to announce and accompany the biting passages. This singular
man I found to be mild and obliging when I began to take lessons from
him. I now went to him daily at six o'clock in the evening, and always
experienced a secret pleasure when the outer door closed behind me, and
I had to thread the long dark cloister-passage. We sat in his library
at a table covered with oil-cloth, a much-read Lucian never quitting
his side.

[Side-note: Hebrew Studies.]

In spite of all my willingness, I did not get at the matter without
difficulty, for my teacher could not suppress certain sarcastic remarks
as to the real truth about Hebrew. I concealed from him my designs
upon Jew-German, and spoke of a better understanding of the original
text. He smiled at this, and said I should be satisfied if I only
learned to read. This vexed me in secret, and I concentrated all my
attention when we came to the letters. I found an alphabet something
like the Greek, of which the forms were easy, and the names, for the
most part, not strange to me. All this I had soon comprehended and
retained, and supposed we should now go to reading. That this was done
from right to left I was well aware. But now, all at once appeared a
new army of little characters and signs, of points and strokes of all
sorts, which were in fact to represent vowels. At this I wondered the
more, as there were manifestly vowels in the larger alphabet, and the
others only appeared to be hidden under strange appellations. It was
also taught, that the Jewish nation, so long as it flourished, actually
were satisfied with the first signs, and knew no other way to write
and read. Most willingly then would I have gone on along this ancient,
and, as it seemed to me, easier path; but my worthy declared rather
sternly, that we must go by the grammar as it had been approved and
composed. Reading without these points and strokes, he said, was a
very hard undertaking, and could be accomplished only by the learned,
and those who were well practised. I must therefore make up my mind to
learn these little characters; but the matter became to me more and
more confused. Now, it seemed, some of the first and larger primitive
letters had no value in their places, in order that their little
after-born kindred might not stand there in vain. Now they indicated
a gentle breathing, now a guttural more or less rough, and now served
as mere equivalents. But, finally, when one fancied that one had well
noted everything, some of these personages, both great and small, were
rendered inoperative, so that the eyes always had very much, and the
lips very little to do.

As that of which I already knew the contents had now to be stuttered
in a strange gibberish, in which a certain snuffle and gargle were
not a little commended as something unattainable, I in a certain
degree deviated from the matter, and diverted myself in a childish
way with the singular names of these accumulated signs. There were
"emperors," "kings," and "dukes,"[2] which, as accents, governing here
and there, gave me not a little entertainment. But even these shallow
jests soon lost their charm. Nevertheless, I was indemnified, inasmuch
as by reading, translating, repeating, and committing to memory,
the substance of the book came out more vividly, and it was this,
properly, about which I desired to be enlightened. Even before this
time the contradiction between tradition and the actual and possible
had appeared to me very striking, and I had often put my private tutors
to a non-plus with the sun which stood still on Gibeon, and the moon
in the vale of Ajalon, to say nothing of other improbabilities and
incongruities. Everything of this kind was now awakened, while, in
order to master the Hebrew, I occupied myself exclusively with the Old
Testament, and studied it, though no longer in Luther's translation,
but in the literal version of Sebastian Schmid, printed under the
text which my father had procured for me. Here, unfortunately, our
lessons began to be defective, so far as practice in the language
was concerned. Reading, interpreting, grammar, transcribing, and the
repetition of words, seldom lasted a full half hour; for I immediately
began to aim at the sense of the matter, and, though we were still
engaged in the first book of Moses, to utter several things suggested
to me by the later books. At first the good old man tried to restrain
me from such digressions, but at last they seemed to entertain him
also. It was impossible for him to suppress his characteristic
cough and chuckle, and although he carefully avoided giving me any
information that might have compromised himself, my importunity was
not relaxed; nay, as I cared more to set forth my doubts than to learn
their solution, I grew constantly more vivacious and bold, seeming
justified by his deportment. Yet I could get nothing out of him, except
that ever and anon he would exclaim, with his peculiar shaking laugh,
"Ah! mad fellow! ah! mad boy!"

Still, my childish vivacity, which scrutinized the Bible on all
sides, may have seemed to him tolerably serious and worthy of some
assistance. He therefore referred me, after a time, to the large
English Biblical work which stood in his library, and in which the
interpretation of difficult and doubtful passages was attempted in
an intelligent and judicious manner. By the great labours of German
divines the translation had obtained advantages over the original. The
different opinions were cited, and at last a kind of reconciliation was
attempted, so that the dignity of the book, the ground of religion, and
the human understanding might in some degree co-exist. Now, is often
as towards the end of the lesson I came out with my usual questions
and doubts, so often did be point to the repository. I took the volume,
he let me read, turned over his Lucian, and when I made any remarks on
the book, his ordinary laugh was the only answer to my sagacity. In
the long summer days he let me sit as long as I could read, many times
alone; after a time he suffered me to take one volume after another
home with me.

[Side-note: The Old Testament.]

A man may turn whither he pleases, and undertake anything whatsoever,
but he will always return to the path which nature has once prescribed
for him. Thus it happened also with me in the present case. My trouble
about the language, about the contents of the Sacred Scriptures
themselves, ended at last in producing in my imagination a livelier
picture of that beautiful and famous land, its environs and its
vicinities, as well as of the people and events by which that little
spot of earth was made glorious for thousands of years.

This small space was to see the origin and growth of the human race;
thence we were to derive our first and only accounts of primitive
history; and such a locality was to lie before our imagination, no less
simple and comprehensible than varied and adapted to the most wonderful
migrations and settlements. Here, between four designated rivers, a
small delightful spot was separated from the whole habitable earth,
for youthful man. Here he was to unfold his first capacities, and
here at the same time was the lot to befall him, which was appointed
for all his posterity, namely, that of losing peace by striving after
knowledge. Paradise was trifled away; men increased and grew worse;
and the Elohim, not yet accustomed to the wickedness of the new race,
became impatient and utterly destroyed it. Only a few were saved from
the universal deluge; and scarcely had this dreadful flood ceased, than
the well known ancestral soil lay once more before the grateful eyes of
the preserved.

Two rivers out of four, the Euphrates and Tigris, still flowed in their
beds. The name of the first remained; the other seemed to be pointed
out by its course. Minuter traces of Paradise were not to be looked for
after so great a revolution. The renewed race of man went forth from
hence a second time; it found occasion to sustain and employ itself in
all sorts of ways, but chiefly to gather around it large herds of tame
animals and to wander with them in every direction.

This mode of life, as well as the increase of the families, soon
compelled the people to disperse. They could not at once resolve
to let their relatives and friends go for ever; they hit upon the
thought of building a lofty tower which should show them the way back
from the far distance. But this attempt, like their first endeavour,
miscarried. They could not be at the same time happy and wise, numerous
and united. The Elohim confounded their minds--the building remained
unfinished--the men were dispersed--the world was peopled, but sundered.

But our regards, our interests, are still fastened to these regions.
At last the founder of a race again goes forth from hence, and is so
fortunate as to stamp a distinct character upon his descendants, and
by that means to unite them for all time to come into a great nation,
inseparable through all changes of place or destiny.

[Side-note: The Old Testament.]

From the Euphrates, Abraham, not without divine guidance, wanders
towards the west. The desert opposes no invincible barrier to his
march. He attains the Jordan, passes over its waters, and spreads
himself over the fair southern regions of Palestine. This land was
already occupied, and tolerably inhabited. Mountains, not extremely
high, but rocky and barren, were severed by many watered vales
favourable to cultivation. Towns, villages, and solitary settlements
lay scattered over the plain and on the slopes of the great valley, the
waters of which are collected in Jordan. Thus inhabited, thus tilled
was the land; but the world was still large enough, and the men were
not so circumspect, necessitous, and active, as to usurp at once the
whole adjacent country. Between their possessions were extended large
spaces, in which grazing herds could freely move in every direction.
In one of these spaces Abraham resides; his brother Lot is near him;
but they cannot long remain in such places. The very condition of a
land, the population of which is now increasing, now decreasing, and
the productions of which are never kept in equilibrium with the wants,
produces unexpectedly a famine, and the stranger suffers alike with the
native, whose own support he has rendered difficult by his accidental
presence. The two Chaldean brothers move onward to Egypt, and thus is
traced out for us the theatre on which, for some thousands of years,
the most important events of the world were to be enacted. From the
Tigris to the Euphrates, from the Euphrates to the Nile, we see the
earth peopled; and this space also is traversed by a well-known,
heaven-beloved man, who has already become worthy to us, moving to
and fro with his goods and cattle, and, in a short time, abundantly
increasing them. The brothers return; but, taught by the distress they
have endured, they determine to part. Both, indeed, tarry in Southern
Canaan; but while Abraham remains at Hebron, near the wood of Mamre,
Lot departs for the valley of Siddim, which, if our imagination is bold
enough to give Jordan a subterranean outlet, so that in place of the
present Dead Sea we should have dry ground, can and must appear like
a second Paradise; a conjecture all the more probable, because the
residents about there, notorious for effeminacy and wickedness, lead
us to infer that they led an easy and luxurious life. Lot lives among
them, but apart.

But Hebron and the wood of Mamre appear to us as the important
place where the Lord speaks with Abraham, and promises him all the
land as far as his eye can reach in four directions. From these
quiet districts, from these shepherd tribes, who can associate with
celestials, entertain them as guests, and hold many conversations with
them, we are compelled to turn our glance once more towards the East,
and to think of the condition of the surrounding world, which on the
whole, perhaps, may have been like that of Canaan.

Families hold together: they unite, and the mode of life of the
tribes is determined by the locality which they have appropriated or
appropriate. On the mountains which send down their waters to the
Tigris, we find warlike populations, who even thus early foreshadow
those world-conquerors and world-rulers--and in a campaign, prodigious
for those times, give us a prelude of future achievements. Chedor
Laomer, king of Elam, has already a mighty influence over his allies.
He reigns a long while; for twelve years before Abraham's arrival in
Canaan, he had made all the people tributary to him as far as the
Jordan. They revolted at last, and the allies equipped for war. We
find them unawares upon a route by which probably Abraham also reached
Canaan. The people on the left and lower side of the Jordan were
subdued. Chedor Laomer directs his march southwards towards the people
of the Desert, then wending north, he smites the Amalekites, and when
he has also overcome the Amorites, he reaches Canaan, falls upon the
kings of the valley of Siddim, smites and scatters them, and marches
with great spoil up the Jordan, in order to extend his conquests as far
as Lebanon.

Among the captives, despoiled and dragged along with their property,
is Lot, who shares the fate of the country in which he lives a guest.
Abraham learns this, and here at once we behold the patriarch a warrior
and hero. He gathers together his servants, divides them into troops,
attacks and falls upon the luggage of booty, confuses the victors,
who could not suspect another enemy in the rear, and brings back
his brother and his goods, with a great deal more belonging to the
conquered kings. Abraham, by means of this brief contest, acquires, as
it were, the whole land. To the inhabitants he appears as a protector,
saviour, and, by his disinterestedness, a king. Gratefully the kings
of the valley receive him:--Melchisedek, the king and priest, with
blessings.

Now the prophecies of an endless posterity are renewed, nay, they
take a wider and wider scope. From the waters of the Euphrates to the
river of Egypt all the lands are promised him; but yet there seems a
difficulty with respect to his next heirs. He is eighty years of age,
and has no son. Sarai, less trusting in the heavenly powers than he,
becomes impatient; she desires, after the oriental fashion, to have a
descendant by means of her maid. But scarcely is Hagar given up to the
master of the house, scarcely is there hope of a son, than dissensions
arise. The wife treats her own dependent ill enough, and Hagar flies to
seek a happier position among other tribes. She returns, not without a
higher intimation, and Ishmael is born.

Abraham is now ninety-nine years old, and the promises of a numerous
posterity are constantly repeated, so that in the end the pair regard
them as ridiculous. And yet Sarai becomes at last pregnant and brings
forth a son, to whom the name of Isaac is given.

[Side-note: Natural and Revealed Religion.]

History, for the most part, rests upon the legitimate propagation of
the human race. The most important events of the world require to
be traced to the secrets of families: and thus the marriages of the
patriarchs give occasion for peculiar considerations. It is as if
the Divinity, who loves to guide the destiny of mankind, wished to
prefigure here connubial events of every kind. Abraham, so long united
by childless marriage to a beautiful woman whom many coveted, finds
himself, by his hundredth year, the husband of two women, the father of
two sons; and at this moment his domestic peace is broken. Two women,
and two sons by different mothers, cannot possibly agree. The party
less favoured by law, usage, and opinion, must yield. Abraham must
sacrifice his attachment to Hagar and Ishmael. Both are dismissed, and
Hagar is compelled now, against her will, to go upon a road which she
once took in voluntary flight, at first, it seems, to the destruction
of herself and child; but the angel of the Lord, who had before sent
her back, now rescues her again, that Ishmael also may become a great
people, and that the most improbable of all promises may be fulfilled
beyond its limits.

Two parents in advanced years, and one son of their old age--here, at
last, one might expect domestic quiet and earthly happiness. By no
means. Heaven is yet preparing the heaviest trial for the patriarch.
But of this we cannot speak without premising several considerations.

If a natural universal religion was to arise, and a special revealed
one to be developed from it, the countries in which our imagination
has hitherto lingered, the mode of life, the race of men, were the
fittest for the purpose. At least, we do not find in the whole world
anything equally favourable and encouraging. Even to natural religion,
if we assume that it arose earlier in the human mind, there pertains
much of delicacy of sentiment; for it rests upon the conviction of an
universal providence, which conducts the order of the world as a whole.
A particular religion, revealed by Heaven to this or that people,
carries with it the belief in a special providence which the Divine
Being vouchsafes to certain favoured men, families, races, and people.
This faith seems to develope itself with difficulty from man's inward
nature. It requires tradition, usage, and the warrant of a primitive
time.

Beautiful is it, therefore, that the Israelitish tradition represents
the very first men who confide in this particular providence as heroes
of faith, following all the commands of that high Being on whom they
acknowledge themselves dependent, just as blindly as, undisturbed by
doubts, they are unwearied in awaiting the later fulfilments of his
promises.

As a particular revealed religion rests upon the idea that one
man can be more favoured by Heaven than another, so it also arises
pre-eminently from the separation of classes. The first men appeared
closely allied; but their employments soon divided them. The hunter
was the freest of all; from him was developed the warrior and the
ruler. Those who tilled the field bound themselves to the soil, erected
dwellings and barns to preserve what they had gained, and could
estimate themselves pretty highly, because their condition promised
durability and security. The herdsman in his position seemed to have
acquired the most unbounded condition and unlimited property. The
increase of herds proceeded without end, and the space which was to
support them widened itself on all sides. These three classes seemed
from the very first to have regarded each other with dislike and
contempt; and as the herdsman was an abomination to the townsman, so
did he in turn separate from the other. The hunters vanish from our
sight among the hills, and re-appear only as conquerors.

The patriarchs belonged to the shepherd class. Their manner of life
upon the ocean of deserts and pastures, gave breadth and freedom to
their minds; the vault of heaven, under which they dwelt, with all its
nightly stars, elevated their feelings; and they, more than the active,
skilful huntsman, or the secure, careful, householding husbandman, had
need of the immovable faith that a God walked beside them, visited
them, cared for them, guided and saved them.

We are compelled to make another reflection in passing to the rest of
the history. Humane, beautiful, and cheering as the religion of the
patriarchs appears, yet traits of savageness and cruelty run through
it, out of which man may emerge, or into which he may again be sunk.

That hatred should seek to appease itself by the blood, by the death of
the conquered enemy, is natural; that men concluded a peace upon the
battle-field among the ranks of the slain, may easily be conceived;
that they should in like manner think to give validity to a contract
by slain animals, follows from the preceding. The notion also that
slain creatures could attract, propitiate, and gain over the gods, whom
they always looked upon as partisans, either opponents or allies, is
likewise not at all surprising. But if we confine our attention to the
sacrifices, and consider the way in which they were offered in that
primitive time, we find a singular, and, to our notions, altogether
repugnant custom, probably derived from the usages of war, viz., that
the sacrificed animals of every kind, and whatever number was devoted,
had to be hewn in two halves, and laid out on two sides, so that in the
space between them were those who wished to make a covenant with the
Deity.

Another dreadful feature wonderfully and portentously pervades that
fair world, namely, that everything consecrated or vowed must die. This
also was probably an usage of war transferred to peace. The inhabitants
of a city which forcibly defends itself are threatened with such a
vow; it is taken by storm or otherwise. Nothing is left alive;--men
never, and often women, children, and even cattle, share a similar
fate. Such sacrifices are rashly and superstitiously and with more or
less distinctness promised to the gods, and those whom the votary would
willingly spare, even his nearest of kin, his own children, may thus
bleed, the expiatory victims of such a delusion.

[Side-note: The Old Testament.]

In the mild and truly patriarchal character of Abraham, such a savage
kind of worship could not arise; but the Godhead,[3] which often, to
tempt us, seems to put forth those qualities which man is inclined to
assign to it, imposes a monstrous task upon him. He must offer up his
son as a pledge of the new covenant, and, if he follows the usage,
must not only kill and burn him, but cut him in two, and await between
the smoking entrails a new promise from the benignant Deity. Abraham
blindly, and without lingering, prepares to execute the command; to
Heaven the will is sufficient. Abraham's trials are now at an end,
for they could not be carried further. But Sarai dies, and this gives
Abraham an opportunity for taking typical possession of the land of
Canaan. He requires a grave, and this is the first time he looks out
for a possession in this earth. He had before this probably sought
out a two-fold cave by the grove of Mamre. This he purchases with the
adjacent field, and the legal form which he observes on the occasion,
shows how important this possession is to him Indeed it was more so,
perhaps, than he himself supposed; for there he, his sons and his
grandsons, were to rest, and by this means, the proximate title to the
whole land, as well as the everlasting desire of his posterity to
gather themselves there, was most properly grounded.

From this time forth the manifold incidents of the family life become
varied. Abraham still keeps strictly apart from the inhabitants, and
though Ishmael, the son of an Egyptian woman, has married a daughter
of that land, Isaac is obliged to wed a kinswoman of equal birth with
himself.

Abraham despatches his servant to Mesopotamia, to the relatives whom
he had left behind there. The prudent Eleazer arrives unknown, and, in
order to take home the right bride, tries the readiness to serve of
the girls at the well. He asks to drink himself, and Rebecca, unasked,
waters his camels also. He gives her presents, he demands her in
marriage, and his suit is not rejected. He conducts her to the home
of his lord, and she is wedded to Isaac. In this case, too, issue has
to be long expected. Rebecca is not blessed until after some years of
probation, and the same discord which in Abraham's double marriage
arose through two mothers, here proceeds from one. Two boys of opposite
characters wrestle already in their mother's womb. They come to light,
the elder lively and vigorous, the younger gentle and prudent. The
former becomes the father's, the latter the mother's favourite. The
strife for precedence, which begins even at birth, is ever going on.
Esau is quiet and indifferent as to the birthright which fate has given
him; Jacob never forgets that his brother forced him back. Watching
every opportunity of gaining the desirable privilege, he buys the
birthright of his brother, and defrauds him of their father's blessing.
Esau is indignant, and vows his brother's death; Jacob flees to seek
his fortune in the land of his forefathers.

Now, for the first time, in so noble a family appears a member who
has no scruple in attaining by prudence and cunning the advantages
which nature and circumstances have denied him. It has often enough
been remarked and expressed, that the Sacred Scriptures by no means
intend to set up any of the patriarchs and other divinely-favoured
men as models of virtue. They, too, are persons of the most different
characters, with many defects and failings. But there is one leading
trait, in which none of these men after God's own heart can be
wanting--that is, an immovable faith that God has special care of them
and their families.

[Side-note: The Old Testament.]

General, natural religion, properly speaking, requires no faith; for
the persuasion that a great producing, regulating, and conducting
Being conceals himself, as it were, behind Nature, to make himself
comprehensible to us--such a conviction forces itself upon every one.
Nay, if we for a moment let drop this thread, which conducts us through
life, it may be immediately and everywhere resumed. But it is different
with a special religion, which announces to us that this Great Being
distinctly and pre-eminently interests himself for one individual, one
family, one people, one country. This religion is founded on faith,
which must be immovable if it would not be instantly destroyed. Every
doubt of such a religion is fatal to it. One may return to conviction,
but not to faith. Hence the endless probation, the delay in the
fulfilment of so often repeated promises, by which the capacity for
faith in those ancestors is set in the clearest light.

It is in this faith also that Jacob begins his expedition, and if by
his craft and deceit he has not gained our affections, he wins them by
his lasting and inviolable love for Rachel, whom he himself woos on
the instant, as Eleazar had courted Rebecca for his father. In him the
promise of a countless people was first to be fully unfolded; he was
to see many sons around him, but through them and their mothers was to
endure manifold sorrows of heart.

Seven years he serves for his beloved, without impatience and without
wavering. His father-in-law, crafty like himself, and disposed, like
him, to consider legitimate this means to an end, deceives him, and so
repays him for what he has done to his brother. Jacob finds in his arms
a wife whom he does not love. Laban, indeed, endeavours to appease him,
by giving him his beloved also after a short time, and this but on the
condition of seven years of further service. Vexation arises out of
vexation. The wife he does not love is fruitful, the beloved one bears
no children. The latter, like Sarai, desires to become a mother through
her handmaiden; the former grudges her even this advantage. She also
presents her husband with a maid; but the good patriarch is now the
most troubled man in the world--he has four women, children by three,
and none from her he loves. Finally she also is favoured, and Joseph
tomes into the world, the late fruit of the most passionate attachment.
Jacob's fourteen years of service are over, but Laban is unwilling to
part with him, his chief and most trusty servant. They enter into a new
compact, and portion the flocks between them. Laban retains the white
ones as most numerous, Jacob has to put up with the spotted ones, as
the mere refuse. But he is able here too to secure his own advantage;
and as by a paltry mess (_of pottage_) he had procured the birthright,
and by a disguise his father's blessing, he manages by art and sympathy
to appropriate to himself the best and largest part of the herds; and
on this side also he becomes the truly worthy progenitor of the people
of Israel, and a model for his descendants. Laban and his household
remark the result, if not the stratagem. Vexation ensues; Jacob flees
with his family and goods, and partly by fortune, partly by cunning,
escapes the pursuit of Laban. Rachel is now about to present him
another son, but dies in the travail: Benjamin, the child of sorrow,
survives her; but the aged father is to experience a still greater
sorrow from the apparent loss of his son Joseph.

       *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps some one may ask why I have so circumstantially narrated
histories so universally known and so often repeated and explained. Let
the inquirer be satisfied with the answer, that I could in no other
way exhibit, how with my distracted life and desultory education, I
concentrated my mind and feelings in quiet action on one point; that
I was able in no other way to depict the peace that prevailed about
me, even when all without was so wild and strange. If an ever busy
imagination, of which that tale may bear witness, led me hither and
thither, if the medley of fable and history, mythology and religion,
threatened to bewilder me, I readily fled to those oriental regions,
plunged into the first books of Moses, and there, amid the scattered
shepherd-tribes, found myself at once in the greatest solitude and the
greatest society.

[Side-note: History of Joseph.]

These family scenes, before they were to lose themselves in a history
of the Jewish nation, show us now, in conclusion, a form by which the
hopes and fancies of the young in particular are agreeably excited:
Joseph, the child of the most passionate wedded love. He seems to us
tranquil and clear, and predicts to himself the advantages which are to
elevate him above his family. Cast into misfortune by his brothers, he
remains steadfast and upright in slavery, resists the most dangerous
temptations, rescues himself by prophecy, and is elevated according
to his deserts to high honours. He shows himself first serviceable
and useful to a great kingdom, then to his own kindred. He is like
his ancestor Abraham in repose and greatness, his grandfather Isaac
in silence and devotedness. The talent for traffic inherited from his
father he exercises on a large scale. It is no longer flocks which are
gained for himself from a father-in-law, but people, with all their
possessions, which he knows how to purchase for a king. Extremely
graceful is this natural story, only it appears too short, and one
feels called upon to paint it in detail.

Such a filling-up of biblical characters and events given only in
outline, was no longer strange to the Germans. The personages of both
the Old and New Testaments had received through Klopstock a tender and
affectionate nature, highly pleasing to the Boy as well as to many
of his contemporaries. Of Bodmer's efforts in this line little or
nothing came to him; but _Daniel in the Lion's Den_, by Moser, made
a great impression on the young heart. In that work a right-minded
man of business and courtier arrives at high honours through manifold
tribulations, and the piety for which they threatened to destroy him
became early and late his sword and buckler. It had long seemed to
me desirable to work out the history of Joseph, but I could not get
on with the form, particularly as I was conversant with no kind of
versification which would have been adapted to such a work. But now I
found a treatment of it in prose very suitable, and I applied all my
strength to its execution. I now endeavoured to discriminate and paint
the characters, and by the interpolation of incidents and episodes,
to make the old simple history a new and independent work. I did not
consider, what, indeed, youth cannot consider, that subject-matter
was necessary to such a design, and that this could only arise by the
perceptions of experience. Suffice, it to say, that I represented to
myself all the incidents down to the minutest details, and narrated
them accurately to myself in their succession.

What greatly lightened this labour was a circumstance which threatened
to render this work, and my authorship in general, exceedingly
voluminous. A young man of various capacities, but who had become
imbecile from over exertion and conceit, resided as a ward in my
father's house, lived quietly with the family, and if allowed to go
on in his usual way, was contented and agreeable. He had with great
care written out notes of his academical course, and had acquired a
rapid legible hand. He liked to employ himself in writing better than
in anything else, and was pleased when something was given him to
copy; but still more when he was dictated to, because he then felt
carried back to his happy academical years. To my father, who was
not expeditious in writing, and whose German letters were small and
tremulous, nothing could be more desirable, and he was consequently
accustomed, in the conduct of his own and other business, to dictate
for some hours a day to this young man. I found it no less convenient,
during the intervals, to see all that passed through my head fixed
upon paper by the hand of another, and my natural gift of feeling and
imitation grew with the facility of catching up and preserving.

As yet I had not undertaken any work so large as that biblical
prose-epic. The times were tolerably quiet, and nothing recalled my
imagination from Palestine and Egypt. Thus my manuscripts swelled more
and more every day, as the poem, which I recited to myself, as it were,
in the air, stretched along the paper; and only a few pages from time
to time needed to be rewritten.

When the work was done--for to my own astonishment it really came to an
end--I reflected that from former year, many poems were extant, which
did not even now appear to me utterly despicable, and which, if written
together in the same size with JOSEPH, would make a very neat quarto,
to which the title "Miscellaneous Poems" might be given. I was pleased
with this, as it gave me an opportunity of quietly imitating well-known
and celebrated authors. I had composed a good number of so-called
Anacreontic poems, which, on account of the convenience of the metre
and the easiness of the subject, flowed forth readily enough. But these
I could not well take, as they were not in rhyme, and my desire before
all things was to show my father something that would please him. So
much the more, therefore, did the spiritual odes seem suitable, which
I had very zealously attempted in imitation of the _Last Judgment_
of Elias Schlegel. One of these, written to celebrate the descent of
Christ into hell, received much applause from my parents and friends,
and had the good fortune to please myself for some years afterwards.
The so-called texts of the Sunday church-music, which were always to be
had printed, I studied with diligence. They were, indeed, very weak,
and I could well believe that my verses, of which I had composed many
in the prescribed manner, were equally worthy of being set to music,
and performed for the edification of the congregation. These and many
like them I had for more than a year before copied with my own hand,
because through this private exercise I was released from the copies of
the writing-master. Now, all were corrected and put in order, and no
great persuasion was needed to have them neatly copied by the young man
who was so fond of writing. I hastened with them to the bookbinder, and
when very soon after I handed the nice-looking volume to my father, he
encouraged me with peculiar satisfaction to furnish a similar quarto
every year; which he did with the greater conviction, as I had produced
the whole in my spare moments alone.

[Side-note: Plitt's Sermons.]

Another circumstance increased my tendency to these theological, or
rather biblical studies. The senior of the ministry, JOHN PHILIP
FRESENIUS, a mild man, of handsome, agreeable appearance, who was
respected by his congregation and the whole city as an exemplary
pastor and good preacher, but who, because he stood forth against the
Herrnhuters, was not in the best odour with the peculiarly pious;
while, on the other hand, he had made himself famous, and almost
sacred, with the multitude, by the conversion of a free-thinking
General who had been mortally wounded--this man died, and his
successor, Plitt, a tall, handsome, dignified man, who brought from
his _Chair_ (he had been a Professor in Marburg) the gift of teaching
rather than of edifying, immediately announced a sort of religious
course, to which his sermons were to be devoted in a certain methodical
connexion. I had already, as I was compelled to go to church, remarked
the distribution of the subject, and could now and then show myself
off by a pretty complete recitation of a sermon. But now as much was
said in the congregation, both for and against the new senior, and
many placed no great confidence in his announced didactic sermons,
I undertook to write them out more carefully, and I succeeded the
better from having made smaller attempts in a seat very convenient for
hearing, but concealed from sight. I was extremely attentive and on the
alert; the moment he said Amen I hastened from the church and consumed
a couple of hours in rapidly dictating what I had fixed in my memory
and on paper, so that I could hand in the written sermon before dinner.
My father was very proud of this success, and the good friend of the
family, who had just come in to dinner, also shared in the joy. Indeed,
this friend was very well-disposed to me, because I had so made his
_Messiah_ my own, that in my repeated visits to him to get impressions
of seals for my collection of coats-of-arms, I could recite long
passages from it till the tears stood in his eyes.

The next Sunday I prosecuted the work with equal zeal, and as the
mechanical part of it mainly interested me, I did not reflect upon
what I wrote and preserved. During the first quarter these efforts
may have continued pretty much the same; but as I fancied at last,
in my self-conceit, that I found no particular enlightenment as to
the Bible, nor clearer insight into dogmas, the small vanity which
was thus gratified seemed to me too dearly purchased for me to pursue
the matter with the same zeal. The sermons, once so many-leaved, grew
more and more meagre; and before long I should have relinquished this
labour altogether, if my father, who was a fast friend to completeness,
had not, by words and promises, induced me to persevere till the last
Sunday in Trinity--though, at the conclusion, scarcely more than the
text, the statement, and the divisions were scribbled on little pieces
of paper.

My father was particularly pertinacious on this point of completeness.
What was once undertaken must be finished, even if the inconvenience,
tedium, vexation, nay, uselessness of the thing begun were plainly
manifested in the meantime. It seemed as if he regarded completeness
as the only end, and perseverance as the only virtue. If in our family
circle, in the long winter evenings, we had begun to read a book aloud,
we were compelled to finish, though we were all in despair about it,
and my father himself was the first to yawn. I still remember such a
winter when we had thus to work our way through Bower's _History of
the Popes._ It was a terrible time, as little or nothing that occurs
in ecclesiastical affairs can interest children and young people.
Still, with all my inattention and repugnance, so much of that reading
remained in my mind that I was able, in after times, to take up many
threads of the narrative.

[Side-note: Lessons in Fencing.]

Amid all these heterogeneous occupations and labours, which followed
each other so rapidly that one could hardly reflect whether they
were permissible and useful, my father did not lose sight of the
main object. He endeavoured to direct my memory and my talent for
apprehending and combining to objects of jurisprudence, and therefore
gave me a small book by Hopp, in the shape of a catechism, and worked
up according to the form and substance of the Institutions. I soon
learned questions and answers by heart, and could represent the
catechist as well as the catechumen; and, as in religious instruction
at that time, one of the chief exercises was to find passages in the
Bible as readily as possible, so here a similar acquaintance with the
_Corpus Juris_ was found necessary, in which, also, I soon became
completely versed. My father wished me to go on, and the little STRUVE
was taken in hand; but here affairs did not proceed so rapidly. The
form of the work was not so favourable for beginners, that they could
help themselves on, nor was my father's method of illustration so
liberal as greatly to interest me.

Not only by the warlike state in which we lived for some years, but
also by civil life itself, and the perusal of history and romances, was
it made clear to me that there were many cases in which the laws are
silent and give no help to the individual, who must then see how to get
out of the difficulty by himself. We had now reached the period when,
according to the old routine, we were, besides other things, to learn
to fence and ride, that we might guard our skins upon occasion, and
have no pedantic appearance on horseback. As to the first, the practice
was very agreeable to us; for we had already, long ago, contrived to
make broad-swords out of hazel-sticks, with basket-hilts, neatly woven
of willow, to protect the hands. Now we might get real steel blades,
and the clash we made with them was very merry.

There were two fencing-masters in the city: an old earnest German,
who went to work in a severe and solid style, and a Frenchman, who
sought to gain his advantage by advancing and retreating, and by light
fugitive thrusts, which he always accompanied by cries. Opinions varied
as to whose manner was the best. The little company with which I was
to take lessons sided with the Frenchman, and we speedily accustomed
ourselves to move backwards and forwards, make passes and recover,
always breaking out into the usual exclamations. But several of our
acquaintance bad gone to the German teacher, and practised precisely
the opposite. These distinct modes of treating so important an
exercise, the conviction of each that his master was the best, really
caused a dissension among the young people, who were of about the same
age, and the fencing-schools occasioned serious battles,--for there
was almost as much fighting with words as with swords; and to decide
the matter in the end, a trial of skill between the two teachers
was arranged, the consequences of which I need not circumstantially
describe. The German stood in his position like a wall, watched his
opportunity, and contrived to disarm his opponent over and over again
with his cut and thrust. The latter maintained that this mattered not,
and proceeded to exhaust the other's wind by his agility. He fetched
the German several lunges, too, which, however, if they had been in
earnest, would have sent himself into the next world.

On the whole, nothing was decided or improved, except that some went
over to our countryman, of whom I was one. But I had already acquired
too much from the first master; and hence a considerable time elapsed
before the new one could break me of it, who was altogether less
satisfied with us renegades than with his original pupils.

As to riding, it fared still worse with me. It happened that they
sent me to the course in the autumn, so that I commenced in the
cool and damp season. The pedantic treatment of this noble art was
highly repugnant to me. From first to last the whole talk was about
sitting the horse, and yet no one could say in what a proper sitting
consisted, though all depended on that; for they went to and fro on
the horse-without stirrups. Moreover, the instruction seemed contrived
only for cheating and degrading the scholars. If one forgot to hook
or loosen the curb-chain, or let his switch fall down, or even his
hat,--every delay, every misfortune, had to be atoned for by money,
and one was even laughed at besides. This put me in the worst of
humours, particularly when I found the place of exercise itself quite
intolerable. The great nasty space, either wet or dusty, the cold, the
mouldy smell, all together was in the highest degree repugnant to me;
and since the stable-master always gave the others the best and me the
worst horses to ride, perhaps because they bribed him by breakfasts
and other gifts, or even by their own cleverness; since he kept me
waiting, and, as it seemed, slighted me, I spent the most disagreeable
hours in an employment that ought to have been the most pleasant in
the world. Nay, the impression of that time and of these circumstances
has remained with me so vividly, that although I afterwards became a
passionate and daring rider, and for days and weeks together scarcely
got off my horse, I carefully shunned covered riding-courses, and
at least passed only a few moments in them. The case often happens
that when the elements of an exclusive art are taught us, this is
done in a painful and revolting manner. The conviction that this is
both wearisome and injurious, has given rise in later times to the
educational maxim, that the young must be taught everything in an easy,
cheerful, and agreeable way: from which, however, other evils and
disadvantages have proceeded.

With the approach of spring, times became again more quiet with us, and
if in earlier days I had endeavoured to obtain a sight of the city, its
ecclesiastical, civil, public and private structures, and especially
found great delight in the still prevailing antiquities, I afterwards
endeavoured, by means of Lersner's _Chronicle_, and other Frankfortian
books and pamphlets belonging to my father, to revive the persons of
past times. This seemed to me to be well attained by great attention
to the peculiarities of times and manners, and of distinguished
individuals.

[Side-note: The Rebel Fettmilch.]

Among the ancient remains, that which, from my childhood, had been
remarkable to me, was the skull of a state criminal, fastened up on
the tower of the bridge, who, out of three or four, as the naked
iron spikes showed, had, since 1616, been preserved in spite of
the encroachments of time and weather. Whenever one returned from
Sachsenhausen to Frankfort, one had this tower before one, and the
skull was directly in view. As a boy, I liked to hear related the
history of these rebels--Fettmilch and his confederates--how they had
become dissatisfied with the government of the city, had risen up
against it, plotted a mutiny, plundered the Jews' quarter, and excited
a fearful riot, but were at last captured, and condemned to death by
a deputy of the emperor. Afterwards I felt anxious to know the most
minute circumstance, and to hear what sort of people they were. When
from an old contemporary book, ornamented with woodcuts, I learned that
while these men had indeed been condemned to death, many councillors
had at the same time been deposed, because various kinds of disorder
and very much that was unwarrantable was then going on; when I heard
the nearer particulars now all took place, I pitied the unfortunate
persons who might be regarded as sacrifices made for a future better
constitution. For from that time was dated the regulation which allows
the noble old house of Limpurg, the Frauenstein-house, sprung from a
club, besides lawyers, tradespeople, and artisans, to take a part in a
government, which, completed by a system of ballot, complicated in the
Venetian fashion, and restricted by the civil colleges, was called to
do right, without acquiring any special privilege to do wrong.

Among the things which excited the misgivings of the Boy, and even of
the youth, was especially the state of the Jewish quarter of the city
(_Judenstadt_), properly called the Jew-street (_Judengasse_), as it
consisted of little more than a single street, which in early times may
have been hemmed in between the walls and trenches of the town, as in a
prison (_Zwinger._) The closeness, the filth, the crowd, the accent of
an unpleasant language, altogether made a most disagreeable impression,
even if one only looked in as one passed the gate. It was long before I
ventured in alone, and I did not return there readily, when I had once
escaped the importunities of so many men unwearied in demanding and
offering to traffic. At the same time the old legends of the cruelty
of the Jews towards Christian children, which we had seen hideously
illustrated in Gottfried's _Chronicle_, hovered gloomily before my
young mind. And although they were thought better of in modern times,
the large caricature, still to be seen, to their disgrace, on an arched
wall under the bridge tower, bore extraordinary witness against them;
for it had been made, not through private ill-will, but by public order.

However, they still remained, nevertheless, the chosen people of God,
and passed, no matter how it came about, as a memorial of the most
ancient times. Besides, they also were men, active and obliging, and
even to the tenacity with which they clung to their peculiar customs,
one could not refuse one's respect. The girls, moreover, were pretty,
and were far from displeased when a Christian lad, meeting them on
the sabbath in the Fischerfeld, showed himself kindly and attentive.
I was consequently extremely curious to become acquainted with their
ceremonies. I did not desist until I had frequently visited their
school, had assisted at a circumcision and a wedding, and had formed
a notion of the Feast of the Tabernacles. Everywhere I was well
received, pleasantly entertained, and invited to come again; for they
were persons of influence by whom I had been either introduced or
recommended.

[Side-note: Public Burning of a Book.]

Thus, as a young resident in a large city, I was thrown about from one
object to another, and horrible scenes were not wanting in the midst of
the municipal quiet and security. Sometimes a more or less remote fire
aroused us from our domestic peace, sometimes the discovery of a great
crime, with its investigation and punishment, set the whole city in
an uproar for many weeks. We were forced to be witnesses of different
executions; and it is worth remembering, that I was also once present
at the burning of a book. The publication was a French comic romance,
which indeed spared the state, but not religion and manners. There was
really something dreadful in seeing punishment inflicted on a lifeless
thing. The packages burst asunder in the fire, and were raked apart
by an oven-fork, to be brought in closer contact with the flames. It
was not long before the kindled sheets were wafted about in the air,
and the crowd caught at them with eagerness. Nor could we rest until
we had hunted up a copy, while not a few managed likewise to procure
the forbidden pleasure. Nay, if it had been done to give the author
publicity, he could not himself have made a more effectual provision.

But there were also more peaceable inducements which took me about in
every part of the city. My father had early accustomed me to manage for
him his little affairs of business. He charged me particularly to stir
up the labourers whom he set to work, as they commonly kept him waiting
longer than was proper; because he wished everything done accurately,
and was used in the end to lower the price for a prompt payment. In
this way, I gained access to all the workshops; and as it was natural
to me to enter into the condition of others, to feel every species of
human existence, and sympathize in it with pleasure, these commissions
were to me the occasion of many most delightful hours, and I learned
to know every one's method of proceeding, and what joy and sorrow, what
advantages and hardships, were incident to the indispensable conditions
of this or that mode of life. I was thus brought nearer to that active
class which connects the lower and upper classes. For, if on the one
side stand those who are employed in the simple and rude products, and
on the other those who desire to enjoy something that has been already
worked up; the manufacturer, with his skill and hand, is the mediator
through whom the other two receive something from each other; each is
enabled to gratify his wishes in his own way. The household economy of
many crafts, which took its form and colour from the occupation, was
likewise an object of my quiet attention; and thus was developed and
strengthened in me the feeling of the equality, if not of all men, yet
of all human conditions,--the mere fact of existence seeming to me the
main point, and all the rest indifferent and accidental.

As my father did not readily allow himself an expense which would be
at once consumed in a momentary enjoyment--as I can scarcely call to
mind that we ever took a walk together, and spent anything in a place
of amusement,--he was, on the other hand, not niggardly in procuring
such things as had a good external appearance in addition to inward
value. No one could desire peace more than he, although he had not
felt the smallest inconvenience during the last days of the war. With
this feeling, he had promised my mother a gold snuffbox, set with
diamonds, which she was to receive as soon as peace should be publicly
declared. In the expectation of the happy event, they had laboured
now for some years on this present. The box, which was tolerably
large, had been executed in Hanau, for my father was on good terms
with the gold-workers there, as well as with the heads of the silk
establishments. Many designs were made for it; the cover was adorned by
a basket of flowers, over which hovered a dove with the olive-branch.
A vacant space was left for the jewels, which were to be set partly in
the dove and partly on the spot where the box is usually opened. The
jeweller to whom the execution and the requisite stones were entrusted
was named Lautensak, and was a brisk, skilful man, who like many
artists, seldom did what was necessary, but usually works of caprice,
which gave him pleasure. The jewels were very soon set, in the shape
in which they were to be put upon the box, on some black wax, and
looked very well; but they would not come off to be transferred to the
gold. In the outset, my father let the matter rest; but as the hope of
peace became livelier, and finally when the stipulations--particularly
the elevation of the Archduke Joseph to the Roman throne--seemed more
precisely known, he grew more and more impatient, and I had to go
several times a week, nay, at last, almost daily, to visit the tardy
artist. By means of my unremitted teazing and exhortation, the work
went on, though slowly enough; for as it was of that kind which can
be taken in hand or laid aside at will, there was always something by
which it was thrust out of the way, and put aside.

[Side-note: Lautensak's Bouquet.]

The chief cause of this conduct, however, was a task which the artist
had undertaken on his own account. Everybody knew that the Emperor
Francis cherished a strong liking for jewels, and especially for
coloured stones. Lautensak had expended a considerable sum, and as
it afterwards turned out larger than his means, on such gems, out of
which he had begun to shape a nosegay, in which every stone was to
be tastefully disposed, according to its shape and colour, and the
whole form a work of art worthy to stand in the treasure-vaults of
an emperor. He had, in his desultory way, laboured for many years
upon it, and now hastened--because after the hoped-for peace the
arrival of the Emperor, for the coronation of his son, was expected in
Frankfort--to complete it and finally to put it together. My desire
to become acquainted with such things he used very dexterously in
order to distract me as a bearer of threats, and to lead me away from
my intention. He strove to impart a knowledge of these stones to me,
and made me attentive to their properties and value, so in the end I
knew his whole bouquet by heart, and quite as well as he could have
demonstrated its virtues to a customer. It is even now before me, and
I have since seen more costly, but not more graceful specimens of
show and magnificence in this sort. He possessed, moreover, a pretty
collection of engravings, and other works of art, with which he liked
to amuse himself; and I passed many hours with him, not without profit.
Finally, when the Congress of Hubertsburg was finally fixed, he did
for my sake more than was due; and the dove and flowers actually
reached my mother's hands on the festival in celebration of the peace.

I then received also many similar commissions to urge on painters with
respect to pictures which had been ordered. My father had confirmed
himself in the notion--and few men were free from it--that a picture
painted on wood was greatly to be preferred to one that was merely put
on canvas. It was therefore his great care to possess good oak boards,
of every shape, because he well knew that just on this important point
the more careless artists trusted to the joiners. The oldest planks
were hunted up, the joiners were obliged to go accurately to work with
gluing, painting, and arranging, and they were then kept for years in
an upper room, where they could be sufficiently dried. A precious board
of this kind was intrusted to the painter JUNKER, who was to represent
on it an ornamental flower-pot, with the most important flowers drawn
after nature in his artistic and elegant manner. It was just about
the spring-time, and I did not fail to take him several times a week
the most beautiful flowers that fell in my way, which he immediately
put in, and by degrees composed the whole out of these elements with
the utmost care and fidelity. On one occasion I had caught a mouse,
which I took to him, and which he desired to copy as a very pretty
animal; nay, really represented it, as accurately as possible, gnawing
an ear of corn at the foot of the flower-pot. Many such inoffensive
natural objects, such as butterflies and chafers, were brought in and
represented, so that finally, as far as imitation and execution were
concerned, a highly valuable picture was put together.

Hence I was not a little astonished when the good man formally declared
one day, when the work was just about to be delivered, that the picture
no longer pleased him,--since, while it had turned out quite well in
its details, it was not well composed as a whole, because it had been
produced in this gradual manner; and he had perpetrated a blunder in
the outset, in not at least devising a general plan for light and
shade, as well as for colour, according to which the single flowers
might have been arranged. He examined with me the minutest parts of the
picture, which had arisen before my eyes during a half year, and had
in many respects pleased me, and managed to convince me perfectly,
much to my regret. Even the copy of the mouse he regarded as a mistake;
for many persons, he said, have a sort of horror of such animals, and
they should not be introduced where the object is to excite pleasure.
As it commonly happens with those who are cured of a prejudice, and
imagine themselves much more knowing than they were before, I now had
a real contempt for this work of art, and agreed perfectly with the
artist when he caused to be prepared another tablet of the same size,
on which, according to his taste, he painted a better formed vessel
and a more artistically arranged nosegay, and also managed to select
and distribute the little living accessories in an ornamental and
agreeable way. This tablet also he painted with the greatest care,
though altogether after the former copied one, or from memory, which,
through a very long and assiduous practice, came to his aid. Both
paintings were now ready, and we were thoroughly delighted with the
last, which was certainly the more artistic and striking of the two. My
father was surprised with two pictures instead of one, and to him the
choice was left. He approved of our opinion, and of the reasons for it,
and especially of our good-will and activity; but, after considering
both pictures some days, decided in favour of the first, without saying
much about the motives of his choice. The artist, in an ill-humour,
took back his second well-meant picture, and could not refrain from the
remark that the good oaken tablet on which the first was painted had
certainly its effect on my father's decision.

[Side-note: Oil-Cloth Factory.]

Now I am again speaking of painting, I am reminded of a large
establishment, where I passed much time, because both it and its
managers especially attracted me. It was the great oil-cloth factory
which the painter NOTHNAGEL had erected; an expert artist, but one who
by his mode of thought inclined more to manufacture than to art. In a
very large space of courts and gardens, all sorts of oil-cloths were
made, from the coarsest that are spread with a trowel, and used for
baggage-wagons and similar purposes, and the carpets impressed with
figures, to the finer and the finest, on which sometimes Chinese and
grotesque, sometimes natural flowers, sometimes figures, sometimes
landscapes were represented by the pencils of accomplished workmen.
This multiplicity, to which there was no end, amused me vastly. The
occupation of so many men, from the commonest labour to that in which
a certain artistic worth could not be denied, was to me extremely
attractive. I made the acquaintance of this multitude of younger
and older men, working in several rooms one behind the other, and
occasionally lent a hand myself. The sale of these commodities was
extraordinarily brisk. Whoever at that time was building or furnishing
a house, wished to provide for his lifetime, and this oil-cloth
carpeting was certainly quite indestructible. Nothnagel had enough to
do in managing the whole, and sat in his office surrounded by factors
and clerks. The remainder of his time he employed in his collection of
works of art, consisting chiefly of engravings, in which, as well as in
the pictures he possessed, he traded occasionally. At the same time he
had acquired a taste for etching; he etched a variety of plates, and
prosecuted this branch of art even into his latest years.

As his dwelling lay near the Eschenheim gate, my way when I had
visited him led me out of the city to some pieces of ground which
my father owned beyond the gates. One was a large orchard, the soil
of which was used as a meadow, and in which my father carefully
attended the transplanting of trees, and whatever else pertained to
their preservation, though the ground itself was leased. Still more
occupation was furnished by a very well-preserved vineyard beyond the
Friedberg gate, where between the rows of vines, rows of asparagus were
planted and tended with great care. Scarcely a day passed in the fine
season in which my father did not go there, and as on these occasions
we might generally accompany him, we were provided with joy and delight
from the earliest productions of spring to the last of autumn. We also
learned to occupy ourselves with gardening matters, which, as they were
repeated every year, became in the end perfectly known and familiar to
us. But after the manifold fruits of summer and autumn, the vintage
at last was the most lively and the most desirable: nay, there is no
question that as wine gives a freer character to the very places and
districts where it is grown and drunk, so also do these vintage-days,
while they close summer and at the same time open the winter, diffuse
an incredible cheerfulness. Joy and jubilation pervade a whole
district. In the daytime, huzzas and shoutings are heard from every end
and corner, and at night rockets and fire-balls, now here, now there,
announce that the people, everywhere awake and lively, would willingly
make this festival last as long as possible. The subsequent labour at
the wine-press, and during the fermentation in the cellar, gave us also
a cheerful employment at home, and thus we ordinarily reached winter
without being properly aware of it.

These rural possessions delighted us so much the more in the spring of
1763, as the 15th of February in that year was celebrated as a festival
day, on account of the conclusion of the Hubertsberg peace, under the
happy results of which the greater part of my life was to flow away.
But before I go further, I think I am bound to mention some men who
exerted an important influence on my youth.

[Side-note: Frankfort Characters - Von Olenschlager.]

VON OLENSCHLAGER, a member of the Frauenstein family, a Schöff, and
son-in-law of the above-mentioned Dr. Orth, a handsome, comfortable,
sanguine man. In his official holiday costume he could well have
personated the most important French prelate. After his academical
course, he had employed himself in political and state affairs, and
directed even his travels to that end. He greatly esteemed me, and
often conversed with me on matters which chiefly interested him. I
was with him when he wrote his _Illustration of the Golden Bull_;
when he managed to explain to me very clearly the worth and dignity
of that document. My imagination was led back by it to those wild and
unquiet times, so that I could not forbear representing what he related
historically, as if it were present, by pictures of characters and
circumstances, and often by mimicry. In this he took great delight, and
by his applause excited me to repetition.

I had from childhood the singular habit of always learning by heart the
beginnings of books, and the divisions of a work, first of the five
books of Moses, and then of the _Æneid_ and Ovid's _Metamorphoses._ I
now did the same thing with the _Golden Bull_, and often provoked my
patron to a smile, when I quite seriously and unexpectedly exclaimed,
"_Omne regnum in se divisum desolabitur; nam principes ejus facti sunt
socii furum._"[4] The knowing man shook his head, smiling, and said
doubtingly, "What times those must have been, when at a grand Diet,
the Emperor had such words published in the face of his princes!"

There was a great charm in Von Olenschlager's society. He received
little company, but was strongly inclined to intellectual amusement,
and induced us young people from time to time to perform a play; for
such exercises were deemed particularly useful to the young. We gave
the CANUTE of Schlegel, in which the part of the king was assigned to
me, Elfrida to my sister, and Ulfo to the younger son of the family. We
then ventured on the BRITANNICUS,[5] for, besides our dramatic talents,
we were to bring the language into practice. I took Nero, my sister,
Agrippina, and the younger son, Britannicus. We were more praised than
we deserved, and fancied that we had done it even beyond the amount of
praise. Thus I stood on the best terms with this family, and have been
indebted to them for many pleasures and a speedier development.

[Side-note: Frankfort Characters - Von Reineck.]

VON REINECK, of an old patrician family, able, honest, but stubborn, a
meagre, swarthy man, whom I never saw smile. The misfortune befell him
that his only daughter was carried off by a friend of the family. He
pursued his son-in-law with the most vehement prosecution; and because
the tribunals, with their formality, were neither speedy nor sharp
enough to gratify his desire of vengeance, he fell out with them; and
there arose quarrel on quarrel, suit on suit. He retired completely
into his own house and its adjacent garden, lived in a spacious but
melancholy lower-room, into which for many years no brush of a white
washer, and perhaps scarcely the broom of a maid-servant, had found its
way. Me he could readily endure, and he had especially commended to me
his younger son. He many times asked his oldest friends, who knew how
to humour him, his men of business and agents, to dine with him, and
on these occasions never omitted inviting me. There was good eating
and better drinking at his house. But a large stove, that let out the
smoke from many cracks, caused the greatest pain to his guests. One of
the most intimate of these once ventured to remark upon this, by asking
the host whether he could put up with such an inconvenience all the
winter. He answered, like a second Timon or Heautontimoroumenos: "Would
to God this was the greatest evil of those which torment me!" It was
long before he allowed himself to be persuaded to see his daughter and
grandson. The son-in-law never again dared to come into his presence.

On this excellent but unfortunate man my visits had a very favourable
effect; for while he liked to converse with me, and particularly
instructed me on world and state affairs, he seemed to feel himself
relieved and cheered. The few old friends who still gathered round him,
often, therefore, made use of me when they wished to soften his peevish
humour, and persuade him to any diversion. He now really rode out with
us many times, and again contemplated the country, on which he had not
cast an eye for so many years. He called to mind the old landowners,
and told stones of their characters and actions, in which he showed
himself always severe, but often cheerful and witty. We now tried also
to bring him again among other men, which, however, nearly turned out
badly.

About the same age, if indeed not older, was one HERR VON MALAPERT, a
rich man, who possessed a very handsome house by the Horse-market, and
derived a good income from salt-pits. He also lived quite secluded: but
in summer he was a great deal in his garden, near the Bockenheim gate,
where he watched and tended a very fine plot of pinks.

Von Reineck was likewise an amateur of pinks; the season of flowering
had come, and suggestions were made as to whether these two could not
visit each other. We introduced the matter, and persisted in it, till
at last Von Reineck resolved to go out with us one Sunday afternoon.
The greeting of the two old gentlemen was very laconic, indeed, almost
pantomimic, and they walked up and down by the long pink frames with
true diplomatic strides. The display was really extraordinarily
beautiful, and the particular forms and colours of the different
flowers, the advantages of one over the other, and their rarity, gave
at last occasion to a sort of conversation which appeared to get quite
friendly; at which we others rejoiced the more because we saw the most
precious old Rhine wine in cut decanters, fine fruits, and other good
things spread upon a table in a neighbouring bower. But these, alas,
we were not to enjoy. For Von Reineck unfortunately saw a very fine
pink with its head somewhat hanging down; he therefore took the stalk
near the calyx very cautiously between his fore and middle fingers,
and lifted the flower so that he could well inspect it. But even this
gentle handling vexed the owner. Von Malapert courteously, indeed, but
stiffly enough, and somewhat self-complacently, reminded him of the
_Oculis, non manibus._[6] Von Reineck had already let go the flower,
but at once took fire at the words, and said in his usual dry, serious
manner, that it was quite consistent with an amateur to touch and
examine them in such a manner. Whereupon he repeated the act, and took
the flower again between his fingers. The friends of both parties--for
Von Malapert also had one present--were now in the greatest perplexity.
They set one hare to catch another (that was our proverbial expression,
when a conversation was to be interrupted, and turned to another
subject), but it would not do; the old gentleman had become quite
silent, and we feared every moment that Von Reineck would repeat the
act, when it would be all over with us. The two friends kept their
principals apart by occupying them, now here, now there, and at last
we found it most expedient to make preparation for departure. Thus,
alas! we were forced to turn our backs on the inviting side-board, yet
unenjoyed.

[Side-note: Frankfort Characters - Hofrath Huisgen.]

HOFRATH HUISGEN, not born in Frankfort, of the reformed[7] religion,
and therefore incapable of public office, including the profession
of advocate, which, however, because much confidence was placed in
him as an excellent jurist, he managed to exercise quietly, both in
the Frankfort and the imperial courts, under assumed signatures, was
already sixty years old when I took writing lessons with his son, and
so came into his house. His figure was tall without being thin, and
broad without corpulency. You could not look, for the first time, on
his face, which was not only disfigured by smallpox, but deprived
of an eye, without apprehension. He always wore on his bald head a
perfectly white bell-shaped cap, tied at the top with a ribbon. His
morning-gowns, of calamanco or damask, were always very clean. He
dwelt in a very cheerful suite, of rooms on the ground-floor by the
_Allée_, and the neatness of everything about him corresponded with
this cheerfulness. The perfect arrangement of his papers, books, and
maps, produced a favourable impression. His son Heinrich Sebastian,
afterwards known by various writings on Art, gave little promise in
his youth. Good-natured but dull, not rude but blunt, and without
any special liking for instruction, he rather sought to avoid the
presence of his father, as he could get all he wanted from his mother.
I, on the other hand, grew more and more intimate with the old man,
the more I knew of him. As he attended only to important cases, he
had time enough to occupy and amuse himself in another manner. I
had not long frequented his house, and heard his doctrines, than I
could well perceive that he stood in opposition to God and the world.
One of his favourite books was _Agrippa de Vanitate Scientiarum_,
which he especially commended to me, and so set my young brains in a
considerable whirl for a long time. In the happiness of youth I was
inclined to a sort of optimism, and had again pretty well reconciled
myself with God or the Gods; for the experience of a series of years
had taught me that there was much to counterbalance evil, that one can
well recover from misfortune, and that one may be saved from dangers
and need not always break one's neck. I looked with tolerance, too, on
what men did and pursued, and found many things worthy of praise which
my old gentleman could not by any means abide. Indeed, once when he had
sketched the world to me, rather from the distorted side, I observed
from his appearance that he meant to close the game with an important
trump-card. He shut tight his blind left eye, as he was wont to do in
such cases, looked sharp out of the other, and said in a nasal voice,
"Even in God I discover defects."

My Timonic mentor was also a mathematician, but his practical turn
drove him to mechanics, though he did not work himself. A clock,
wonderful indeed in those days, which indicated not only the days
and hours, but the motions of the sun and moon, he caused to be made
according to his own plan. On Sunday, about ten o'clock in the morning,
he always wound it up himself, which he could do the more regularly, as
he never went to church. I never saw company nor guests at his house;
and only twice in ten years do I remember to have seen him dressed and
walking out of doors.

My various conversations with these men were not insignificant, and
each of them influenced me in his own way. From every one I had as
much attention as his own children, if not more, and each strove to
increase his delight in me as in a beloved son, while he aspired to
mould me into his moral counterpart. Olenschlager would have made me a
courtier, Von Reineck a diplomatic man of business; both, the latter
particularly, sought to disgust me with poetry and authorship. Huisgen
wished me to be a Timon after his fashion, but, at the same time, an
able juris-consult; a necessary profession, as he thought, with which
one could in a regular manner defend oneself and friends against the
rabble of mankind, succour the oppressed, and above all, pay off a
rogue; though the last is neither especially practicable nor advisable.

But if I liked to be at the side of these men to profit by their
counsels and directions, younger persons, only a little older
than myself, roused me to immediate emulation. I name here before
all others, the brothers SCHLOSSER and GRIESBACH. But, as I came
subsequently into a more intimate connexion with these, which lasted
for many years uninterruptedly, I will only say for the present, that
they were then praised as being distinguished in languages and other
studies which opened the academical course, and held up as models, and
that everybody cherished the certain expectation that they would once
do something uncommon in church and state.

With respect to myself, I also had it in my mind to produce something
extraordinary, but in what it was to consist was not clear. But as we
are apt to think rather upon the reward which may be received than
upon the merit which is to be acquired, so, I do not deny, that if I
thought of a desirable piece of good fortune, it appeared to me most
fascinating in the shape of that laurel garland which is woven to adorn
the poet.


[1] The names of the sharp notes in German terminate in "is," and hence
"f" and "g" sharp are called "fis" and "gis."

[2] These are the technical names for classes of accents in the Hebrew
grammar.--_Trans._

[3] It should be observed that in this Biblical narrative, when we
have used the expressions "Deity," "Godhead," or "Divinity," Goethe
generally has "die Götter," or "the Gods."--_Trans,_

[4] Every kingdom divided against itself shall be brought to
desolation; for the princes thereof have become the associates of
robbers.--_Trans._.

[5] Racine's tragedy.--_Trans._

[6] Eyes, not hands.--_Trans._

[7] That is to say, he was a Calvinist, as distinguished from a
Lutheran.--_Trans._



FIFTH BOOK.


Every bird has its decoy, and every man is led and misled in a way
peculiar to himself. Nature, education, circumstances, and habit kept
me apart from all that was rude; and though I often came into contact
with the lower classes of people, particularly mechanics, no close
connexion grew out of it. I had indeed boldness enough to undertake
something uncommon and perhaps dangerous, and many times felt disposed
to do so; but I was without the handle by which to grasp and hold it.

Meanwhile I was quite unexpectedly involved in an affair which brought
me near to a great hazard, and at least for a long time into perplexity
and distress. The good terms on which I before stood with the boy whom
I have already named Pylades was maintained up to the time of my youth.
We indeed saw each other less often, because our parents did not stand
on the best footing with each other; but when we did meet, the old
raptures of friendship broke out immediately. Once we met in the alleys
which offer a very agreeable walk between the outer and inner gate of
Saint Gallus. We had scarcely returned greetings, than he said to me,
"I hold to the same opinion as ever about your verses. Those which you
recently communicated to me, I read aloud to some pleasant companions,
and not one of them will believe that you have made them." "Let it
pass," I answered; "we will make them and enjoy them, and the others
may think and say of them what they please."

"There comes the unbeliever now," added my friend. "We will not speak
of it," I replied; "what is the use of it? one cannot convert them."
"By no means," said my friend; "I cannot let the affair pass off in
this way."

After a short and indifferent conversation, my young comrade, who was
but too well disposed towards me, could not suffer the matter to drop,
without saying to the other, with some resentment, "Here is my friend
who made those pretty verses, for which you will not give him credit!"
"He will certainly not be offended at that," answered the other, "for
we do him an honour when we suppose that more learning is required to
make such verses than one of his years can possess." I replied with
something indifferent; but my friend continued, "It will not cost
much labour to convince you. Give him any theme, and he will make you
a poem on the spot." I assented, we were agreed, and the other asked
me whether I would venture to compose a pretty love-letter in rhyme,
which a modest young woman might be supposed to write to a young man,
to declare her inclination. "Nothing is easier than that," I answered,
"if I only had writing materials." He pulled out his pocket almanac,
in which there were a great many blank leaves, and I sat down upon a
bench to write. They walked about in the meanwhile, but always kept
me in sight. I immediately brought the required situation before my
mind, and thought how agreeable it must be if some pretty girl were
really attached to me, and would reveal her sentiments to me, either in
prose or verse. I therefore began my declaration with delight, and in
a little while executed it in a flowing measure, between doggerel and
madrigal, with the greatest possible _naïveté_, and in such a way that
the sceptic was overcome with admiration, and my friend with delight.
The request of the former to possess the poem I could the less refuse,
as it was-written in his almanac; and I willingly saw the documentary
evidence of my capabilities in his hands. He departed-with many
assurances of admiration and respect, and wished for nothing more than
that we should often meet; so we settled soon to go together into the
country.

Our party actually took place, and was joined by several more young
people of the same rank. They were men of the middle, or, if you
please, of the lower class, who were not wanting in brains, and who
moreover, as they had gone through school, were possessed of various
knowledge and a certain degree of culture. In a large, rich city there
are many modes of gaining a livelihood. These got on by copying for the
lawyers, and by advancing the children of the lower order more than is
usual in common schools. With grown-up children, who were about to be
confirmed, they went through the religious courses; then, again, they
assisted factors and merchants in some way, and were thus enabled to
enjoy themselves frugally in the evenings, and particularly on Sundays
and festivals.

[Side-note: First Acquaintance With Gretchen.]

On the way there, while they highly extolled my love-letter, they
confessed to me that they had made a very merry use of it, viz.--that
it had been copied in a feigned hand, and, with a few pertinent
allusions, had been sent to a conceited young man, who was now firmly
persuaded that a lady to whom he had paid distant court was excessively
enamoured of him, and sought an opportunity for closer acquaintance.
They at the same time told me in confidence, that he desired nothing
more now than to be able to answer her in verse; but that neither he
nor they were skilful enough, so that they earnestly solicited me to
compose the much-desired reply.

Mystifications are and will continue to be an amusement for idle
people, whether more or less ingenious. A venial wickedness, a
self-complacent malice, is an enjoyment for those who have neither
resources in themselves nor a wholesome external activity. No age is
quite exempt from such pruriences. We had often tricked each other in
our childish years; many sports turn upon mystification and trick. The
present jest did not seem to me to go further; I gave my consent. They
imparted to me many particulars which the letter ought to contain, and
we brought it home already finished.

A little while afterwards I was urgently invited, through my friend,
to take part in one of the evening feasts of that society. The lover,
he said, was willing to bear the expense on this occasion, and desired
expressly to thank the friend who had shown himself so excellent a
poetical secretary.

We came together late enough, the meal was most frugal, the wine
drinkable: while as for the conversation, it turned almost entirely
on jokes upon the young man, who was present, and certainly not very
bright, and who, after repeated readings of the letter, almost believed
that he had written it himself.

My natural good-nature would not allow me to take much pleasure in such
a malicious deception, and the repetition of the same subject soon
disgusted me. I should certainly have passed a tedious evening, if an
unexpected apparition had not revived me. On our arrival the table
had already been neatly and orderly covered, and sufficient wine had
been put on; we sat down and remained alone, without requiring further
service. As there was, however, a want of wine at last, one of them
called for the maid; but instead of the maid there came in a girl of
uncommon, and, when one saw her with all around her, of incredible
beauty. "What do you desire?" she asked, after having cordially wished
us a good evening; "the maid is ill in bed. Can I serve you?" "The wine
is out," said one; "if you would fetch us a few bottles, it would be
very kind." "Do it, Gretchen,"[1] said another, "it is but a cat's leap
from here." "Why not?" she answered, and taking a few empty bottles
from the table, she hastened out. Her form, as seen from behind, was
almost more elegant. The little cap sat so neatly upon her little
head, which a slender throat united very gracefully to her neck and
shoulders. Everything about her seemed choice, and one could survey her
whole form the more at ease, as one's attention was no more exclusively
attracted and fettered by the quiet, honest eyes and lovely mouth.
I reproved my comrades for sending the girl out alone at night, but
they only laughed at me, and I was soon consoled by her return, as the
publican lived only just across the way. "Sit down with us, in return,"
said one. She did so; but, alas, she did not come near me. She drank
a glass to our health, and speedily departed, advising us not to stay
very long together, and not to be so noisy, as her mother was just
going to bed. It was not, however, her own mother, but the mother of
our hosts.

The form of that girl followed me from that moment on every path; it
was the first durable impression which a female being had made upon me;
and as I could find no pretext to see her at home, and would not seek
one, I went to church for love of her, and had soon traced out where
she sat. Thus, during the long Protestant service, I gazed my fill at
her. When the congregation left the church I did not venture to accost
her, much less to accompany her, and was perfectly delighted if she
seemed to have remarked me and to have returned my greeting with a
nod. Yet I was not long denied the happiness of approaching her. They
had persuaded the lover, whose poetical secretary I had been, that
the letter written in his name had been actually despatched to the
lady, and had strained to the utmost his expectations that an answer
must soon come. This, also, I was to write, and the waggish company
entreated me earnestly, through Pylades, to exert all my wit and employ
all my art, in order that this piece might be quite elegant and perfect.

[Side-note: Gretchen's Advice.]

In the hope of again seeing my fair one, I went immediately to work,
and thought of everything that would be in the highest degree pleasing
if Gretchen were writing it to me. I imagined I had written out
everything so completely from her form, her nature, her manner, and
her mind, that I could not refrain from wishing that it were so in
reality, and lost myself in rapture at the mere thought that something
similar could be sent from her to me. Thus I mystified myself, while
I intended to impose upon another; and much joy and much trouble was
yet to arise out of the affair. When I was once more summoned, I had
finished, promised to come, and did not fail at the appointed hour.
There was only one of the young people at home; Gretchen sat at the
window spinning; the mother was going to and fro. The young man desired
that I should read it over to him; I did so, and read not without
emotion, as I glanced over the paper at the beautiful girl; and when I
fancied that I remarked a certain uneasiness in her deportment, and a
gentle flush on her cheeks, I uttered better and with more animation
that which I wished to hear from herself. The cousin, who had often
interrupted me with commendations, at last entreated me to make some
amendments. These affected some passages which indeed were rather
suited to the condition of Gretchen than to that of the lady, who was
of a good family, wealthy, and known and respected in the city. After
the young man had designated the desired changes, and had brought me
an inkstand, but had taken, leave for a short time on account of some
business, I remained sitting on the bench against the wall, behind the
large table, and essayed the alterations that were to be made, on the
large slate, which almost covered the whole table, with a pencil that
always lay in the window, because upon this slate reckonings were often
made, and various memoranda noted down, and those coming in or going
out even communicated with each other.

I had for a-while written different things and rubbed them out again,
when I exclaimed impatiently, "It will not do!" "So much the better,"
said the dear girl, in a grave tone; "I wished that it might not do!
You should not meddle in such matters." She arose from the distaff,
and stepping towards the table, gave me a severe lecture, with a great
deal of good sense and kindliness. "The thing seems an innocent jest;
it is a jest, but it is not innocent. I have already lived to see
several cases, in which our young people, for the sake of such mere
mischief, have brought themselves into great difficulty." "But what
shall I do?" I asked; "the letter is written, and they rely upon me to
alter it." "Trust me," she replied, "and do not alter it; nay, take
it back, put it in your pocket, go away, and try to make the matter
straight through your friend. I will also put in a word; for look you,
though I am a poor girl, and dependent upon these relations,--who
indeed do nothing bad, though they often, for the sake of sport or
profit, undertake a good deal that is rash,--I have resisted them, and
would not copy the first letter, as they requested. They transcribed
it in a feigned hand, and if it is not otherwise, so may they also do
with this. And you, a young man of good family, rich, independent, why
will you allow yourself to be used as a tool in a business which can
certainly bring no good to you, and may possibly bring much that is
unpleasant?" I was glad to hear her speaking thus continuously, for
generally she introduced but few words into conversation. My liking
for her grew incredibly,--I was not master of myself,--and replied, "I
am not so independent as you suppose; and of what use is wealth to me,
when the most precious thing I can desire is wanting?"

She had drawn my sketch of the poetic epistle towards her, and read it
half aloud in a sweet and graceful manner. "That is very pretty," said
she, stopping at a sort of _naïve_ point; "but it is a pity that it is
not destined for a real purpose." "That were indeed very desirable,"
I cried, "and, oh! how happy must he be, who receives from a girl he
infinitely loves, such an assurance of her affection." "There is much
required for that," she answered; "and yet many things are possible."
"For example," I continued, "if any one who knew, prized, honoured,
and adored you, laid such a paper before you, what would you do?" I
pushed the paper nearer to her, which she had previously pushed back to
me. She smiled, reflected for a moment, took the pen, and subscribed
her name. I was beside myself with rapture, sprang up, and would have
embraced her. "No kissing!" said she, "that is so vulgar; but let
us love if we can." I had taken up the paper, and thrust it into my
pocket. "No one shall ever get it," said I; "the affair is closed.
You have saved me." "Now complete the salvation," she exclaimed, "and
hurry off, before the others arrive, and you fall into trouble and
embarrassment." I could not tear myself away from her; but she asked me
in so kindly a manner, while she took my right hand in both of hers,
and lovingly pressed it! The tears stood in my eyes; I thought hers
looked moist. I pressed my face upon her hands and hastened away. Never
in my life had I found myself in such perplexity.

[Side-note: Juvenile Love.]

The first propensities to love in an uncorrupted youth take altogether
a spiritual direction. Nature seems to desire that one sex may by the
senses perceive goodness and beauty in the other. And thus to me, by
the sight of this girl--by my strong inclination for her--a new world
of the beautiful and the excellent had arisen. I read my poetical
epistle a hundred times through, gazed upon the signature, kissed it,
pressed it to my heart, and rejoiced in this amiable confession. But
the more my transports increased, the more did it pain me, not to be
able to visit her immediately, and to see and converse with her again;
for I dreaded the reproofs and importunities of her cousins. The good
Pylades, who might have arranged the affair, I could not contrive
to meet. The next Sunday, therefore, I set out for Niederrad, where
these associates generally used to go, and actually found them there.
I was, however, greatly surprised, when, instead of behaving in a
cross, distant manner, they came up to me with joyful, countenances.
The youngest particularly was very friendly, took me by the hand, and
said, "You have lately played us a sorry trick, and we were very angry
with you; but your absconding and taking away the poetical epistle
has suggested a good thought to us, which otherwise might never have
occurred. By way of atonement, you may treat us to-day, and you shall
learn at the same time the notion we have, which will certainly give
you pleasure." This address put me in no little perplexity; for I had
about me only money enough to regale myself and a friend; but to treat
a whole company, and especially one which did not always stop at the
right time, I was by no means prepared; nay, the proposal astonished
me the more, as they had always insisted, in the most honourable
manner, that each one should pay only his own share. They smiled at my
distress, and the youngest proceeded, "Let us first take a seat in the
bower, and then you shall learn more." We sat down, and he said, "When
you had taken the love-letter with you, we talked the whole affair over
again, and came to a conclusion that we had gratuitously misused your
talent to the vexation of others and our own danger, for the sake of
a mere paltry love of mischief, when we could have employed it to the
advantage of all of us. See, I have here an order for a wedding-poem,
as well as for a dirge. The second must be ready immediately, the
other can wait a week. Now, if you make these; which is easy for you,
you will treat us twice, and we shall long remain your debtors." This
proposition pleased me in every respect; for I had already in my
childhood looked with a certain envy on the occasional poems,[2] of
which then several circulated every week, and at respectable marriages
especially came to light by the dozen, because I thought I could make
such things as well, nay, better than others. Now an opportunity was
offered me to show myself, and especially to see myself in print.
I did not appear disinclined. They acquainted me with the personal
particulars and the position of the family; I went somewhat aside, made
my plan, and produced some stanzas. However, when I returned to the
company, and the wine was not spared, the poem began to halt, and I
could not deliver it that evening. "There is still time till to-morrow
evening," they said; "and we will confess to you that the fee which
we receive for the dirge is enough to get us another pleasant evening
to-morrow. Come to us; for it is but fair that Gretchen too should sup
with us, as it was she properly who gave us the notion." My joy was
unspeakable. On my way home I had only the remaining stanzas in my
head, wrote down the whole before I went to sleep, and the next morning
made a very neat fair copy. The day seemed infinitely long to me; and
scarcely was it dusk, than I found myself again in the narrow little
dwelling beside the dearest of girls.

[Side-note: Gretchen and Her Friends.]

The young persons with whom in this way I formed a closer and closer
connexion were not properly low, but ordinary sort of people. Their
activity was commendable, and I listened to them with pleasure when
they spoke of the manifold ways and means by which one could gain a
living; above all they loved to tell of people, now very rich, who
had begun with nothing. Others to whom they referred had, as poor
clerks, rendered themselves indispensable to their employers, and had
finally risen to be their sons-in-law: while others had so enlarged
and improved a little trade in matches and the like, that they were
now prosperous merchants and tradesmen. But above all, to young men,
who were active on their feet, the trade of agent and factor, and the
undertaking of all sorts of commissions and charges for helpless rich
men was, they said, a most profitable means of gaining a livelihood.
We all heard this eagerly, and each one fancied himself somebody, when
he imagined, at the moment, that there was enough in him, not only to
get on in the world, but to acquire an extraordinary fortune. But no
one seemed to carry on this conversation more earnestly than Pylades,
who at last confessed that he had an extraordinary passion for a girl,
and was actually engaged to her. The circumstances of his parents would
not allow him to go to universities, but he had endeavoured to acquire
a fine handwriting, a knowledge of accounts, and the modern languages,
and would now do his best in hopes of attaining that domestic felicity.
The cousins praised him for this, although they did not approve of a
premature engagement to a girl, and they added, that while forced to
acknowledge him to be a fine good fellow, they did not consider him
active or enterprising enough to do anything extraordinary. While he,
in vindication of himself, circumstantially set forth what he thought
himself fit for, and how he was going to begin, the others were also
incited, and each one began to tell what he was now able to do, doing,
or carrying on, what he had already accomplished, and what he saw
immediately before him. The turn at last came to me. I was to set forth
my course of life and prospects, and while I was considering, Pylades
said, "I make this one proviso, if we all would stand on a level, that
he does not bring into the account the external advantages of his
position. He should rather tell us a tale how he would proceed if at
this moment he were thrown entirely upon his own resources, as we are."

Gretchen, who till this moment, had kept on spinning, rose and seated
herself as usual at the end of the table. We had already emptied some
bottles, and I began to relate the hypothetical history of my life in
the best humour. "First of all, then, I commend myself to you," said I,
"that you may continue the custom you have begun to bestow on me. If
you gradually procure me the profit of all the occasional poems, and we
do not consume them in mere feasting, I shall soon come to something.
But then you must not take it ill if I dabble also in your handicraft."
Upon this I told them what I had observed in their occupations, and
for which I held myself fit at any rate. Each one had previously
rated his services** in money, and I asked them to assist me also in
completing my establishment. Gretchen had listened to all hitherto very
attentively, and that in a position which well suited her, whether
she chose to hear or to speak. With both hands she clasped her folded
arms, and rested them on the edge of the table. Thus she could sit a
long while without moving anything but her head, which was never done
without occasion or meaning. She had several times put in a word and
helped us on over this and that, when we halted in our projects, and
then was again still and quiet as usual. I kept her in my eye, and it
may readily be supposed that I had not devised and uttered my plan
without reference to her. My passion for her gave to what I said such
an air of truth and probability, that for a moment I deceived myself,
imagined myself as lonely and helpless as my story supposed, and felt
extremely happy in the prospect of possessing her. Pylades had closed
his confession with marriage, and the question arose among the rest of
us, whether our plans went as far as that. "I have not the least doubt
on that score," said I, "for properly a wife is necessary to every one
of us, in order to preserve at home and enable us to enjoy as a whole
what we rake together abroad in such an odd way." I then made a sketch
of a wife, such as I wished, and it must have turned out strangely if
she had not been a perfect counterpart of Gretchen.

The dirge was consumed; the epithalamium now stood beneficially at
hand; I overcame all fear and care, and contrived, as I had many
acquaintances, to conceal my actual evening entertainments from my
family. To see and to be near the dear girl was soon an indispensable
condition of my being. The friends had grown just as accustomed to me,
and we were almost daily together, as if it could not be otherwise.
Pylades had, in the meantime, introduced his fair one into the house,
and this pair passed many an evening with us. They, as bride and
bridegroom, though still very much in the bud, did not conceal their
tenderness; Gretchen's deportment towards me was only suited to keep me
at a distance. She gave her hand to no one, not even to me; she allowed
no touch; yet she many times seated herself near me, particularly when
I wrote or read aloud, and then laying her arm familiarly upon my
shoulder, she looked over the book or paper. If, however, I ventured
on a similar freedom towards her, she withdrew, and would not soon
return. This position she often repeated, and indeed all her attitudes
and motions were very uniform, but always equally fitting, beautiful,
and charming. But such a familiarity I never saw her practise towards
anybody else.

[Side-note: The Höchst Market-Ship.]

One of the most innocent, and at the same time amusing, parties of
pleasure in which I engaged with different companies of young people,
was this: that we seated ourselves in the Höchst market-ship, observed
the strange passengers packed away in it, and bantered and teased, now
this one, now that, as pleasure or caprice prompted. At Höchst we got
out at the same time as the market-boat from Mentz arrived. At a hotel
there was a well-spread table, where the better sort of travellers,
coming and going, ate with each other, and then proceeded, each on
his way, as both ships returned. Every time, after dining, we sailed
up to Frankfort, having, with a very large company, made the cheapest
water-excursion that was possible. Once I had undertaken this journey
with Gretchen's cousins, when a young man joined us at table in Höchst,
who might be a little older than we were. They knew him, and he got
himself introduced to me. He had something very pleasing in his manner,
though he was not otherwise distinguished. Coming from Mentz, he now
went back with us to Frankfort, and conversed with me of everything
that related to the internal arrangements of the city, and the public
offices and places, on which he seemed to me to be very well informed.
When we separated he bade me farewell, and added, that he wished I
might think well of him, as he hoped on occasion to avail himself of my
recommendation. I did not know what he meant by this, but the cousins
enlightened me some days after; they spoke well of him, and asked me
to intercede with my grandfather, as a moderate appointment was just
now vacant, which this friend would like to obtain. I at first excused
myself, because I had never meddled in such affairs; but they went on
urging me until I resolved to do it. I had already many times remarked
that, in these grants of offices, which unfortunately were often
regarded as matters of favour, the mediation of my grandmother or an
aunt had not been without effect. I was now so advanced as to arrogate
some influence to myself. For that reason, to gratify my friends, who
declared themselves under every sort of obligation for such a kindness,
I overcame the timidity of a grandchild, and undertook to deliver a
written application that was handed in to me.

One Sunday, after dinner, as my grandfather was busy in his garden, all
the more because autumn was approaching, and I tried to assist him on
every side; I came forward with my request and the petition, after some
hesitation. He looked at it, and asked me whether I knew the young man.
I told him in general terms what was to be said, and he let the matter
rest there. "If he has merit, and moreover good testimonials, I will
favour him for your sake and his own." He said no more, and for a long
while I heard nothing of the matter.

[Side-note: Gretchen's New Situation.]

For some time I had observed that Gretchen span no more, but on the
other hand was employed in sewing, and that, too, on very fine work,
which surprised me the more, as the days were already shortening, and
winter was coming on. I thought no farther about it, only it troubled
me that several times I had not found her at home in the morning as
formerly, and could not learn, without importunity, whither she had
gone. Yet I was destined one day to be surprised in a very odd manner.
My sister, who was getting herself ready for a ball, asked me to fetch
her some so-called Italian flowers, at a fashionable milliner's. They
were made in convents, and were small and pretty; myrtles especially,
dwarf-roses, and the like, came out quite beautifully and naturally. I
granted her the favour, and went to the shop where I had already often
been with her. Hardly had I entered and greeted the proprietress, than
I saw sitting in the window a lady, who in a lace cap looked very young
and pretty, and in a silk mantilla seemed very well shaped. I could
easily recognize that she was an assistant, for she was occupied in
fastening a ribbon and feathers upon a hat: The milliner showed me the
long box with single flowers of various sorts; I looked them over, and
as I made my choice glanced again towards the lady in the window; butious, if not unpleasant
consequences. For some time, already, Count Lindto Gretchen, nay, was forced to be convinced at last that it was
Gretchen herself. No doubt remained, when she winked with her eyes and
gave me a sign that I must not betray our acquaintance. I now with my
choosing and rejecting drove the milliner into despair more than even a
lady could have done. I had, in fact, no choice, for I was excessively
confused, and at the same time liked to linger, because it kept me
near the girl, whose disguise annoyed me, though in that disguise she
appeared to me more enchanting than ever. Finally, the milliner seemed
to lose all patience, and with her own hands selected for me a whole
bandbox full of flowers, which I was to place before my sister and let
her choose for herself. Thus I was, as it were, driven out of the shop,
while she sent the box first by one of her girls.

Scarcely had I reached home than my father caused me to be called, and
communicated to me that it was now quite certain that the Archduke
Joseph would be elected and crowned King of Rome. An event so highly
important was not to be expected without preparation, nor allowed to
pass with mere gaping and staring. He wished, therefore, he said, to
go through with me the election and coronation-diaries of the two last
coronations, as well as through the last capitulations of election,
in order to remark what new conditions might be added in the present
instance. The diaries were opened, and we occupied ourselves with them
the whole day till far into the night, while the pretty girl, sometimes
in her old house-dress, sometimes in her new costume, ever hovered
before me, backwards and forwards among the most august objects of the
Holy Roman Empire. This evening it was impossible to see her, and I
lay awake through a very restless night. The study of yesterday was
the next day zealously resumed, and it was not till towards evening
that I found it possible to visit my fair one, whom I met again in her
usual house-dress. She smiled when she saw me, but I did not venture
to mention anything before the others. When the whole company sat
quietly together again, she began and said, "It is unfair that you
do not confide to our friend what we have lately resolved upon." She
then continued to relate, that after our late conversation, in which
the discussion was how any one could get on in the world, something
was also said of the way in which a woman could enhance the value of
her talent and labour, and advantageously employ her time. The cousins
had consequently proposed that she should make an experiment at a
milliner's who was just then in want of an assistant. They had, she
said, arranged with the woman; she went there so many hours a-day,
and was well paid; only when there she was obliged, for propriety's
sake, to conform to a certain dress, which, however, she left behind
her every time, as it did not at all suit her other modes of life and
employment. I was indeed set at rest by this declaration, but it did
not quite please me to know that the pretty girl was in a public shop,
and at a place where the fashionable world found a convenient resort.
But I betrayed nothing, and strove to work off my jealous care in
silence. For this the younger cousin did not allow me a long time, as
he once more came forward with a proposal for an occasional poem, told
me all the personalities, and at once desired me to prepare myself for
the invention and disposition of the work. He had already spoken with
me several times concerning the proper treatment of such a theme, and
as I was voluble in these cases, he readily asked me to explain to
him circumstantially what is rhetorical in these things, to give him
a notion of the matter, and to make use of my own and others' labours
in this kind for examples. The young man had some brains, though he
was without a trace of a poetical vein, and now he went so much into
particulars, and wished to have such an account of everything, that I
gave utterance to the remark: "It seems as if you wanted to encroach
upon my trade and steal away my customers!" "I will not deny it," said
he, smiling, "as I shall do you no harm by it. This will only continue
to the time when you go to the university, and till then you must allow
me still to profit something by your society." "Most cordially," I
replied, and I encouraged him to draw out a plan, to choose a metre
according to the character of his subject, and to do whatever else
might seem necessary. He went to work in earnest, but did not succeed.
I was in the end compelled to re-write so much of it, that I could
more easily and better have written it all from the beginning myself.
Yet this teaching and learning, this mutual labour, afforded us good
entertainment: Gretchen took part in it and had many a pretty notion,
so that we were all pleased, we may indeed say, happy. During the
day she worked at the milliner's: in the evenings we generally met
together, and our contentment was not even disturbed when at last the
commissions for occasional poems began to leave off. Still we felt
hurt once, when one of them came back under protest, because it did
not suit the party who ordered it. We consoled ourselves, however, as
we considered it our very best work, and could therefore declare the
other a bad judge. The cousin, who was determined to learn something
at any rate, resorted to the expedient of inventing problems, in the
solution of which we always found amusement enough, but as they brought
in nothing, our little banquets had to be much more frugally managed.

[Side-note: Preparations for the Election.]

That great political object, the election and coronation of a King of
Rome, was pursued with more and more earnestness. The assembling of
the electoral college, originally appointed to take place at Augsburg
in the October of 1763, was now transferred to Frankfort, and both at
the end of this year and in the beginning of the next, preparations
went forward, which should usher in this important business. The
beginning was made by a parade never yet seen by us. One of our
chancery officials on horseback, escorted by four trumpeters likewise
mounted, and surrounded by a guard of infantry, read in a loud clear
voice at all the corners of the city, a prolix edict, which announced
the forthcoming proceedings, and exhorted the citizens to a becoming
deportment suitable to the circumstances. The council was occupied
with weighty considerations, and it was not long before the Imperial
Quarter-Master, despatched by the Hereditary Grand Marshal, made
his appearance, in order to arrange and designate the residences of
the ambassadors and their suites, according to the old custom. Our
house lay in the Palatine district, and we had to provide for a new
but agreeable billetting. The middle story, which Count Thorane had
formerly occupied, was given up to a cavalier of the Palatinate, and as
Baron von Königsthal, the Nuremberg _chargé d'affaires_, occupied the
upper floor, we were still more crowded than in the time of the French.
This served me as a new excuse to be out of doors, and to pass the
greater part of the day in the streets, that I might see all that was
open to public view.

After the preliminary alteration and arrangement of the rooms in the
town-house had seemed to us worth seeing, after the arrival of the
ambassadors one after another, and their first solemn ascent in a body,
on the 6th of February, had taken place, we admired the coming in of
the imperial commissioners, and their ascent also to the _Römer_,
which was made with great pomp. The dignified person of the PRINCE of
LICHTENSTEIN made a good impression; yet connoisseurs maintained that
the showy liveries had already been used on another occasion, and that
this election and coronation would hardly equal in brilliancy that
of Charles the Seventh. We younger folks were content with what was
before our eyes; all seemed to us very fine, and much of it perfectly
astonishing.

The electoral congress was fixed at last for the 3rd of March. New
formalities again set the city in motion, and the alternate visits of
ceremony on the part of the ambassadors kept us always on our legs.
We were compelled, too, to watch closely, as we were not only to gape
about, but to note everything well, in order to give a proper report at
home, and even to make out many little memoirs, on which my father and
Herr von Königsthal had deliberated, partly for our exercise and partly
for their own information. And certainly this was of peculiar advantage
to me, as I was enabled very tolerably to keep a living election and
coronation-diary, as far as regarded externals.

[Side-note: Baron Von Plotho.]

The person who first of all made a durable impression upon me was
the chief ambassador from the electorate of Mentz, BARON VON ERTHAL,
afterwards Elector. Without having anything striking in his figure,
he was always highly pleasing to me in his black gown trimmed with
lace. The second ambassador, BARON VON GROSCHLAG, was a well-formed
man of the world, easy in his exterior, but conducting himself with
great decorum. He everywhere produced a very agreeable impression.
PRINCE ESTERHAZY, the Bohemian envoy, was not tall, though well-formed,
lively, and at the same time eminently decorous, without pride or
coldness. I had a special liking for him, because he reminded me
of MARSHAL DE BROGLIO. Yet the form and dignity of these excellent
persons vanished, in a certain degree, before the prejudice that was
entertained in favour of BARON VON PLOTHO, the Brandenburg ambassador.
This man, who was distinguished by a certain parsimony, both in his
own clothes and in his liveries and equipages, had been greatly
renowned from the time of the seven years' war, as a diplomatic hero.
At Ratisbon, when the Notary April thought, in the presence of
witnesses, to serve him with the declaration of outlawry which had
been issued against his king, he had, with the laconic exclamation:
"What! you serve:" thrown him, or caused him to be thrown, down
stairs. We believed the first, because it pleased us best, and we
could readily believe it of the little compact man, with his black,
fiery eyes glancing here and there. All eyes were directed towards
him, particularly when he alighted. There arose every time a sort of
joyous whispering, and but little was wanting to a regular explosion,
or a shout of _Vivat!_ _Bravo!_ So high did the king, and all who were
devoted to him, body and soul, stand in favour with the crowd, among
whom, besides the Frankforters, were Germans from all parts.

On the one hand these things gave me much pleasure; as all that took
place, no matter of what nature it might be, concealed a certain
meaning, indicated some internal relation, and such symbolic ceremonies
again, for a moment, represented as living the old Empire of Germany,
almost choked to death by so many parchments, papers, and books. But,
on the other hand, I could not suppress a secret displeasure, when I
was forced, at home, on my father's account, to transcribe the internal
transactions, and at the same time to remark that here several powers,
which balanced each other, stood in opposition, and only so far agreed,
as they designed to limit the new ruler even more than the old one;
that every one valued his influence only so far as he hoped to retain
or enlarge his privileges, and better to secure his independence. Nay,
on this occasion they were more attentive than usual, because they
began to fear Joseph the Second, his vehemence and probable plans.

With my grandfather and other members of the council, whose families
I used to visit, this was no pleasant time, they had so much to do
with meeting distinguished guests, complimenting, and the delivery
of presents. No less had the magistrate, both in general and in
particular, to defend himself, to resist, and to protest, as every
one on such occasions desires to extort something from him, or burden
him with something, und few of those to whom he appeals support him,
or lend him their aid. In short, all that I had read in _Lersner's
Chronicle_ of similar incidents on similar occasions, with admiration
of the patience and perseverance of those good old councilmen, came
once more vividly before my eyes.

Many vexations arise also from this, that the city is gradually overrun
with people, both useful and needless. In vain are the courts reminded,
on the part of the city, of prescriptions of the Golden Bull, now,
indeed, obsolete. Not only the deputies with their attendants, but many
persons of rank, and others who come from curiosity or for private
objects, stand under protection, and the question as to who is to
be billetted out, and who is to hire his own lodging, is not always
decided at once. The tumult constantly increases, and even those who
have nothing to give, or to answer for, begin to feel uncomfortable.

Even we young people, who could quietly contemplate it all, ever found
something which did not quite satisfy our eyes or our imagination. The
Spanish mantles, the huge feathered hats of the ambassadors, and other
objects here and there, had indeed a truly antique look; but there
was a great deal, on the other hand, so half-new or entirely modern,
that the affair assumed throughout a motley, unsatisfactory, often
tasteless appearance. We were very happy to learn, therefore, that
great preparations were made on account of the journey to Frankfort of
the Emperor and future King; that the proceedings of the college of
electors, which were based on the last electoral capitulation, were now
going forward rapidly; and that the day of election had been appointed
for the 27th of March. Now there was a thought of fetching the insignia
of the Empire from Nuremberg and Aix-la-Chapelle, and next we expected
the entrance of the Elector of Mentz, while the disputes with his
ambassadors about the quartering ever continued.

Meanwhile I pursued my clerical labours at home very actively, and
perceived many little suggestions (_monita_) which came in from all
sides, and were to be regarded in the new capitulation. Every rank
desired to see its privileges guaranteed and its importance increased
in this document. Very many such observations and desires were,
however, put aside; much remained as it was, though the suggestors
(_monentes_) received the most positive assurances that the neglect
should in no wise ensue to their prejudice.

In the meanwhile the office of Imperial Marshal was forced to undertake
many dangerous affairs; the crowd of strangers increased, and it became
more and more difficult to find lodgings for them. Nor was there
unanimity as to the limits of the different precincts of the Electors.
The magistracy wished to keep from the citizens the burdens which
they were not bound to bear, and thus day and night there were hourly
grievances, redresses, contests, and misunderstandings.

The entrance of the Elector of Mentz happened on the 21st of May. Then
began the cannonading, with which for a long time we were often to be
deafened. This solemnity was important in the series of ceremonies; for
all the men whom we had hitherto seen, high as they were in rank, were
still only subordinates; but here appeared a sovereign, an independent
prince, the first after the Emperor, preceded and accompanied by a
large retinue worthy of himself. Of the pomp which marked his entrance
I should have much to tell, if I did not purpose returning to it
hereafter, and on an occasion which no one could easily guess.

[Side-note: Lavater.]

What I refer to is this:--the same day, LAVATER, on his return home
from Berlin, came through Frankfort, and saw the solemnity. Now, though
such worldly formalities could not have the least value for him, this
procession, with its display and all its accessaries, might have been
distinctly impressed on his very lively imagination; for, many years
afterwards, when this eminent but singular man showed me a poetical
paraphrase of, I believe, the Revelation of St. John, I discovered
the entrance of Anti-Christ copied, step by step, figure by figure,
circumstance by circumstance, from the entrance of the Elector of Mentz
into Frankfort, in such a manner, too, that even the tassels on the
heads of the dun-coloured horses were not wanting. More can be said
on this point when I reach the epoch of that strange kind of poetry,
by which it was supposed that the myths of the Old and New Testaments
were brought nearer to our view and feelings when they were completely
travestied into the modern style, and clothed with the vestments of
present life, whether gentle or simple. How this mode of treatment
gradually obtained favour, will be likewise discussed hereafter; yet I
may here simply remark that it could not well be carried further than
it was by Lavater and his emulators, one of these having described
the three holy kings riding into Bethlehem, in such modern form, that
the princes and gentlemen whom Lavater used to visit were not to be
mistaken as the persons.

We will then for the present allow the ELECTOR EMERIC Joseph to enter
the Compostello incognito, so to speak, and turn to Gretchen, whom,
just as the crowd was dispersing, I spied in the crowd, accompanied
by Pylades and his mistress, the three now seeming to be inseparable.
We had scarcely come up to each other and exchanged greetings, than
it was agreed that we should pass the evening together, and I kept
the appointment punctually. The usual company had assembled, and
each one had something to relate, to say, or to remark--how one had
been most struck by this thing and another by that. "Your speeches,"
said Gretchen at last, "perplex me even more than the events of the
time themselves. What I have seen I cannot make out; and should very
much like to know what a great deal of it means." I replied that it
was easy for me to render her this service. She had only to say what
particularly interested her. This she did, and as I was about to
explain some points, it was found that it would be better to proceed
in order. I not unskilfully compared these solemnities and functions
to a play, in which the curtain was let down at will, while the actors
played on, and was then raised again, so that the spectators could
once more, to some extent, take part in the action. As now I was very
loquacious when I was allowed my own way, I related the whole, from
the beginning down to the time present, in the best order; and to
make the subject of my discourse more apparent, did not fail to use
the pencil and the large slate. Being only slightly interrupted by
some questions and obstinate assertions of the others, I brought my
discourse to a close, to the general satisfaction, while Gretchen,
by her unbroken attention, had highly encouraged me. At last she
thanked me, and envied, as she said, all who were informed of the
affairs of this world, and knew how this and that came about and what
it signified. She wished she were a boy, and managed to acknowledge,
with much kindness, that she was indebted to me for a great deal of
instruction. "If I were a boy," said she, "we would learn something
good together at the university." The conversation continued in this
strain; she definitively resolved to take instruction in French, of the
absolute necessity of which she had become well aware in the milliner's
shop. I asked her why she no longer went there; for dining the latter
times, not being able to go out much in the evening, I had often passed
the shop during the day for her sake, merely to see her for a moment.
She explained that she had not liked to expose herself there in these
unsettled times. As soon as the city returned to its former condition
she intended to go there again.

[Side-note: Approach of the Election.]

Then the discourse was on the impending day of election. I contrived to
tell, at length, what was going to happen, and how, and to support my
demonstrations in detail by drawings on the tablet; for I had the place
of conclave, with its altars, thrones, seats, and chairs, perfectly
before my mind. We separated at the proper time, and in a peculiarly
comfortable frame of mind.

For, with a young couple who are in any degree harmoniously formed by
nature, nothing can conduce to a more beautiful union than when the
maiden is anxious to learn, and the youth inclined to teach. There
arises from it a well-grounded and agreeable relation. She sees in him
the creator of her spiritual existence, and he sees in her a creature
that ascribes her perfection, not to nature, not to chance, nor to any
one-sided inclination, but to a mutual will; and this reciprocation is
so sweet, that we cannot wonder, if from the days of the old and the
new[3] Abelard, the most violent passions, and as much happiness as
unhappiness, have arisen from such an intercourse of two beings.

With the next day began great commotion in the city, on account of
the visits paid and returned which now took place with the greatest
ceremony. But what particularly interested me, as a citizen of
Frankfort, and gave rise to a great many reflections, was the taking of
the oath of security (_Sicherheitseides_) by the council, the military,
and the body of citizens, not through representatives, but personally,
and in mass: first, in the great hall of the Römer, by the magistracy
and staff-officers; then in the great square (_Platz_), the Römerberg,
by all the citizens, according to their respective ranks, gradations,
or quarterings; and lastly by the rest of the military. Here one could
survey at a single glance the entire commonwealth, assembled for the
honourable purpose of swearing security to the head and members of the
Empire, and unbroken peace during the great work now impending. The
Electors of Treves and of Cologne had now also arrived in person. On
the evening before the day of election all strangers are sent out of
the city, the gates are closed, the Jews are confined to their quarter,
and the citizen of Frankfort prides himself not a little that he alone
may be a witness of so great a solemnity.

All that had hitherto taken place was tolerably modern; the highest and
high personages moved about only in coaches; but now we were going to
see them in the primitive manner on horseback. The concourse and rush
were extraordinary. I managed to squeeze myself into the Römer, which
I knew as familiarly as a mouse does the private corn-loft, till I
reached the main entrance, before which the Electors and ambassadors,
who had first arrived in their state-coaches, and had assembled above,
were now to mount their horses. The stately, well-trained steeds were
covered-with richly laced housings, and ornamented in every way. The
Elector Emeric Joseph, a comfortable-looking man, looked well on
horseback. Of the other two I remember less, excepting that the red
princes' mantles, trimmed with ermine, which we had been accustomed
to see only in pictures before, seemed to us very romantic in the
open air. The ambassadors of the absent temporal Electors, with their
Spanish dresses of gold brocade, embroidered over with gold, and
trimmed with gold lace, likewise did our eyes good; and the large
feathers particularly, that waved most splendidly from the hats, which
were cocked in the antique style. But what did not please me were the
short modern breeches, the white silk stockings, and the fashionable
shoes. We should have liked half-boots--gilded as much as they
pleased--sandals, or something of the kind, that we might have seen a
more consistent costume.

In deportment the Ambassador Von Plotho again distinguished himself
from all the rest. He appeared lively and cheerful, and seemed to have
no great respect for the whole ceremony. For when his front-man, an
elderly gentleman, could not leap immediately on his horse, and he was
therefore forced to wait some time in the grand entrance, he did not
refrain from laughing, till his own horse was brought forward, upon
which he swung himself very dexterously, and was again admired by us as
a most worthy representative of Frederick the Second.

Now the curtain was for us once more let down. I had indeed tried to
force my way into the church; but that place was more inconvenient than
agreeable. The voters had withdrawn into the _sanctum_, where prolix
ceremonies usurped the place of a deliberate consideration as to the
election. After long delay, pressure, and bustle, the people at last
heard the name of Joseph the Second, who was proclaimed King of Rome.

[Side-note: Approach of the Emperor and King.]

The thronging of strangers into the city became greater and greater.
Everybody went about in his holiday clothes, so that at last none but
dresses entirely of gold were found worthy of note. The Emperor and
King had already arrived at _Heusenstamm_, a castle of the Counts of
Schönborn, and were there in the customary manner greeted and welcomed;
but the city celebrated this important epoch by spiritual festivals of
all the religions, by high masses and sermons; and on the temporal side
by incessant firing of cannon as an accompaniment to the _Te Deums._

If all these public solemnities, from the beginning up to this point,
had been regarded as a deliberate work of art, not much to find fault
with would have been found. All was well prepared. The public scenes
opened gradually, and went on increasing in importance; the men grew
in number, the personages in dignity, their appurtenances, as well as
themselves, in splendour; and thus it advanced with every day, till at
last even a well-prepared and firm eye became bewildered.

The entrance of the Elector of Mentz, which we have refused to describe
more completely, was magnificent and imposing enough to suggest to
the imagination of an eminent man, the advent of a great prophesied
World-Ruler; even we were not a little dazzled by it. But now our
expectation was stretched to the utmost, as it was said that the
Emperor and the future King were approaching the city. At a little
distance from Sachsenhausen, a tent had been erected, in which the
entire magistracy remained, to show the appropriate honour, and to
proffer the keys of the city to the chief of the Empire. Further out,
on a fair spacious plain, stood another--a state pavilion, whither the
whole body of electoral princes and ambassadors repaired, while their
retinues extended along the whole way, that gradually, as their turns
came, they might again move towards the city, and enter properly into
the procession. By this time the Emperor reached the tent, entered it,
and the princes and ambassadors, after a most respectful reception,
withdrew, to facilitate the passage of the chief ruler.

[Side-note: The Imperial Carriage.]

We others who remained in the city to admire this pomp within the walls
and streets, still more than could have been done in the open fields,
were very well entertained for a while by the barricade set up by the
citizens in the lanes, by the throng of people, and by the various
jests and improprieties which arose, till the ringing of bells and the
thunder of cannon announced to us the immediate approach of Majesty.
What must have been particularly grateful to a Frankforter was, that
on this occasion, in the presence of so many sovereigns and their
representatives, the imperial city of Frankfort also appeared as a
little sovereign; for her equerry opened the procession; chargers with
armorial trappings, upon which the white eagle on a red field looked
very fine, followed him; then came attendants and officials, drummers
and trumpeters, and deputies of the council, accompanied by the clerks
of the council, in the city livery, on foot. Immediately behind these
were the three companies cf citizen cavalry, very well mounted--the
same that we had seen from our youth, at the reception of the escort
and on other public occasions. We rejoiced in our participation of
the honour, and in our hundred-thousandth part of a sovereignty which
now appeared in its full brilliancy. The different trains of the
Hereditary Imperial Marshal, and of the envoys deputed by the six
temporal Electors, marched after these step by step. None of them
consisted of less than twenty attendants, and two state-carriages--some
even of a greater number. The retinue of the spiritual Electors was
ever on the increase,--their servants and domestic officers seemed
innumerable,--the Elector of Cologne and the Elector of Treves had
above twenty state-carriages, and the Elector of Mentz quite as many
alone. The servants, both on horseback and on foot, were clothed most
splendidly throughout; the lords in the equipages, spiritual and
temporal, had not omitted to appear richly and venerably dressed, and
adorned with all the badges of their orders. The train of his Imperial
Majesty now, as was fit, surpassed all the rest. The riding-masters,
the led horses, the equipages, the shabracks and caparisons, attracted
every eye, and the sixteen six-horse gala-wagons of the Imperial
Chamberlains, Privy Councillors, High Chamberlain, High Stewards, and
High Equerry, closed, with great pomp, this division of the procession,
which, in spite of its magnificence and extent, was still only to be
the van-guard.

But now the line concentrated itself more and more, while the dignity
and parade kept on increasing. For, in the midst of a chosen escort
of their own domestic attendants, the most of them on foot, and a
few on horseback, appeared the Electoral ambassadors as well as the
Electors in person, in ascending order, each one in a magnificent
state-carriage. Immediately behind the Elector of Mentz, ten imperial
footmen, one and forty lackeys, and eight Heyducks,[4] announced
their Majesties. The most magnificent state-carriage, furnished even
at the back part with an entire window of plate-glass, ornamented
with paintings, lacker, carved work, and gilding, covered with
red embroidered velvet on the top and inside, allowed us very
conveniently to behold the Emperor and King, the long-desired heads,
in all their glory. The procession was led a long circuitous route,
partly from necessity, that it might be able to unfold itself, and
partly to render it visible to the great multitude of people. It had
passed through Sachsenhausen, over the bridge, up the Fahrgasse,
then down the Zeile, and turned towards the inner city through the
Katharinenpforte, formerly a gate, and since the enlargement of the
city, an open thoroughfare. Here it had been fortunately considered
that, for a series of years, the external grandeur of the world had
gone on expanding both in height and breadth. Measure had been taken,
and it was found that the present imperial state-carriage could not,
without striking its carved work and other outward decorations, get
through this gateway, through which so many princes and emperors had
gone backwards and forwards. The matter was debated, and to avoid an
inconvenient circuit, it was resolved to take up the pavements, and
to contrive a gentle descent and ascent. With the same new they had
also removed all the projecting eaves from the shops and booths in the
street, that neither crown, nor eagle, nor the genii should receive any
shock or injury.

Eagerly as _we_ directed our eyes to the high personages when this
precious vessel with such precious contents approached us, we could
not avoid turning our looks upon the noble horses, their harness, and
its embroidery; but the strange coachmen and outriders, both sitting
on the horses, particularly struck us. They looked as if they had
come from some other nation, or even worn another world, with their
long black and yellow velvet coats, and their caps with large plumes
of feathers, after the imperial court fashion. Now the crowd became
so dense that it was impossible to distinguish much more. The Swiss
guard on both sides of the carriage, the Hereditary Marshal holding the
Saxon sword upwards in his right hand, the Field-Marshals, as leaders
of the Imperial Guard, riding behind the carriage, the imperial pages
in a body, and finally, the Imperial Horse-guard (_Hatschiergarde_)
itself, in black velvet frocks (_Flügelröck_), with all the seams edged
with gold, under which were red coats and leather-coloured camisoles,
likewise richly decked with gold! One scarcely recovered oneself
from sheer seeing, pointing, and showing, so that the scarcely less
splendidly clad body-guards of the Electors were barely looked at,
and we should perhaps have withdrawn from the windows, if we had not
wished to take a view of our own magistracy, who closed the procession
in their fifteen two-horse coaches, and particularly the clerk of the
council, with the city keys on red velvet cushions. That our company of
city grenadiers should cover the rear, seemed to us honourable enough,
and we felt doubly and highly edified as Germans and as Frankfurters by
this great day.

[Side-note: Maria Theresa.]

We had taken our place in a house which the procession had to pass
again when it returned from the cathedral. Of religious services,
of music, of rites and solemnities, of addresses and answers, of
propositions and readings aloud, there was so much in church, choir,
and conclave, before it came to the swearing of the electoral
capitulation, that we had time enough to partake of an excellent
collation, and to empty many bottles to the health of our old and
young ruler. The conversation, in the meanwhile, as is usual on such
occasions, reverted to the time past, and there were not wanting aged
persons who preferred that to the present, at least with respect to a
certain human interest and impassioned sympathy which then prevailed.
At the coronation of Francis the First all had not been so settled
as now; peace had not yet been concluded; France and the Electors of
Brandenburg and the Palatinate were opposed to the election; the
troops of the future emperor were stationed at Heidelberg, where he
had his head-quarters, and the insignia of the Empire coming from Aix,
were almost carried off by the inhabitants of the Palatinate. Meanwhile
negotiations went on, and on neither side was the affair conducted in
the strictest manner. MARIA THERESA, though then pregnant, comes in
person to see the coronation of her husband, which is at last carried
into effect. She arrived at Aschaffenburg, and went on board a yacht
in order to repair to Frankfort. Francis, from Heidelberg, thinks to
meet his wife, but comes too late; she has already departed. Unknown,
he throws himself into a little boat, hastens after her, reaches her
ship, and the loving pair is delighted at this surprising meeting. The
story spreads immediately, and all the world sympathizes with this
tender pair, so richly blessed with their children, who have been so
inseparable since their union, that once on a journey from Vienna to
Florence they are forced to keep quarantine together on the Venetian
border. Maria Theresa is welcomed in the city with rejoicings, she
enters the _Roman Emperor_ inn, while the great tent for the reception
of her husband is erected on the Bornheim heath. There of the spiritual
Electors is found only Mentz, and of the ambassadors of the temporal
Electors, only Saxony, Bohemia, and Hanover. The entrance begins, and
what it may lack of completeness and splendour is richly compensated
by the presence of a beautiful lady. She stands upon the balcony of
the well-situated house, and greets her husband with cries of _Vivat_
and clapping of hands; the people joined, excited to the highest
enthusiasm. As the great are, after all, men, the citizen thinks them
his equals when he wishes to love them, and that he can best do when he
can picture them to himself as loving husbands, tender parents, devoted
brothers, and true friends. At that time all happiness had been wished
and prophesied, and to-day it was seen fulfilled in the first-born son;
to whom everybody was well inclined on account of his handsome youthful
form, and upon whom the world set the greatest hopes, on account of the
great qualities that he showed.

We had become quite absorbed in the past and future, when some friends
who came in recalled us to the present. They were of those who know the
value of novelty, and therefore hasten to announce it first. They were
even able to tell of a fine humane trait in those exalted personages
whom we had seen go by with the greatest pomp. It had been concerted
that on the way, between Heusenstamm and the great tent, the Emperor
and King should find the Landgrave of Darmstadt in the forest. This
old prince, now approaching the grave, wished to see once more the
master to whom he had been devoted in former times. Both might remember
the day when the Landgrave brought over to Heidelberg the decree of
the Electors choosing Francis as Emperor, and replied to the valuable
presents he received with protestations of unalterable devotion.
These eminent persons stood in a grove of firs, and the Landgrave,
weak with old age, supported himself against a pine, to continue the
conversation, which was not without emotion on both sides. The place
was afterwards marked in an innocent way, and we young people sometimes
wandered to it.

Thus several hours had passed in remembrance of the old and
consideration of the new, when the procession, though curtailed and
more compact, again passed before our eyes, and we were enabled to
observe and mark the detail more closely, and imprint it on our minds
for the future.

From that moment the city was in uninterrupted motion; for until each
and every one whom it behoved, and of whom it was required, had paid
their respects to the highest dignities, and exhibited themselves one
by one, there was no end to the marching to and fro, and the court
of each one of the high persons present could be very conveniently
repeated in detail.

Now, too, the insignia of the Empire arrived. But that no ancient usage
might be omitted even in this respect, they had to remain half a day
till late at night in the open field, on recount of a dispute about
territory and escort between the Elector of Mentz and the city. The
latter yielded, the people of Mentz escorted the insignia as far as the
barricade, and so the affair terminated for this time.

[Side-note: At Evening with Gretchen.]

In these days I did not come to myself. At home I had to write and
copy; everything had to be seen; and so ended the month of March,
the second half of which had been so rich in festivals for us. I had
promised Gretchen a faithful and complete account of what had lately
happened, and of what was to be expected on the coronation-day. This
great day approached; I thought more how I should tell it to her than
of what properly was to be told; all that came under my eyes and my
pen I merely worked up rapidly for this sole and immediate use. At
last I reached her residence somewhat late one evening, and was not
a little proud to think how my discourse on this occasion would be
much more successful than the first unprepared one. But a momentary
incitement often brings us, and others through us, more joy than the
most deliberate purpose can afford; I found, indeed, pretty nearly the
same company, but there were some unknown persons among them. They sat
down to play, all except Gretchen and her younger cousin, who remained
with me at the slate. The dear girl expressed most gracefully her
delight that she, though a stranger, had passed for a citizen on the
election-day, and had taken part in that unique spectacle. She thanked
me most warmly for having managed to take care of her, and for having
been so attentive as to procure her, through Pylades, all sorts of
admissions by means of billets, directions, friends, and intercessions.

She liked to hear about the jewels of the Empire. I promised her that
we should, if possible, see these together. She made some jesting
remarks when she learned that the garments and crown had been tried
on the young king. I knew where she would gaze at the solemnities of
the coronation-day, and directed her attention to everything that was
impending, and particularly to what might be minutely inspected from
her place of view.

Thus we forgot to think about time; it was already past midnight; and I
found that I unfortunately had not the house-key with me. I could not
enter the house without making the greatest disturbance. I communicated
my embarrassment to her. "After all," said she, "it will be best for
the company to remain together." The cousins and the strangers had
already had this in mind, because it was not known where they would be
lodged for the night. The matter was soon decided; Gretchen went to
make some coffee, after bringing in and lighting a large brass lamp,
furnished with oil and wick, because the candles threatened to burn out.

The coffee served to enliven us for several hours, but the game
gradually slackened; conversation failed; the mother slept in the great
chair; the strangers, weary from travelling, nodded here and there, and
Pylades and his fair one sat in a corner. She had laid her head on his
shoulder and had gone to sleep, and he did not keep long awake. The
younger cousin sitting opposite to us by the slate, had crossed his
arms before him, and slept with his face resting upon them. I sat in
the window-corner, behind the table, and Gretchen by me. We talked in
a low voice: but at last sleep overcame her also, she leaned her head
on my shoulder, and sank at once into a slumber. Thus I now sat, the
only one awake, in a most singular position, in which the kind brother
of death soon put me also to rest. I went to sleep, and when I awoke
it was already bright day. Gretchen was standing before the mirror
arranging her little cap; she was more lovely than ever, and when I
departed cordially pressed my hands. I crept home by a roundabout way;
for, on the side towards the little _Stag-ditch_, my father had opened
a sort of little peep-hole in the wall, not without the opposition of
his neighbour. This side we avoided when we wanted not to be observed
by him in coming home. My mother, whose mediation always came in
well for us, had endeavoured to palliate my absence in the morning
at breakfast, by the supposition that I had gone out early, and I
experienced no disagreeable effects from this innocent night.

Taken as a whole, this infinitely various world which surrounded me,
produced upon me but a very simple impression. I had no interest but
to mark closely the outside of the objects, no business but that
with which I had been charged by my father and Herr von Königsthal,
by which, indeed, I perceived the inner course of things. I had no
liking but for Gretchen, and no other view than to see and apprehend
all properly, that I might be able to repeat it with her, and explain
it to her. Often when a train was going by, I described it half aloud
to myself, to assure myself of all the particulars, and to be praised
by my fair one for this attention and accuracy; the applause and
acknowledgments of the others I regarded as a mere appendix.

I was indeed presented to many exalted and distinguished persons; but
partly, no one had time to trouble himself about others, and partly,
older people do not know at once how they should converse with a young
man and try him. I, on my side, was likewise not particularly skilful
in adapting myself to people. Generally I acquired their favour, but
not their approbation. Whatever occupied me was completely present to
me; but I did not ask whether it might be also suitable t others. I
was mostly too lively or too quiet, and appeared either importunate
or sullen, just as persons attracted or repelled me; and thus I was
considered to be indeed full of promise, but at the same time was
declared eccentric.

[Side-note: The Coronation-Day.]

The coronation-day dawned at last, on the 3rd of April, 1764; the
weather was favourable, and everybody was in motion. I, with several of
my relations and friends, had been provided with a good place in one of
the upper stories of the Römer itself, where we might completely survey
the whole. We betook ourselves to the spot very early in the morning,
and from above, as in a bird's-eye view, contemplated the arrangements
which we had inspected more closely the day before. There was the
newly-erected fountain, with two large tubs on the left and right, into
which the double-eagle on the post was to pour from its two beaks white
wine on this side and red wine on that. There, gathered into a heap,
lay the oats; here stood the large wooden hut, in which we had several
days since seen the whole fat ox roasted and basted on a huge spit
before a charcoal fire. All the avenues leading out from the Römer,
and from other streets back to the Römer, were secured on both sides
by barriers and guards. The great square was gradually filled, and the
waving and pressure grew every moment stronger and more in motion, as
the multitude always, if possible, endeavoured to reach the spot where
some new scene arose, and something particular was announced.

All this time there reigned a tolerable stillness, and when the
alarm-bells were sounded, all the people seemed struck with terror
and amazement. What first attracted the attention of all who could
overlook the square from above, was the train in which the lords of
Aix and Nuremberg brought the crown-jewels to the cathedral. These, as
palladia, had been assigned the first place in the carnage, and the
deputies sat before them on the back seat with becoming reverence.
Now the three Electors betake themselves to the cathedral. After the
presentation of the insignia to the Elector of Mentz, the crown and
sword are immediately carried to the imperial quarters. The further
arrangements and manifold ceremonies occupied, in the interim, the
chief persons, as well as the spectators, in the church, as we other
well-informed persons could well imagine.

In the meanwhile before our eyes the ambassadors ascended to the
Römer, from which, the canopy is carried by the under-officers into
the imperial quarters. The Hereditary Marshal COUNT VON PAPPENHEIM
instantly mounts his horse; he was a very handsome, slender gentleman,
whom the Spanish costume, the rich doublet, the gold mantle, the
high feathered hat, and the loose flying hair, became very well. He
puts himself in motion, and, amid the sound of all the bells, the
ambassadors follow him on horseback to the quarters of the Emperor
in still greater magnificence than on the day of election. One would
have liked to be there too, as indeed on this day it would have been
altogether desirable to multiply one's-self. However, we told each
other what was going on there. Now the Emperor is putting on his
domestic robes, we said, a new dress, made after the old Carolingian
pattern. The hereditary officers receive the insignia, and with them
get on horseback. The Emperor in his robes, the Roman King in the
Spanish habit, immediately mount their steeds; and while this is done,
the endless procession which precedes them has already announced them.

The eye was already wearied by the multitude of richly-dressed
attendants and magistrates, and by the nobility who, in stately
fashion, were moving along; but when the Electoral envoys, the
hereditary officers, and at last, under the richly-embroidered canopy,
borne by twelve _Schöffen_ and senators, the Emperor, in romantic
costume, and to the left, a little behind him, in the Spanish dress,
his son, slowly floated along on magnificently-adorned horses, the eye
was no more sufficient for the sight. One would have liked to detain
the scene, but for a moment, by a magic charm; but the glory passed
on without stopping, and the space that was scarcely quitted was
immediately filled again by the crowd, which poured in like billows.

But now a new pressure took place; for another approach from the market
to the Römer gate had to be opened, and a road of planks to be bridged
over it, on which the train returning from the cathedral was to walk.

What passed within the cathedral, the endless ceremonies which
precede and accompany the anointing, the crowning, the dubbing of
knighthood,--all this we were glad to hear told afterwards by those who
had sacrificed much else to be present in the church.

The rest of us, in the interim, partook of a frugal repast; for in
this festal day we had to be contented with cold meat. But, on the
other hand, the best and oldest wine had beer brought out of all the
family-cellars, so that in this respect at least we celebrated the
ancient festival in ancient style.

In the square, the sight most worth seeing was now the bridge, which
had been finished, and covered with orange and white cloth; and we who
had stared at the Emperor, first in his carriage and then on horseback,
were now to admire him walking on foot. Singularly enough, the last
pleased us the most; for we thought that in this way he exhibited
himself both in the most natural and in the most dignified manner.

Older persons, who were present at the coronation of Francis the First,
related that Maria Theresa, beautiful beyond measure, had looked on
this solemnity from a balcony window of the Frauenstein house, close to
the Römer. As her consort returned from the cathedral in his strange
costume, and seemed to her, so to speak, like a ghost of Charlemagne,
he had, as if in jest, raised both his hands, and shown her the
imperial globe, the sceptre, and the curious gloves, at which she had
broken out into immoderate laughter, which served for the great delight
and edification of the crowd, which was thus honoured with a sight of
the good and natural matrimonial understanding between the most exalted
couple of Christendom. But when the Empress, to greet her consort,
waved her handkerchief, and even shouted a loud _vivat_ to him, the
enthusiasm and exultation of the people was raised to the highest, so
that there was no end to the cheers of joy.

[Side-note: The Coronation Procession.]

Now, the sound of bells, and the van of the long train which gently
made its way over the many-coloured bridge, announced that all was
done. The attention was greater than ever, and the procession more
distinct than before, particularly for us, since it now came directly
up to us. We saw it, as well as the whole of the square, which was
thronged with people, almost as if on a ground-plan. Only at the end
the magnificence was too much crowded; for the envoys, the hereditary
officers, the Emperor and King, under the canopy (_Baldachin_), the
three spiritual Electors, who immediately followed, the Schöffen
and senators, dressed in black, the gold embroidered canopy
(_Himmel_),--all seemed only one mass, which moved by a single will,
splendidly harmonious, and thus stepping from the temple amid the sound
of the bells, beamed towards us as something holy.

A politico-religious ceremony possesses an infinite charm. We behold
earthly majesty before our eyes, surrounded by all the symbols of its
power; but while it bends before that of heaven, it brings to our minds
the communion of both. For even the individual can only prove his
relationship with the Deity by subjecting himself and adoring.

The rejoicings, which resounded from the market-place, now spread
likewise over the great square, and a boisterous _vivat_ burst forth
from thousands upon thousands of throats, and doubtless from as many
hearts. For this grand festival was to be the pledge of a lasting
peace, which indeed for many a long year actually blessed Germany.

Several days before, it had been made known by public proclamation,
that neither the bridge nor the eagle over the fountain were to be
exposed to the people, and were therefore not, as at other times, to be
touched. This was done to prevent the mischief inevitable with such a
rush of persons. But in order to sacrifice in some degree to the genius
of the mob, persons expressly appointed went behind the procession,
loosened the cloth from the bridge, wound it up like a flag, and threw
it into the air. This gave rise to no disaster, but to a laughable
mishap; for the cloth unrolled itself in the air, and, as it fell,
covered a larger or smaller number of persons. Those now who took hold
of the ends and drew them towards themselves, pulled all those in the
middle to the ground, enveloped them and teased them till they tore or
cut themselves through, and everybody, in his own way, had borne off a
corner of the stuff made sacred by the footsteps of Majesty.

I did not long contemplate this rude sport, but hastened from my high
position, through all sorts of little steps and passages, down to the
great Römer stairs, where the distinguished and majestic mass, which
had been stared at from the distance, was to ascend in its undulating
course. The crowd was not great, because the entrances to the
council-house were well garrisoned, and I fortunately reached at once
the iron balustrades above. Now the chief personages ascended past me,
while their followers remained behind in the lower arched passages, and
I could observe them on the thrice broken stairs from all sides, and at
last quite close.

[Side-note: Coronation Ceremonies.]

Finally both their Majesties came up. Father and son were altogether
dressed like Menæchmi. The Emperor's domestic robes, of purple-coloured
silk, richly adorned with pearls and stones, as well as his crown,
sceptre, and imperial orb, struck the eye with good effect. For all in
them was new, and the imitation of the antique was tasteful. He moved,
too, quite easily in his attire, and his true-hearted, dignified face,
indicated at once the emperor and the father. The young King, on the
contrary, in his monstrous articles of dress, with the crown-jewels of
Charlemagne, dragged himself along as if he had been in a disguise,
so that he himself, looking at his father from time to time, could
not refrain from laughing. The crown, which it had been necessary to
line a great deal, stood out from his head like an overhanging roof.
The dalmatica, the stole, well as they had been fitted and taken in by
sewing, presented by no means an advantageous appearance. The sceptre
and imperial orb excited some admiration; but one would, for the sake
of a more princely effect, rather have seen a strong form, suited to
the dress, invested and adorned with it.

Scarcely were the gates of the great hall closed behind these figures,
than I hurried to my former place, which being already occupied by
others, I only regained with some trouble.

It was precisely at the right time that I again took possession of my
window; for the most remarkable part of all that was to be seen in
public was just about to take place. All the people had turned towards
the Römer, and a reiterated shout of _vivat_ gave us to understand
that the Emperor and King, in their vestments, were showing themselves
to the populace from the balcony of the great hall. But they were not
alone to serve as a spectacle, since another strange spectacle occurred
before their eyes. First of all, the handsome slender Hereditary
Marshal flung himself upon his steed; he had laid aside his sword;
in his right hand he held a silver-handled vessel, and a tin spatula
in his left. He rode within the barriers to the great heap of oats,
sprang in, filled the vessel to overflow, smoothed it off, and carried
it back again with great dignity. The imperial stable was now provided
for. The Hereditary Chamberlain then rode likewise to the spot, and
brought back a basin with ewer and towel. But more entertaining for
the spectators was the Hereditary Carver, who came to fetch a piece
of the roasted ox. He also rode, with a silver dish, through the
barriers, to the large wooden kitchen, and came forth again with his
portion covered, that he might go back to the Römer. Now it was the
turn of the Hereditary Cupbearer, who rode to the fountain and fetched
wine. Thus now was the imperial table furnished, and every eye waited
upon the Hereditary Treasurer, who was to throw about the money. He,
too, mounted a fine steed, to the sides of whose saddle, instead of
holsters, a couple of splendid bags embroidered with the arms of the
Palatinate, were suspended. Scarcely had he put himself in motion than
he plunged his hands into these pockets, and generously scattered right
and left gold and silver coins, which on every occasion glittered
merrily in the air like metallic rain. A thousand hands waved instantly
in the air to catch the gifts; but hardly had the coins fallen than the
crowd tumbled over each other on the ground, and struggled violently
for the pieces which might have reached the earth. As this agitation
was constantly repeated on both sides as the giver rode forwards, it
afforded the spectators a very diverting sight. It was most lively at
the close, when he threw out the bags themselves, and everybody tried
to catch this highest prize.

Their Majesties had retired from the balcony, and another offering
was to be made to the mob, who, on such occasions, would rather steal
the gifts than receive them tranquilly and gratefully. The custom
prevailed, in more rude and uncouth times, of giving up to the people
on the spot the oats, as soon as the Hereditary Marshal had taken away
his share, the fountain and the kitchen, after the cup-bearer and the
carver had performed their offices. But this time, to guard against all
mischief, order and moderation were preserved as far as possible. But
the old malicious jokes, that when one filled a sack with oats another
cut a hole in it, with sallies of the kind, were revived. About the
roasted ox, a serious battle on this occasion, as usual, was waged.
This could only be contested _en masse._ Two guilds, the butchers and
the wine-porters, had, according to ancient custom, again stationed
themselves so that the monstrous roast must fall to one of the two.
The butchers believed that they had the best right to an ox which they
provided entire for the kitchen; the wine-porters, on the other hand,
laid claim because the kitchen was built near the abode of their
guild, and because they had gained the victory the last time, the horns
of the captured steer still projecting from the latticed gable-window
of their guild and meeting-house as a sign of victory. Both these
companies had very strong and able members; but which of them conquered
this time, I no longer remember.

[Side-note: The Ox and The Wooden Kitchen.]

But as a festival of this kind must always close with something
dangerous and frightful, it was really a terrible moment when the
wooden kitchen itself was made a prize. The roof of it swarmed
instantly with men, no one knowing how they got there, the boards were
torn loose, and pitched down, so that one could not help supposing,
particularly at a distance, that each would kill a few of those
pressing to the spot. In a trice the hut was unroofed, and single
individuals hung to the beams and rafters, in order to pull them also
out of their joinings; nay, many floated above upon the posts which had
been already sawn off below, and the whole skeleton, moving backwards
and forwards, threatened to fall in. Sensitive persons turned their
eyes away, and everybody expected a great calamity; but we did not hear
of any mischief, and the whole affair, though impetuous and violent,
had passed off happily.

Everybody knew now that the Emperor and King would return from the
cabinet, whither they had retired from the balcony, and feast in the
great hall of the Römer. We had been able to admire the arrangements
made for it, the day before; and my most anxious wish was, if possible,
to look in to-day. I repaired, therefore, by the usual path, to the
great staircase, which stands directly opposite the door of the hall.
Here I, gazed at the distinguished personages who this day acted as the
servants of the head of the Empire. Forty-four counts, all splendidly
dressed, passed me, carrying the dishes from the kitchen, so that the
contrast between their dignity and their occupation might well be
bewildering to a boy. The crowd was not great, but, considering the
little space, sufficiently perceptible. The hall-door was guarded,
while those who were authorised went frequently in and out. I saw one
of the Palatine domestic officials, whom I asked whether he could not
take me in with him. He did not deliberate long, but gave me one of the
silver vessels he just then bore,--which he could do so much the more
as I was neatly clad; and thus I reached the sanctuary. The Palatine
buffet stood to the left, directly by the door, and with some steps I
placed myself on the elevation of it, behind the barriers.

At the other end of the hall, immediately by the windows, raised on
the steps of the throne, and under canopies, sat the Emperor and King
in their robes; but the crown and sceptre lay at some distance behind
them on gold cushions. The three spiritual Electors, their buffets
behind them, had taken their places on single elevations; the Elector
of Mentz opposite their Majesties, the Elector of Treves at the right,
and the Elector of Cologne at the left. This upper part of the hall
was imposing and cheerful to behold, and excited the remark that the
spiritual power likes to keep as long as possible with the ruler. On
the contrary, the buffets and tables of all the temporal Electors,
which were, indeed, magnificently ornamented, but without occupants,
made one think of the misunderstanding which had gradually arisen for
centuries between them and the head of the Empire. Their ambassadors
had already withdrawn to eat in a side-chamber; and if the greater part
of the hall assumed a sort of spectral appearance, by so many invisible
guests being so magnificently attended, a large unfurnished table in
the middle was still more sad to look upon; for there also many covers
stood empty, because all those who had certainly a right to sit there
had, for appearance sake, kept away, that on the greatest day of honour
they might not renounce any of their honour, if, indeed, they were then
to be found in the city.

Neither my years nor the mass of present objects allowed me to make
many reflections. I strove to see all as much as possible; and when
the dessert was brought in and the ambassadors re-entered to pay their
court, I sought the open air, and contrived to refresh myself with
good friends in the neighbourhood, after a day's half-fasting, and to
prepare for the illumination in the evening.

[Side-note: The Illuminations.]

This brilliant night I purposed celebrating in a right hearty way;
for I had agreed with Gretchen, and Pylades and his mistress, that we
should meet somewhere at nightfall. The city was already resplendent at
every end and corner when I met my beloved. I offered Gretchen my arm;
we went from one quarter to another, and found ourselves very happy in
each other's society. The cousins at first were also of out party, but
were afterwards lost in the multitude of people. Before the houses of
some of the ambassadors, where magnificent illuminations were exhibited
(those of the Elector-Palatine were pre-eminently distinguished), it
was as clear as day. Lest I should be recognised, I had disguised
myself to a certain extent, and Gretchen did not find it amiss. We
admired the various brilliant representations and the fairy-like
structures of flame by which each ambassador strove to outshine the
others. But Prince Esterhazy's arrangements surpassed all the rest.
Our little company were in raptures both with the invention and the
execution, and we were just about to enjoy this in detail, when the
cousins again met us, and spoke to us of the glorious illumination with
which the Brandenburg ambassador had adorned his quarters. We were not
displeased at taking the long way from the Rossmarkt (Horse-market) to
the Saalhof; but found that we had been villanously hoaxed.

The Saalhof is, towards the Maine, a regular and handsome structure,
but the part in the direction of the city is exceedingly old,
irregular, and unsightly. Small windows, agreeing neither in form nor
size, neither in a line nor placed at equal distances, gates and doors
arranged without symmetry, a ground-floor mostly turned into shops,--it
forms a confused outside, which is never observed by any one. Now here
this accidental, irregular, unconnected architecture had been followed,
and every window, every door, every opening, was surrounded by lamps;
as indeed can be done with a well-built house; but here the most
wretched and ill-formed of all façades was thus quite incredibly placed
in the clearest light. Did one amuse oneself with this as with the
jests of the Pagliasso,[5] though not without scruple, since everybody
must recognise something intentional in it;--just as people had before
glossed over the previous external deportment of Von Plotho, so much
prized in other respects, and when once inclined towards him, had
admired him as a wag, who, like his king, would place himself above all
ceremonies--one nevertheless gladly returned to the fairy kingdom of
Esterhazy.

This eminent envoy, to honour the day, had quite passed over his own
unfavourably situated quarters, and in their stead bad caused the
great esplanade of linden-trees in the Horse-market to be decorated
in the front with a portal illuminated with colours, and at the back
with a still more magnificent prospect. The entire enclosure was marked
by lamps. Between the trees stood pyramids and spheres of light,
upon transparent pedestals; from one tree to another were stretched
glittering garlands, on which floated suspended lights. In several
places bread and sausages were distributed among the people, and there
was no want of wine.

Here now, four abreast, we walked very comfortably up and down, and
I, by Gretchen's side, fancied that I really wandered in those happy
Elysian fields where they pluck from the trees crystal cups that
immediately fill themselves with the wine desired, and shake down
fruits that change into every dish at will. At last we also felt such
a necessity, and conducted by Pylades, we found a neat, well-arranged
eating-house. When we encountered no more guests, since everybody was
going about the streets, we were all the better pleased, and passed the
greatest part of the night most happily and cheerfully, in the feeling
of friendship, love, and attachment. When I had accompanied Gretchen as
far as her door, she kissed me on the forehead. It was the first and
last time that she granted me this favour; for, alas, I was not to see
her again.

The next morning, while I was yet in bed, my mother entered, in trouble
and anxiety. It was easy to see when she was at all distressed. "Get
up," she said, "and prepare yourself for something unpleasant. It
has come out that you frequent very bad company, and have involved
yourself in very dangerous and bad affairs. Your father is beside
himself, and we have only been able to get thus much from him, that
he will investigate the affair by means of a third party. Remain in
your chamber and await what may happen. Councillor Schneider will
come to you; he has the commission both from your father and from the
authorities; for the matter is already prosecuted, and may take a very
bad turn."

[Side-note: Goethe in Trouble.]

I saw that they took the affair for much worse than it was; yet I felt
myself not a little disquieted, even if only the actual state of things
should be detected. My old _Messiah_-loving friend finally entered,
with the tears standing in his eyes; he took me by the arm, and said,
"I am heartily sorry to come to you on such an affair. I could not
have supposed that you could go astray so far. But what will not wicked
companions and bad example do! Thus can a young inexperienced man be
led step by step into crime!" "I am conscious of no crime," I replied,
"and as little of having frequented bad company." "The question now is
not one of defence," said he, interrupting me, "but of investigation,
and on your part of an upright confession" "What do you want to know?"
retorted I. He seated himself, drew out a paper, and began to question
me: "Have you not recommended N. N. to your grandfather as a candidate
for the * * place?" I answered, "Yes." "Where did you become acquainted
with him?" "In my walks." "In what company?" I started: for I would not
willingly betray my friends. "Silence will not do now," he continued,
"for all is sufficiently known." "What is known then?" said I. "That
this man has been introduced to you by others like him--in fact, by * *
*." Here he named three persons whom I had never seen nor known: which
I immediately explained to the questioner. "You pretend," he resumed,
"not to know these men, and have yet had frequent meetings with them."
"Not in the least," I replied; "for, as I have said, except the first,
I do not know one of them, and even him I have never seen in a house."
"Have you not often been in * * * street?" "Never," I replied. This was
not entirely conformable to the truth. I had once accompanied Pylades
to his sweetheart, who lived in that street; but we had entered by the
back-door, and remained in the summer-house. I therefore supposed that
I might permit myself the subterfuge, that I had not been in the street
itself.

The good man put more questions, all of which I could answer with a
denial: for of all that he wished to learn I knew nothing. At last
he seemed to become vexed, and said, "You repay my confidence and
good-will very badly; I come to save you. You cannot deny that you have
composed letters for these people themselves or for their accomplices,
have furnished them writings, and have thus been accessory to their
evil acts, for the question is of nothing less than of forged papers,
false wills, counterfeit bonds, and things of the sort. I come not
only as a friend of the family, I come in the name and by order of
the magistrates, who, in consideration of your connexions and youth,
would spare you and some other young persons, who, like you, have
been lured into the net." It was strange to me that among the persons
he named, none of those with whom I had been intimate were found. The
circumstances touched, without agreeing, and I could still hope to save
my young friends. But the good man grew more and more urgent. I could
not deny that I had come home late many nights, that I had contrived
to have a house-key made, that I had been seen at public places more
than once with persons of low rank and suspicious looks, that some
girls were mixed up in the affair; in short, everything seemed to be
discovered but the names. This gave me courage to persist steadfastly
in my silence. "Do not," said my excellent friend, "let me go away from
you; the affair allows of no delay; immediately after me another will
come, who will not grant you so much scope. Do not make the matter,
which is bad enough, worse by your obstinacy."

I represented very vividly to myself the good cousins, and particularly
Gretchen: I saw them arrested, tried, punished, disgraced, and then
it went through my soul like a flash of lightning, that the cousins,
though they always observed integrity towards me, might have engaged
in such bad affairs, at least the oldest, who never quite pleased me,
who came home later and later, and had little to tell of a cheerful
sort. Still I kept back my confession. "Personally," said I, "I am
conscious of nothing evil, and can rest satisfied on that side, but
it is not impossible that those with whom I have associated may have
been guilty of some daring or illegal act. They may be sought, found,
convicted, punished; I have hitherto nothing to reproach myself with;
and will not do any wrong to those who have behaved well and kindly
to me." He did not let me finish, but exclaimed with some agitation,
"Yes, they will be found out. These villains met in three houses. (He
named the streets, he pointed out the houses, and, unfortunately, among
them was the one to which I used to go.) The first nest is already
broken up, and at this moment so are the two others. In a few hours the
whole will be clear. Avoid, by a flunk confession, a judicial inquiry,
a confrontation, and all other disagreeable matters." The house was
known and marked. Now I deemed silence useless; nay, considering the
innocence of our meetings, I could hope to be still more useful to them
than to myself. "Sit down," I exclaimed, fetching him back from the
door; "I will tell all, and at once lighten your heart and mine; only
one thing I ask; henceforth let there be no doubt of my veracity."

[Side-note: Goethe's Distress.]

I soon told my friend the whole progress of the affair, and was, at
first, calm and collected; but the more I brought to mind and pictured
to myself the persons, objects, and events, so many innocent pleasures
and charming enjoyments, and was forced to depose as before a criminal
court, the more did the most painful feeling increase, so that at last
I burst forth in tears and gave myself up to unrestrained passion. The
family friend, who hoped that now the real secret was coming to light
(for he regarded my distress as a symptom that I was on the point of
confessing with repugnance something monstrous), sought to pacify me,
as with him the discovery was the all-important matter. In this he only
partly succeeded, but so far, however, that I could eke out my story to
the end. Though satisfied of the innocence of the proceedings, he was
still doubtful to some extent, and put further questions to me, which
excited me afresh, and transported me with pain and rage. I asserted,
finally, that I had nothing more to say, and well knew that I need fear
nothing, for I was innocent, of a good family, and well reputed; but
that they might be just as guiltless without having it recognised, or
being otherwise favoured. I declared at the same time, that if they
were not spared like myself, that if their follies were not regarded
with indulgence, and their faults pardoned, that if anything in the
least harsh or unjust happened to them, I would do myself a mischief,
and no one should prevent me. In this, too, my friend tried to pacify
me; but I did not trust him, and was, when he quitted me at last, in
a most terrible state. I now reproached myself for having told the
affair, and brought all the positions to light. I foresaw that our
childish actions, our youthful inclinations and confidences, might be
quite differently interpreted, and that I might perhaps involve the
excellent Pylades in the matter, and render him very unhappy. All these
images pressed vividly one after the other before my soul, sharpened
and spurred my distress, so that I did not know what to do for sorrow.
I cast myself at full length upon the floor, and moistened it with my
tears.

I know not how long I might have lain, when my sister entered, was
frightened at my gestures, and did all that she could to raise me up.
She told me that a person connected with the magistracy had waited
below with my father for the return of the family friend, and that
after they had been closeted together for some time, both the gentlemen
had departed, had talked to each other with apparent satisfaction, and
had even laughed. She believed that she had heard the words--"It is all
right; the affair-is of no consequence." "Indeed!" I broke out, "the
affair is of no consequence for me,--for us; for I have committed no
crime, and if I had, they would contrive to help me through: but the
others, the others," I cried, "who will stand by them!"

My sister tried to comfort me by circumstantially arguing that if those
of higher rank were to be saved, a veil must also be cast over the
faults of the more lowly. All this was of no avail. She had scarcely
left than I again abandoned myself to my grief, and ever recalled
alternately the images both of my affection and passion and of the
present and possible misfortune. I repeated to myself tale after
tale, saw only unhappiness following unhappiness, and did not fail in
particular to make Gretchen and myself truly wretched.

The family friend had ordered me to remain in my room, and have nothing
to do with any one but the family. This was just what I wanted, for I
found myself best alone. My mother and sister visited me from time to
time, and did not fail to assist me vigorously with all sorts of good
consolation; nay, even on the second day they came in the name of my
father, who was now better informed, to offer me a perfect amnesty,
which indeed I gratefully accepted; but the proposal that I should go
out with him and look at the insignia of the Empire, which were now
exposed to the curious, I stubbornly rejected, and I asserted that I
wanted to know nothing either of the world or of the Roman Empire till
I was informed how that distressing affair, which for me could have no
further consequences, had turned out for my poor acquaintance. They
had nothing to say on this head, and left me alone. Yet the next day
some further attempts were made to get me out of the house and excite
in me a sympathy for the public ceremonies. In vain! neither the great
gala-day, nor what happened on the occasion of so many elevations of
rank, nor the public table of the Emperor and King,--in short, nothing
could move me. The Elector of the Palatinate might come and wait
on both their Majesties; these might visit the Electors; the last
electoral sitting might be attended for the despatch of business in
arrear, and the renewal of the electoral union;--nothing could call
me forth from my passionate solitude. I let the bells ring for the
rejoicings, the Emperor repair to the Capuchin church, the Electors
and Emperor depart, without on that account moving one step from my
chamber. The final cannonading, immoderate as it might be, did not
arouse me, and as the smoke of the powder dispersed, and the sound died
away, so had all this glory vanished from my soul.

[Side-note: Goethe's illness.]

I now experienced no satisfaction but in chewing the cud of my misery,
and in a thousandfold imaginary multiplication of it. My whole
inventive faculty, my poetry and rhetoric, had cast themselves on this
diseased spot, and threatened, precisely by means of this vitality, to
involve body and soul into an incurable disorder. In this melancholy
condition nothing more seemed to me worth a desire, nothing worth a
wish. An infinite yearning, indeed, seized me at times to know how it
had gone with my poor friends and my beloved, what had been the result
of a stricter scrutiny, how far they were implicated in those crimes,
or had been found guiltless. This also I circumstantially painted to
myself in the most various ways, and did not fail to hold them as
innocent and truly unfortunate. Sometimes I longed to see myself freed
from this uncertainty, and wrote vehemently threatening letters to
the family friend, insisting that he should not withhold from me the
further progress of the affair. Sometimes I tore them up again, from
the fear of learning my unhappiness quite distinctly, and of losing the
principal consolation with which hitherto I had alternately tormented
and supported myself.

Thus I passed both day and night in great disquiet, in raving and
lassitude, so that I felt happy at last when a bodily illness seized
me with considerable violence, when they had to call in the help of
a physician, and think of every way to quiet me. They supposed that
they could do it generally by the sacred assurance that all who were
more or less involved in the guilt had been treated with the greatest
forbearance, that my nearest friends, being as good as innocent, had
been dismissed with a slight reprimand, and that Gretchen had retired
from the city and had returned to her own home. They lingered the
most over this last point, and I did not take it in the best part;
for I could discover in it, not a voluntary departure, but only a
shameful banishment. My bodily and mental condition was not improved
by this; my distress now first really began, and I had time enough to
torment myself by picturing the strangest romance of sad events, and an
inevitably tragical catastrophe.


[1] The diminutive of Margaret.--_Trans._

[2] That is to say, a poem written for a certain
occasion, as a wedding, funeral, &c. The German word is
"_Gelegenheitsgedicht._"--_Trans._

[3] The "_new_ Abelard" is St. Preux, in the _Nouvelle Heloise_ of
Rosseau.--_Trans._

[4] A class of attendants dressed in Hungarian costume.--_Trans._

[5] A sort of buffoon.



PART THE SECOND.


WHATEVER ONE WISHES IN YOUTH: IN AGE ONE HAS ABUNDANCE.


SIXTH BOOK.


Thus was I driven alternately to assist and to retard my recovery,
and a certain secret chagrin was now added to my other sensations;
for I plainly perceived that I was watched,--that they were loth
to hand me any sealed paper without taking notice what effect it
produced--whether I kept it secret--whether I laid it down open, and
the like. I therefore conjectured that Pylades, or one of the cousins,
or even Gretchen herself, might have attempted to write to me, either
to give or to obtain information. In addition to my sorrow, I was now
for the first time thoroughly cross, and had again fresh opportunities
to exercise my conjectures, and to mislead myself into the strangest
combinations.

It was not long before they gave me a special overseer. Fortunately,
it was a man whom I loved and valued. He had held the place of tutor
in the family of one of our friends; and his former pupil had gone
alone to the university. He often visited me in my sad condition, and
they at last found nothing more natural than to give him a chamber
next to mine, as he was then to employ me, pacify me, and, as I
marked, keep his eye upon me. Still, as I esteemed him from my heart,
and had already confided many things to him, though not my affection
for Gretchen, I determined so much the more to be perfectly candid
and straightforward with him, as it was intolerable to me to live in
daily intercourse with any one, and at the same time to stand on an
uncertain, constrained footing with him. It was not long, then, before
I spoke to him about the affair, refreshed myself by the relation and
repetition of the minutest circumstances of my past happiness, and
thus gained so much, that he, like a sensible man, saw it would be
better to make me acquainted with the issue of the story, and that
too in its details and particulars, so that I might be clear as to
the whole, and that with earnestness and zeal, I might be persuaded
of the necessity of composing myself, throwing the past behind me,
and beginning a new life. First he confided to me who the other young
people of quality were who had allowed themselves to be seduced, at
the outset, into daring hoaxes, then into sportive breaches of police,
afterwards into frolicsome impositions on others, and other such
dangerous matters. Thus actually had arisen a little conspiracy, which
unprincipled men had joined, who, by forging papers and counterfeiting
signatures, had perpetrated many criminal acts, and had still more
criminal matters in preparation. The cousins, after whom I at last
impatiently inquired, had been found to be quite innocent, only very
generally acquainted with those others, and not at all implicated with
them. My client, by recommending whom to my grandfather I had in fact
put people on the scent, was one of the worst, and bad sued for that
office chiefly that he might undertake or conceal certain villanies.
After all this, I could at last contain myself no longer, and asked
what had become of Gretchen, for whom I, once for all, confessed the
strongest attachment. My friend shook his head and smiled,--"Make
yourself easy," replied he; "this girl has passed her examination very
well, and has borne off honourable testimony to that effect. They could
discover nothing in her but what was good and amiable, the examiners
themselves were well-disposed to her, and could not refuse her desire
of removing from the city. Even what she has confessed in respect to
you, too, my friend, does her honour; I have read her deposition in
the secret reports myself, and seen her signature." "The signature!"
exclaimed I, "which makes me so happy and so miserable. "What has she
confessed, then? What has she subscribed?" My friend delayed answering;
but the cheerfulness of his face showed me that he concealed nothing
dangerous. "If you must know, then," replied he at last, "when she
was interrogated concerning you, and her intercourse with you, she
said quite frankly, 'I cannot deny that I have seen him often and with
pleasure; but I have always treated him as a child, and my affection
for him was truly that of a sister. In many cases I have given him
good advice, and instead of instigating him to any equivocal action, I
have hindered him from taking part in wanton tricks, which might have
brought him into trouble.'"

[Side-note: Change of Feeling Towards Gretchen.]

My friend still went on making Gretchen speak like a governess; but I
bad already for some time ceased to listen to him; for I was terribly
affronted that she had set me down in the reports as a child, and
believed myself at once cured of all passion for her. I even hastily
assured my friend that all was now over. I also spoke no more of her,
named her no more; but I could not leave off the bad habit of thinking
about her, and of recalling her form, her air, her demeanour, though
now, in fact, all appeared to me in quite another light. I felt it
intolerable that a girl, at the most only a couple of years older than
me, should regard me as a child, while I conceived I passed with her
for a very sensible and clever youth. Her cold and repelling manner,
which had before so charmed me, now seemed to me quite repugnant; the
familiarities which she had allowed herself to take with me, but had
not permitted me to return, were altogether odious. Yet all would have
been well enough for me, if by subscribing that poetical love-letter,
in which she had confessed a formal attachment to me, she had not
given me a right to regard her as a sly and selfish coquette. Her
masquerading it at the milliner's, too, no longer seemed to me so
innocent; and I turned these annoying reflections over and over within
myself until I had entirely stripped her of all her amiable qualities.
My judgment was convinced, and I thought I must cast her away; but her
image!--her image gave me the lie as often as it again hovered before
me, which indeed happened often enough.

Nevertheless, this arrow with its barbed hooks was torn out of my
heart, and the question then was, how the inward sanative power of
youth could be brought to one's aid? I really put on the man; and the
first thing instantly laid aside was the weeping and raving, which I
now regarded as childish in the highest degree. A great stride for the
better! For I had often, half the night through, given myself up to
this grief, with the greatest violence, so that at last, from my tears
and sobbing, I came to such a point that I could scarce swallow any
more, the pleasure of eating and drinking became painful to me, and my
breast, which was so nearly concerned, seemed to suffer. The vexation
which I had constantly felt since the discovery, made me banish every
weakness. I found it frightful that I had sacrificed sleep, repose and
health, for the sake of a girl who was pleased to consider me a babe,
and to imagine herself, with respect to me, something very much like a
nurse.

These depressing reflections, as I was soon convinced, were only to be
banished by activity; but of what was I to take hold? I had, indeed,
much to make up for in many things, and to prepare myself, in more
than one sense, for the university, which I was now to attend; but I
relished and accomplished nothing. Much appeared to me familiar and
trivial; for grounding myself, in several respects, I found neither
strength within nor opportunity without; and I therefore suffered
myself to be moved by the taste of my good room-neighbour, to a study
which was altogether new and strange to me, and which for a long time
offered me a wide field of information and thought. My friend began,
namely, to make me acquainted with the secrets of philosophy. He
had studied in Jena, under Daries, and, possessing a well-regulated
mind, had acutely seized the relations of that doctrine, which he now
sought to impart to me. But, unfortunately, these things would not
hang together in such a fashion in my brain. I put questions, which he
promised to answer afterwards; I made demands, which he promised to
satisfy in future. But our most important difference was this, that I
maintained a separate philosophy was not necessary, as the whole of it
was already contained in religion and poetry. This he would by no means
allow, but rather tried to prove to me that these must first be founded
on philosophy; which I stubbornly denied, and at every step in the
progress of our discussions, found arguments for my opinion. For, as
in poetry a certain faith in the impossible, and as in religion a like
faith in the inscrutable, must have a place, the philosophers appeared
to me to be in a very false position who would demonstrate and explain
both of them from their own field of vision. Besides, it was very
quickly proved, from the history of philosophy, that one always sought
a ground different from that of the other, and that the sceptic, in the
end, pronounced everything groundless and useless.

[Side-note: History of Philosophy.]

However, this very history of philosophy, which my friend was compelled
to go over with me, because I could learn nothing from dogmatical
discourse, amused me very much, but only on this account, that one
doctrine or opinion seemed to me as good as another, so far, at least,
as I was capable of penetrating into it. With the most ancient men and
schools I was best pleased, because poetry, religion, and philosophy
were completely combined into one; and I only maintained that first
opinion of mine with the more animation, when the book of Job and
the Song and Proverbs of Solomon, as well as the lays of Orpheus and
Hesiod, seemed to bear valid witness in its favour. My friend had taken
the smaller work of Brucker as the foundation of his discourse; and the
further we went on, the less I could make of it. I could not clearly
see what the first Greek philosophers would have. Socrates I esteemed
as an excellent, wise man, who in his life and death might well be
compared with Christ. His disciples, on the other hand, seemed to me to
bear a strong resemblance to the Apostles, who disagreed immediately
after their Master's death, when each manifestly recognised only a
limited view as the right one. Neither the keenness of Aristotle nor
the fulness of Plato produced the least fruit in me. For the Stoics, on
the contrary, I had already conceived some affection, and even procured
Epictetus, whom I studied with much interest. My friend unwillingly
let me have my way in this one-sidedness, from which he could not draw
me; for, in spite of his varied studies, he did not know how to bring
the leading question into a narrow compass. He need only have said to
me that in life action is everything, and that joy and sorrow come of
themselves. However, youth should be allowed its own course; it does
not stick to false maxims very long; life soon tears or charms it away
again.

The season had become fine; we often went together into the open air,
and visited the places of amusement which surrounded the city in great
numbers. But it was precisely here that matters went worse with me; for
I still saw the ghosts of the cousins everywhere, and feared, now here,
now there, to see one of them step forward. Even the most indifferent
glances of men annoyed me. I had lost that unconscious happiness of
wandering about unknown and unblamed, and of thinking of no observer,
even in the greatest crowds. Now hypochondriacal fancies began to
torment me, as if I attracted the attention of the people, as if their
eyes were turned on my demeanour, to fix it on their memories, to scan
and to find fault.

I therefore drew my friend into the woods, and while I shunned the
monotonous firs, I sought those fine leafy groves, which do not indeed
spread far in the district, but are yet of sufficient compass for a
poor wounded heart to hide itself. In the remotest depth of the forest
I sought out a solemn spot, where the oldest oaks and beeches formed a
large, noble shaded space. The ground was somewhat sloping, and made
the worth of the old trunks only the more perceptible. Round this open
circle closed the densest thickets, from which the mossy rocks mightily
and venerably peered forth, and made a rapid fall for a copious brook.

Scarcely had I compelled my friend hither, who would rather have
been in the open country by the stream, among men, than he playfully
assured me that I showed myself a true German, he related to me
circumstantially, out of Tacitus, how our ancestors found pleasure
in the feelings which nature so provides for us, in such solitudes,
with her inartificial architecture. He had not been long discoursing
of this, when I exclaimed, "Oh! why did not this precious spot lie
in a deeper wilderness! why may we not train a hedge around it, to
hallow and separate from the world both it and ourselves! Surely there
is no more beautiful adoration of the Deity than that which needs no
image, but which springs up in our bosom merely from the intercourse
with nature!" What I then felt, is still present to me; what I said,
I know not how to recall. Thus much, however, is certain, that the
undetermined, widely-expanding feelings of youth and of uncultivated
nations are alone adapted to the sublime, which, if it is to be
excited in us through external objects, formless, or moulded into
incomprehensible forms, must surround us with a greatness to which we
are not equal.

All men, more or less, feel such a disposition of the soul, and seek
to satisfy this noble necessity in various ways. But as the sublime
is easily produced by twilight and night, when objects are blended,
it is, on the other hand, scared away by the day, which separates and
sunders everything, and so must it also be destroyed by every increase
of cultivation, if it be not fortunate enough to take refuge with the
beautiful, and unite itself closely with it, by which both become
equally undying and indestructible.

The brief moments of such enjoyments were still more shortened by my
meditative friend; but when I turned back into the world, it was
altogether in vain that I sought, among the bright and barren objects
around, again to arouse such feelings within me; nay, I could scarce
retain even the remembrance of them. My heart, however, was too far
spoiled to be able to compose itself; it had loved, and the object was
snatched away from it; it had lived, and life to it was embittered.
A friend who makes it too perceptible that he designs to form you,
excites no feeling of comfort; while a woman who is forming you, while
she seems to spoil you, is adored as a heavenly, joy-bringing being.
But that form in which the idea of beauty manifested itself to me, had
vanished far away; it often visited me under the shade of my oak trees,
but I could not hold it fast, and I felt a powerful impulse to seek
something similar in the distance.

[Side-note: Drawing From Nature.]

I had imperceptibly accustomed, nay, compelled my friend and overseer
to leave me alone; for even in my sacred grove, those undefined,
gigantic feelings were not sufficient for me. The eye was, above all
others, the organ by which I seized the world. I had, from childhood,
lived among painters, and had accustomed myself to look at objects,
as they did, with reference to art. Now I was left to myself and to
solitude, this gift, half natural, half acquired, made its appearance.
Wherever I looked, I saw a picture, and whatever struck me, whatever
gave me delight, I washed to fix, and began, in the most awkward
manner, to draw after nature. In this I lacked nothing less than
everything; yet, though without any technical means, I obstinately
persisted in trying to imitate the most magnificent things that offered
themselves to my sight. Thus, to be sure, I acquired a great attention
to objects; but I only seized them as a whole, so far as they produced
an effect; and, little as nature had meant me for a descriptive poet,
just as little would she grant me the capacity of a draughtsman for
details. Since, however, this was the only way left me of expressing
myself, I stuck to it with so much stubbornness, nay, even with
melancholy, that I always continued my labours the more zealously, the
less I saw they produced.

But I will not deny that there was a certain mixture of roguery; for
I had remarked that if I chose for an irksome study a half-shaded
old trunk, to the hugely curved roots of which clung well-lit fern,
combined with twinkling maidenhair, my friend, who knew from experience
that I should not be disengaged in less than an hour commonly resolved
to seek, with his books, some other pleasant little spot. Now nothing
disturbed me in prosecuting my taste, which was so much the more
active, since my paper was endeared to me by the circumstance that I
had accustomed myself to see in it, not so much what stood upon it,
as what I had been thinking of at any time and hour when I drew. Thus
plants and flowers of the commonest kind may form a charming diary for
us, because nothing that calls back the remembrance of a happy moment
can be insignificant; and even now it would be hard for me to destroy
as worthless many things of the kind that have remained to me from
different epochs, because they transport me immediately to those times
which I remember with melancholy indeed, but not unwillingly.

But if such drawings may have had anything of interest in themselves,
they were indebted for this advantage to the sympathy and attention
of my father. He, informed by my overseer that I had become gradually
reconciled to my condition, and, in particular, had applied myself
passionately to drawing from nature, was very well satisfied--partly
because he himself set a high value on drawing and painting, partly
because gossip Seekatz had once said to him, that it was a pity I was
not destined for a painter. But here again the peculiarities of the
father and son came into conflict; for it was almost impossible for
me to make use of a good, white, perfectly clean sheet of paper; grey
old leaves, even if scribbled over on one side already, charmed me
most, just as if my awkwardness had feared the touchstone of a white
ground. Nor were any of my drawings quite finished; and how should I
have executed a whole, which indeed I saw with my eyes, but did not
comprehend, and how an individual object, which I had neither skill
nor patience to follow out? The pedagogism of my father on this point,
too, was really to be admired. He kindly asked for my attempts, and
drew lines round every imperfect sketch. He wished, by this means, to
compel me to completeness and fulness of detail. The irregular leaves
he cut straight, and thus made the beginning of a collection, in which
he wished, at some future time, to rejoice at the progress of his son.
It was therefore by no means disagreeable to him when my wild, restless
disposition sent me roving about the country; he rather seemed pleased
when I brought back a parcel of drawings on which he could exercise his
patience, and in some measure strengthen his hopes.

They no longer said that I might relapse into my former attachments
and connexions; they left me by degrees perfect liberty. By accidental
inducements and in accidental society I undertook many journeys to
the mountain-range which, from my childhood, had stood so distant and
solemn before me. Thus we visited Homburg, Kroneburg, ascended the
Feldberg, from which the prospect invited us still further and further
into the distance. Königstein, too, was not left unvisited; Wiesbaden,
Schwalbach, with its environs, occupied us many days; we reached the
Rhine, which, from the heights, we had seen winding along far off.
Mentz astonished us, but could not chain a youthful mind, which was
running into the open country; we were delighted with the situation of
Biberich; and, contented and happy, we resumed our journey home.

This whole tour, from which my father had promised himself many a
drawing, might have been almost without fruit; for what taste, what
talent, what experience does it not require to seize an extensive
landscape as a picture! I was again imperceptibly drawn into a narrow
compass, from which I derived some profit; for I met no ruined castle,
no piece of wall which pointed to antiquity, that I did not think an
object worthy of my pencil, and imitate as well as I could. Even the
stone of Drusus, on the ramparts of Mentz, I copied at some risk,
and with inconveniences which every one must experience who wishes
to carry home with him some pictorial reminiscences of his travels.
Unfortunately I had again taken with me nothing but the most miserable
common paper, and had clumsily crowded several objects into one sheet.
But my paternal teacher was not perplexed at this; he cut the sheets
apart, had the parts which belonged to each other put together by the
bookbinder, surrounded the single leaves with lines, and thus actually
compelled me to draw the outline of different mountains up to the
margin, and to fill up the foreground with some weeds and stones.

If his faithful endeavours could not increase my talent, nevertheless
this mark of his love of order had upon me a secret influence, which
afterwards manifested itself vigorously in more ways than one.

[Side-note: Goethe's Sister.]

From such rambling excursions, undertaken partly for pleasure, partly
for art, and which could be performed in a short time and often
repeated, I was again drawn home, and that by a magnet which always
acted upon me strongly: this was my sister. She, only a year younger
than I, had lived my whole conscious period of life with me, and was
thus bound to me by the closest ties. To these natural causes was
added a forcible motive, which proceeded from our domestic position; a
father certainly affectionate and well-meaning, but grave, who, because
he cherished within a very tender heart, externally, with incredible
consistency, maintained a brazen sternness, that he might attain the
end of giving his children the best education, and of building up,
regulating, and preserving his well-founded house; a mother, on the
other hand, as yet almost a child, who first grew up to consciousness
with and in her two eldest children; these three, as they looked at
the world with healthy eyes, capable of life, and desiring present
enjoyment. This contradiction floating in the family increased with
years. My father followed out his views unshaken and uninterrupted; the
mother and children could not give up their feelings, their claims,
their wishes.

Under these circumstances it was natural that brother and sister should
attach themselves close to each other, and adhere to their mother, that
they might singly snatch the pleasures forbidden as a whole. But since
the hours of solitude and toil were very long compared to the moments
of recreation and enjoyment, especially for my sister, who could never
leave the house for so long a time as I could, the necessity she felt
for entertaining herself with me was still sharpened by the sense of
longing with which she accompanied me to a distance.

And as, in our first years, playing and learning, growth and education,
had been quite common to both of us, so that we might well have been
taken for twins, so did this community, this confidence, remain during
the development of our physical and moral powers. That interest of
youth, that amazement at the awakening of sensual impulses which
clothe themselves in mental forms, of mental necessities which clothe
themselves in sensual images, all the reflections upon these, which
obscure rather than enlighten us, as the fog covers over and does not
illumine the vale from which it is about to rise, the many errors and
aberrations springing therefrom,--all these the brother and sister
shared and endured hand in hand, and were the less enlightened as to
their strange condition, as the nearer they wished to approach each
other, to clear up their minds, the more forcibly did the sacred awe
of their close relationship keep them apart.

Reluctantly do I mention, in general terms, what I undertook to set
forth, years ago, without being able to accomplish it. As I lost this
beloved, incomprehensible being, but too soon, I felt inducement enough
to make, her worth present to me, and thus arose in me the conception
of a poetic whole, in which it might be possible to exhibit her
individuality: but for this no other form could be devised than that
of the Richardsonian novels. Only by the minutest detail, by endless
particularities which bear vividly all the character of the whole,
and as they spring up from a wonderful depth give some feeling of
that depth;--only in such a manner would it have been in some degree
possible to give a representation of this remarkable personality: for
the spring can be apprehended only while it is flowing. But from this
beautiful and pious design, as from so many others, the tumult of the
world drew me back, and nothing now remains for me but to call up for a
moment that blessed spirit, as if by the aid of a magic mirror.

[Side-note: Goethe's Sister.]

She was tall, well and delicately formed, and had something naturally
dignified in her demeanour, which melted away into a pleasing mildness.
The lineaments of her face, neither striking nor beautiful, indicated
a character which was not and could not be at union with itself. Her
eyes were not the finest I have ever seen, but the deepest, behind
which you expected the most; and when they expressed any affection, any
love, their brilliancy was unequalled. And yet, properly speaking, this
expression was not tender, like that which comes from the heart, and
at the same time carries with it something of longing and desire; this
expression came from the soul, it was full and rich, it seemed as if it
would only give, without needing to receive.

But what in a manner quite peculiar disfigured her face, so that she
would often appear positively ugly, was the fashion of those times,
which not only bared the forehead, but, either accidentally or on
purpose, did everything apparently or really to enlarge it. Now, as
she had the most feminine, most neatly arched forehead, and moreover a
pair of strong black eyebrows, and prominent eyes, these circumstances
occasioned a contrast, which, if it did not repel every stranger at the
first glance, at least did not attract him. She early felt it, and this
feeling became constantly the more painful to her, the further she
advanced into the years when both sexes find an innocent pleasure in
being mutually agreeable.

To nobody can his own form be repugnant; the ugliest as well as the
most beautiful has a right to enjoy his own presence; and as favour
beautifies, and every one regards himself in the looking-glass with
favour, it may be asserted that every one must see himself with
complacency, even if he would struggle against the feeling. Yet my
sister had such a decided foundation of good sense, that she could
not possibly be blind and silly in this respect; on the contrary, she
perhaps knew more clearly than she ought, that she stood far behind her
female playfellows in external beauty, without feeling consoled by the
fact that she infinitely surpassed them in internal advantages.

If a lady can be recompensed for the want of beauty, then was she
richly so by the unbounded confidence, the regard, and love which
all her female friends bore to her; whether they were older or
younger, all cherished the same sentiments. A very pleasant society
had collected around her; young men were not wanting who knew how to
insinuate themselves; nearly every girl found an admirer; she alone
had remained without a partner. Indeed, if her exterior was in some
measure repulsive, the mind that gleamed through it was also rather
repelling than attractive; for the presence of any excellence throws
others back upon themselves. She felt this sensibly, she did not
conceal it from me, and her love was directed to me with so much the
greater force. The ease was singular enough. As confidants to whom one
reveals a love-affair actually by genuine sympathy become lovers also,
nay, grow into rivals, and at last, perchance, transfer the passion to
themselves, so it was with us two: for, when my connexion with Gretchen
was torn asunder, my sister consoled me the more earnestly, because she
secretly felt the satisfaction of having gotten rid of a rival; and
I, too, could not but feel a quiet, half-mischievous pleasure, when
she did me the justice to assure me that I was the only one who truly
loved, understood, and esteemed her. If now, from time to time, my
grief for the loss of Gretchen revived, and I suddenly began to weep,
to lament, and to act in a disorderly manner, my despair for my lost
one awakened in her likewise a similar despairing impatience as to
the never-possessings, the failures, and miscarriages of such youthful
attachments, that we both thought ourselves infinitely unhappy, and
the more so as, in this singular case, the confidants could not change
themselves into lovers.

[Side-note: The Sister's Lover.]

Fortunately, however, the capricious god of Love, who needlessly
does so much mischief, here for once interfered beneficially, to
extricate us out of all perplexity. I had much intercourse with a
young Englishman who was educated in Pfeil's boarding-school. He could
give a good account of his own language, I practised it with him, and
thus learned much concerning his country and people. He went in and
out of our house long enough without my remarking in him a liking
for my sister, yet he may have been nourishing it in secret, even to
passion, for at last it declared itself unexpectedly and at once. She
knew him, she esteemed him, and he deserved it. She had often made the
third at our English conversations, we had both tried to catch from
his mouth the irregularities of the English pronunciation, and thereby
accustomed ourselves not only to the peculiarities of its accent and
sound, but even to what was most peculiar in the personal qualities
of our teacher; so that at last it sounded strangely enough when we
all seemed to speak as if out of one mouth. The pains he took to learn
as much German from us in the like manner, were to no purpose, and I
think I have remarked that even this little love-affair also, both in
speaking and writing, was carried on in the English language. Both
the young persons were very well suited to each other; he was tall
and well-built, as she was, only still more slender; his face, small
and compact, might really have been pretty, had it not been too much
disfigured by the small-pox; his manner was calm, precise, one might
often have called it dry and cold; but his heart was full of kindness
and love, his soul full of generosity, and his attachments as lasting
as they were decided and controlled. Now this serious pair, who had but
lately formed an attachment, were quite peculiarly distinguished among
the others, who, being already better acquainted with each other, of
more frivolous character, and careless as to the future, roved about
with levity in these connexions, which commonly pass away as the mere
fruitless prelude to subsequent and more serious ties, and very seldom
produce a lasting effect upon life.

The fine weather and the beautiful country did not remain unenjoyed by
so lively a company; water excursions were frequently arranged, because
these are the most sociable of all parties of pleasure. Yet whether
we were moving on water or on land, the individual attracting powers
immediately showed themselves; each couple kept together, and for some
men who were not engaged, of whom I was one, there remained either
no conversation with the ladies at all, or only such as no one would
have chosen for a day of pleasure. A friend who found himself in this
situation, and who might have been in want of a partner chiefly for
this reason, that with the best humour he lacked tenderness, and with
much intelligence, that delicate attention, without which connexions of
this kind are not to be thought of;--this man, after often humorously
and wittily lamenting his condition, promised at the next meeting to
make a proposal which would benefit himself and the whole company. Nor
did he fail to perform his promise: for, when after a brilliant trip by
water, and a very pleasant walk, reclining on the grass between shady
knolls, or sitting on mossy rocks and roots of trees, we had cheerfully
and happily consumed a rural meal, and our friend saw us all cheerful
and in good spirits, he, with a waggish dignity, commanded us to sit
close round him in a semicircle, before which he stepped, and began to
make an emphatic peroration as follows:--

"Most worthy friends of both sexes, paired and unpaired!"--It was
already evident, from this address, how necessary it was that a
preacher of repentance should arise and sharpen the conscience of the
company. "One part of my noble friends is paired, and they may find
themselves quite happy; another unpaired, and these find themselves
in the highest degree miserable, as I can assure you from my own
experience; and although the loving couples are here in the majority,
yet I would have them consider whether it is not a social duty to take
thought for the whole? Why do so many of us unite together but to take
a mutual interest in each other? and how can that be done when so many
little secessions are to be seen in our circle? Far be it from me to
insinuate any thing against such sweet connexions, or even to wish to
disturb them; but 'there is a time for all things!' an excellent great
saying, of which, indeed, nobody thinks when his own amusement is
sufficiently provided for."

He then went on with constantly increasing liveliness and gaiety to
compare the social virtues with the tender sentiments. "The latter,"
said he, "can never fail us; we always carry them about with us, and
every one becomes a master in them without practice; but we must go in
quest of the former, we must take some trouble about them, and though
we progress in them as much as we will, we have never done learning
them." Now he went into particulars. Many felt themselves hit off, and
they could not help casting glances at each other; yet our friend had
this privilege, that nothing he did was taken ill, and so he could
proceed without interruption.

[Side-note: Humorous Oration.]

"It is not enough to discover deficiencies; indeed, it is unjust to
do so, if at the same time one cannot contrive to give the means for
bettering the state of affairs. I will not, therefore, my friends,
something like a preacher in Passion-week, exhort you in general terms
to repentance and amendment; I rather wish all amiable couples the
longest and most enduring happiness, and to contribute to it myself in
the surest manner, I propose to sever and abolish these most charming
little segregations during our social hours. I have," he continued,
"already provided for the execution of my project, if it should
meet your approbation. Here is a bag in which are the names of the
gentlemen; now draw, my fair ones, and be pleased to favour as your
servant, for a week, him whom fate shall send you. This is binding only
within our circle; as soon as that is broken up, these connexions are
also abolished, and the heart may decide who shall attend you home."

A large part of the company had been delighted with this address, and
the manner in which he delivered it, and seemed to approve of the
notion; yet some couples looked at each other as if they thought that
it would not answer their purpose: he therefore cried with humorous
vehemence:--

"Truly! it surprises me that some one does not spring up, and, though
others hesitate, extol my plan, explain its advantages, and spare me
the pain of being my own encomiast. I am the oldest among you; may God
forgive me for that! Already have I a bald pate, which is owing to my
great meditation,"--

Here he took off his hat--

"But I would expose it to view with joy and honour if my lucubrations,
which dry up my skin, and rob me of my finest adornment, could only
be in some measure beneficial to myself and others. We are young, my
friends,--that is good; we shall grow older,--that is bad; we take
little offence at each other,--that is right, and in accordance with
the season. But soon, my friends, the days will come when we shall have
much to be displeased at in ourselves; then let every one see that he
makes all right with himself; but, at the same time, others will take
things ill of us, and on what account we shall not understand; for this
we must prepare ourselves; this shall now be done."

He had delivered the whole speech, but especially the last part, with
the tone and gesture of a Capuchin; for as he was a catholic, he might
have had abundant opportunity to study the oratory of these fathers.
He now appeared out of breath, wiped his youthful bald head, which
really gave him the look of a priest, and by these drolleries put the
light-hearted company in such good humour that every one was eager to
hear him longer. But instead of proceeding, he drew open the bag, and
turned to the nearest lady--"Now for a trial of it!" exclaimed he; "the
work will do credit to the master. If in a week's time we do not like
it, we will give it up, and stick to the old plan."

Half willingly, half on compulsion, the ladies drew their tickets,
and it was easy to see that various passions were in play during this
little affair. Fortunately it happened that the merry-minded were
separated, while the more serious remained together; and so, too, my
sister kept her Englishman, which, on both sides, they took very kindly
of the god of Love and Luck. The new chance-couples were immediately
united by the _Antistes_, their healths were drank, and to all the more
joy was wished, as its duration was to be but short. This was certainly
the merriest moment that our company had enjoyed for a long time. The
young men to whose share no lady had fallen, held, for this week, the
office of providing for the mind, the soul, and the body, as our orator
expressed himself, but especially, he hinted, for the soul, since both
the others already knew how to help themselves.

These masters of ceremonies, who wished at once to do themselves
credit, brought into play some very pretty new games, prepared at some
distance a supper, which we had not reckoned on, and illuminated the
yacht on our return at night, although there was no necessity for it
in the bright moonlight; but they excused themselves by saying that
it was quite conformable to the new social regulation to outshine the
tender glances of the heavenly moon by earthly candles. The moment we
touched the shore, our Solon cried, "_Ite, missa est!_" Each one now
handed out of the vessel the lady who had fallen to him by lot, and
then surrendered her to her proper partner, on receiving his own in
exchange.

At our next meeting this weekly regulation was established for the
summer, and the lots were drawn once more. There was no question but
that this pleasantry gave a new and unexpected turn to the company,
and every one was stimulated to display whatever of wit and grace
was in him, and to pay court to his temporary fair one in the most
obliging manner, since he might depend on having a sufficient store of
complaisance for one week at least.

[Side-note: Second Oration.]

We had scarcely settled ourselves, than, instead of thanking our
orator, we reproached him for having kept to himself the best part
of his speech--the conclusion. He thereupon protested that the best
part of a speech was persuasion; and that he who did not aim at
persuasion should make no speech; for, as to conviction, that was a
ticklish business. As, however, they gave him no peace, he began a
Capuchinade on the spot, more comical than ever, perhaps, for the very
reason that he took it into his head to speak on the most serious
subjects. For, with texts out of the Bible which had nothing to do with
the business--with similes which did not fit--with allusions which
illustrated nothing--he carried out the proposition, that whosoever
does not know how to conceal his passions, inclinations, wishes,
purposes and plans, will come to no good in the world, but will be
disturbed and made a butt in every end and corner; and that especially
if one would be happy in love, one must take pains to keep it a most
profound secret.

This thought ran through the whole, without, properly speaking, a
single word of it being said. If you would form a conception of
this singular man, let it be considered that, being born with a
good foundation, he had cultivated his talents, and especially his
acuteness, in Jesuit schools, and had amassed an extensive knowledge
of the world and of men, but only on the bad side. He was some
two-and-twenty years old, and would gladly have made me a proselyte to
his contempt for mankind: but this would not take with me, as I always
had a great desire to be good myself, and to find good in others.
Meanwhile I was by him made attentive to many things.

To complete the _dramatis personæ_ of every merry company, an actor
is necessary, who feels pleasure when the others, to enliven many an
indifferent moment, point the arrows of their wit at him. If he is
not merely a stuffed Saracen, like those on whom the knights used to
practise their lances in mock battles, but understands himself how
to skirmish, to rally and to challenge, how to wound lightly, and
recover himself again, and, while he seems to expose himself, to give
others a thrust home, nothing more agreeable can be found. Such a
man we possessed in our friend Horn, whose name, to begin with, gave
occasion for all sorts of jokes, and who, on account of his small
figure, was called nothing but Hörnchen (little Horn). He was, in
fact, the smallest in the company, of a stout, but pleasing form; a
pug-nose, a mouth somewhat pouting, little sparkling eyes, made up
a swarthy countenance, which always seemed to invite laughter. His
little compact skull was thickly covered with curly black hair; his
beard was prematurely blue, and he would have liked to let it grow,
that, as a comic mask, he might always keep the company laughing. For
the rest, he was neat and nimble, but insisted that he had bandy legs,
which everybody granted, since he was bent on having it so, but about
which many a joke arose; for since he was in request as a very good
dancer he reckoned it among the peculiarities of the fair sex, that
they always liked to see bandy legs on the floor. His cheerfulness was
indestructible, and his presence at every meeting indispensable. We
two kept more together because he was to follow me to the university;
and he well deserves that I should mention him with all honour, as he
adhered to me for many years with infinite love, faithfulness, and
patience.

By my ease in rhyming, and in winning from common objects a poetical
side, he had allowed himself to be seduced into similar labours. Our
little social excursions, parties of pleasure, and the contingencies
that occurred in them, we decked out poetically, and thus by the
description of an event, a new event always arose. But as such social
jests commonly degenerate into personal ridicule, and my friend Horn,
with his burlesque representations, did not always keep within proper
bounds, many a misunderstanding arose, which, however, could soon be
softened down and effaced.

Thus, also, he tried his skill in a species of poetry which was then
very much the order of the day--the comic heroical poem. Pope's _Rape
of the Lock_ had called forth many imitations; Zachariä cultivated this
branch of poetry on German soil, and it pleased every one, because the
ordinary subject of it was some awkward fellow, of whom the genii made
game, while they favoured the better one.

It is not wonderful, but yet it excites wonder, when, in contemplating
a literature, especially the German, one observes how a whole nation
cannot get free from a subject which has been once given, and happily
treated in a certain form, but will have it repeated in every manner,
until, at last, the original itself is covered up, and stifled by the
heaps of imitations.

[Side-note: Comic Heroical Poetry.]

The heroic poem of my friend was a voucher for this remark. At a great
sledging party, an awkward man has assigned to him a lady who does not
like him; comically enough there befalls him, one after another, every
accident that can happen on such an occasion, until at last, as he is
entreating for the sledge-driver's right (a kiss), he falls from the
back seat; for just then, as was natural, the fates tripped him up.
The fair one seizes the reins, and drives home alone, where a favoured
friend receives her, and triumphs over his presumptuous rival. As to
the rest, it was very prettily contrived that the four different kinds
of spirits should worry him in turn, till at the end the gnomes hoist
him completely out of the saddle. The poem, written in Alexandrines,
and founded on a true story, highly delighted our little public, and we
were convinced that it could well be compared with the _Walpurgisnight_
of Löwen, or the _Renommist_ of Zachariä.[1]

While, now, our social pleasures required but an evening, and the
preparations for them only a few hours, I had enough time to read, and,
as I thought, to study. To please my father, I diligently repeated the
smaller work of Hopp, and could stand an examination in it forwards and
backwards, by which means I made myself complete master of the chief
contents of the Institutes. But a restless eagerness for knowledge
urged me further; I lit upon the history of ancient literature, and
from that fell into an encyclopedism, in which I read through Gessner's
_Isagoge_ and Morhov's _Polyhistor_, and thus gained a general notion
of how many strange things might have happened in learning and life. By
this persevering and rapid industry, continued day and night, I more
confused than instructed myself; but I lost myself in a still greater
labyrinth when I found Bayle in my father's library, and plunged deep
into him.

But a leading conviction, which was continually revived within me, was
that of the importance of the ancient tongues; since from amidst this
literary hurly-burly, thus much continually forced itself upon me, that
in them were preserved all the models of oratory, and at the same time
everything else of worth that the world has ever possessed. Hebrew,
together with biblical studies, had retired into the background, and
Greek likewise, since my acquaintance with it did not extend beyond
the New Testament. I therefore the more zealously kept to Latin,
the master-pieces in which lie nearer to us, and which, besides its
splendid original productions, offers us the other wealth of all ages
in translations, and the works of the greatest scholars. I consequently
read much in this language, with great ease, and was bold enough to
believe I understood the authors, because I missed nothing of the
literal sense. Indeed I was very indignant when I heard that Grotius
had insolently declared, "he did not read Terence as boys do." Happy
narrow-mindedness of youth!--nay, of men in general, that they can, at
every moment of their existence, fancy themselves finished, and inquire
after neither the true nor the false, after neither the high nor the
deep, but merely after that which is suited to them.

I had thus learned Latin, like German, French, and English, merely by
practice, without rules, and without conception. Whoever knows the
condition of school instruction then, will not think it strange that I
skipped grammar as well as rhetoric; all seemed to me to come together
naturally; I retained the words, their forms and inflexions, in my ear
and mind, and used the language with case in writing and in chattering.

[Side-note: Disgust at Frankfort.]

Michaelmas, the time when I was to go to the university, was
approaching, and my mind was excited quite as much about my life
as about my learning. I grew more and more clearly conscious of an
aversion to my native city. By Gretchen's removal, the heart had
been broken out of the boyish and youthful plant; it needed time to
bud forth again from its sides, and surmount the first injury by a
new growth. My ramblings through the streets had ceased; I now, like
others, only went such ways as were necessary. I never went again into
Gretchen's quarter of the city, not even into its vicinity; and as
my old walls and towers became gradually disagreeable to me, so also
was I displeased at the constitution of the city; all that hitherto
seemed so worthy of honour, now appeared to me in distorted shapes.
As grandson of the Schultheiss, the secret defects of such a republic
had not remained unknown to me; the less so, as children feel quite
a peculiar surprise, and are excited to busy researches, as soon as
something which they have hitherto implicitly revered becomes in any
degree suspicious to them. The fruitless indignation of upright men, in
opposition to those who are to be gained and even bribed by factions,
had become but too plain to me; I hated every injustice beyond measure;
for children are all moral rigorists. My father, who was concerned in
the affairs of the city only as a private citizen, expressed himself
with very lively indignation about much that had failed. And did I not
see him, after so many studies, endeavours, pains, travels, and so much
varied cultivation, between his four walls, leading a solitary life,
such as I could never desire for myself? All this put together, lay
as a horrible load on my mind, from which I could only free myself by
trying to contrive a plan of life altogether different from that which
had been marked out for me. In thought, I threw away my legal studies,
and devoted myself solely to the languages, to antiquities, to history,
and to all that flows from them.

Indeed, at all times, the poetic imitation of what I had perceived in
myself, in others, and in nature, afforded me the greatest pleasure. I
did it with ever-increasing facility, because it came by instinct, and
no criticism had led me astray; and if I did not feel full confidence
in my productions, I could certainly regard them as defective, but not
such as to be utterly rejected. Was this or that censured in them, I
still retained in private my conviction that I could not but gradually
improve, and that some time I might be honourably named along with
Hagedorn, Gellert, and other such men. But such a distinction alone
seemed to me too empty and inadequate; I wished to devote myself
professionally and with zeal to those aforesaid fundamental studies,
and while I thought to advance myself more rapidly in my own works
by a more thorough insight into antiquity, to qualify myself for a
university professorship, which seemed to me the most desirable thing
for a young man who intended to cultivate himself and to contribute to
the cultivation of others.

With these intentions, I always had my eye upon Göttingen. My whole
confidence rested upon men like Heyne, Michaelis, and so many others;
my most ardent wish was to sit at their feet, and attend to their
instructions. But my father remained inflexible. Howsoever some family
friends, who were of my opinion, tried to influence him he persisted
that I must go to Leipzig. I was now resolved, contrary to his views
and wishes, to choose a line of studies and of life for myself, by way
of self-defence. The obstinacy of my father, who, without knowing it,
opposed himself to my plans, strengthened me in my impiety, so that I
made no scruple to listen to him by the hour, while he described and
repeated to me the course of study and of life which I should pursue at
the universities and in the world.

Since all hopes of Göttingen were cut off, I now turned my eyes towards
Leipzig. There Ernesti appeared to me as a brilliant light; Morus,
too, already awakened much confidence*. I planned for myself in secret
an opposition-course, or rather I built a castle in the air, on a
tolerably solid foundation; and it seemed to me quite romantically
honourable to mark out my own path of life, which appeared the less
visionary, as Griesbach had already made great progress in a similar
way, and was commended for it by every one. The secret joy of a
prisoner, when he has unbound the fetters and rapidly filed through
the bars of his gaol-window, cannot be greater than was mine as I saw
day after day disappear, and October draw nigh. The inclement season
and the bad roads, of which everybody had something to tell, did not
frighten me. The thought of making good my footing in a strange place,
and in winter, did not make me sad; suffice it to say, that I only saw
my present situation was gloomy, and represented to myself the other
unknown world as light and cheerful. Thus I formed my dreams, to which
I gave myself up exclusively, and promised myself nothing but happiness
and content in the distance.

Closely as I kept these projects a secret from every one else, I could
not hide them from my sister, who, after being very much alarmed about
them at first, was finally consoled when I promised to send after her,
so that she could enjoy with me the brilliant station I was to obtain,
and share my comfort with me.

Michaelmas, so longingly expected, came at last, when I set out with
delight, in company with the bookseller Fleischer and his wife (whose
maiden name was Triller, and who was going to visit her father in
Wittemberg); and I left behind me the worthy city in which I had been
born and bred, with indifference, as if I wished never to set foot in
it again.

Thus, at certain epochs, children part from parents, servants from
masters, _protégés_ from their patrons; and whether it succeed or
not, such an attempt to stand on one's own feet, to make one's self
independent, to live for one's self, is always in accordance with the
will of nature.

[Side-note: Departure for Leipzig.]

We had driven out through the Allerheiligen (_All Saints_) gate, and
had soon left Hanau behind us, after which we reached scenes which
aroused my attention by their novelty, if, at this season of the year,
they offered little that was pleasing. A continual rain had completely
spoiled the roads, which, generally speaking, were not then in such
good order as we find them now; and our journey "was thus neither
pleasant nor happy. Yet I was indebted to this damp weather for the
sight of a natural phenomenon which must be exceedingly rare, for I
have seen nothing like it since, nor have I heard of its being observed
by others. At night, namely, we were driving up a rising ground
between Hanau and Gelhausen, and, although it was dark, we preferred
walking to exposing ourselves to the danger and difficulty of that
part of the road. All at once, in a ravine on the right-hand side of
the way, I saw a sort of amphitheatre, wonderfully illuminated. In a
funnel-shaped space there were innumerable little lights gleaming,
ranged step-fashion over one another, and they shone so brilliantly
that the eye was dazzled. But what stiff more confused the sight
was, that they did not keep still, but jumped about here and there,
as well downwards from above as _vice versâ_, and in every direction.
The most of them, however, remained stationary, and beamed on. It was
only with the greatest reluctance that I suffered myself to be called
away from this spectacle, which I could have wished to examine more
closely. On interrogating the postillion, he indeed knew nothing about
such a phenomenon, but said that there was in the neighbourhood an
old stone-quarry, the excavation of which was filled with water. Now
whether this was a pandemonium of will-o'-the-wisps, or a company of
shining creatures, I will not decide.

The roads through Thuringia were yet worse, and unfortunately, at
night-fall, our coach stuck fast in the vicinity of Auerstädt. We
were far removed from all mankind, and did everything possible to
work ourselves out. I failed not to exert myself zealously, and
might thereby have overstrained the ligaments of my chest; for soon
afterwards I felt a pain, which went off and returned, and did not
leave me entirely until after many years.

Yet on that same night, as if it had been destined for alternate good
and bad luck, I was forced, after an unexpectedly fortunate incident,
to experience a teazing vexation. We met, in Auerstädt, a genteel
married couple, who had also just arrived, having been delayed by a
similar accident; a pleasing, dignified man, in his best years, with a
very handsome wife. They politely persuaded us to sup in their company,
and I felt very happy when the excellent lady addressed a friendly
word to me. But when I was sent out to accelerate the soup which had
been ordered, not having been accustomed to the loss of rest and the
fatigues of travelling, such an unconquerable drowsiness overtook me,
that actually I fell asleep while walking, returned into the room with
my hat on my head, and without remarking that the others were saying
grace, placed myself with quiet unconsciousness behind the chair,
and never dreamed that by my conduct I had come to disturb their
devotions in a very droll way. Madame Fleischer, who lacked neither
spirit nor wit, nor tongue, entreated the strangers, before they had
seated themselves, not to be surprised at anything they might see
here; for that their young fellow-traveller had in his nature much of
the peculiarity of the Quakers, who believe that they cannot honour
God and the king better than with covered heads. The handsome lady,
who could not restrain her laughter, looked prettier than ever in
consequence, and I would have given everything in the world not to have
been the cause of a merriment which was so beautifully becoming in her
countenance. I had, however, scarcely laid aside my hat, than these
persons, in accordance with their polished manners, immediately dropped
the joke, and with the best wine from their bottle-case completely
extinguished sleep, chagrin, and the memory of all past troubles.

[Side-note: Leipzig.]

I arrived in Leipzig just at the time of the fair, from which I derived
particular pleasure: for here I saw before me the continuation of
a state of things belonging to my native city, familiar wares and
traders;--only in other places, and in a different order. I rambled
about the market and the booths with much interest, but my attention
was particularly attracted by the inhabitants of the Eastern countries
in their strange dresses, the Poles and Russians, and above all, the
Greeks, for the sake of whose handsome forms and dignified costume I
often went to the spot.

But this animating bustle was soon over, and now the city itself
appeared before me, with its handsome, high, and uniform houses. It
made a very good impression upon me, and it cannot be denied, that in
general, but especially in the silent moments of Sundays and holidays,
it has something imposing; and when in the moonlight the streets were
half in shadow, half-illuminated, they often invited me to nocturnal
promenades.

In the meantime, as compared with that to which I had hitherto been
accustomed, this new state of affairs was by no means satisfactory.
Leipzig calls up before the spectator no antique time; it is a new,
recently elapsed epoch, testifying commercial activity, comfort and
wealth, which announces itself to us in these monuments. Yet quite to
my taste were the huge-looking buildings, which, fronting two streets,
and embracing a citizen-world within their large court-yards, built
round with lofty walls, are like large castles, nay, even half-cities.
In one of these strange places I quartered myself, namely, in the
Bombshell Tavern (_Teuerkugel_), between the Old and the New Newmarket
(_Neumarkt._) A couple of pleasant rooms looking out upon a court-yard,
which, on account of the thoroughfare, was not without animation, were
occupied by the bookseller Fleischer during the fair; and by me taken
for the rest of the time at a moderate price. As a fellow-lodger I
found a theological student, who was deeply learned in his professional
studies, a sound thinker, but poor, and suffering much from his eyes,
which caused him great anxiety for the future. He had brought this
affliction upon himself by his inordinate reading till the latest dusk
of the evening, and even by moonlight, to save a little oil. Our old
hostess showed herself benevolent to him, always friendly to me, and
careful for us both.

[Side-note: Gellert.]

I now hastened-with my letters of introduction to Hofrath Böhme, who
once a pupil of Maskow, and now his successor, was professor of history
and public law. A little, thick-set, lively man, received me kindly
enough, and introduced me to his wife. Both of them, as well as the
other persons whom I waited on, gave me the pleasantest hopes as to
my future residence; but at first I let no one know of the design I
entertained, although I could scarcely wait for the favourable moment
when I should declare myself free from jurisprudence, and devoted to
the study of the classics. I cautiously waited till the Fleischers
had returned, that my purpose might not be too prematurely betrayed
to my family. But I then went, without delay, to Hofrath Böhme, to
whom, before all, I thought I must confide the matter, and with much
self-importance and boldness of speech disclosed my views to him.
However, I found by no means a good reception of my proposition. As
professor of history and public law, he had a declared hatred for
everything that savoured of the _belles lettres._ Unfortunately he
did not stand on the best footing with those who cultivated them, and
Gellert in particular, in whom I had, awkwardly enough, expressed much
confidence, he could not even endure. To send a faithful student to
those men, therefore, while he deprived himself of one, and especially
under such circumstances, seemed to him altogether out of the question.
He therefore gave me a severe lecture on the spot, in which he
protested that he could not permit such a step without the permission
of my parents, even if he approved of it himself, which was not the
case in this instance. He then passionately inveighed against philology
and the study of languages, but still more against poetical exercises,
which I had indeed allowed to peep out in the back-ground. He finally
concluded that, if I wished to enter more closely into the study of the
ancients, it could be done much better by the way of jurisprudence.
He brought to my recollection many elegant jurists, such as Eberhard,
Otto, and Heineccius, promised me mountains of gold from Roman
antiquities and the history of law, and showed me, clear as the sun,
that I should here be taking no roundabout way, even if afterwards,
on more mature deliberation, and with the consent of my parents, I
should determine to follow out my own plan. He begged me, in a friendly
manner, to think the matter over once more, and to open my mind to him
soon, as it would be necessary to come to a determination at once, on
account of the impending commencement of the lectures.

It was, however, very polite of him not to press me on the spot. His
arguments, and the weight with which he advanced them, had already
convinced my pliant youth, and I now first saw the difficulties and
doubtfulness of a matter which I had privately pictured to myself as so
feasible. Frau Hofrath Böhme invited me to see her shortly afterwards.
I found her alone. She was no longer young, and had very delicate
health, was gentle and tender to an infinite degree, and formed a
decided contrast to her husband, whose good-nature was even clustering.
She spoke of the conversation her husband had lately had with me, and
once more placed the subject before me, in all its bearings, in so
cordial a manner, so affectionately and sensibly, that I could not help
yielding; the few reservations on which I insisted were also agreed
upon by the other side.

Thereupon her husband regulated my hours: for I was to hear lectures on
philosophy, the history of law, the Institutes, and some other matters.
I was content with this; but I carried my point so as to attend
Gellert's history of literature (with Stockhausen for a text-book), and
his _Practicum_ besides.

The reverence and love with which Gellert was regarded by all young
people was extraordinary. I had already visited him, and had been
kindly received by him. Not of tall stature, elegant without being
lean, soft and rather pensive eyes, a very fine forehead, a nose
aquiline, but not too much so, a delicate mouth, a face of an agreeable
oval,--all made his presence pleasing and desirable. It cost some
trouble to reach him His two _Famuli_ appeared like priests who guard a
sanctuary, the access to which is not permitted to everybody, nor at
every time; and such a precaution was very necessary: for he would have
sacrificed his whole time, had he been willing to receive and satisfy
all those who wished to become intimate with him.

At first I attended my lectures assiduously and faithfully: but the
philosophy would not enlighten me at all. In the logic it seemed
strange to me that I had so to tear asunder, isolate, and, as it
were, destroy those operations of the mind which I had performed
with the greatest ease from my youth upwards, and this in order to
see into the right use of them. Of the thing itself, of the world,
and of God, I thought I knew about as much as the professor himself,
and in more places than one the affair seemed to me to come into a
tremendous strait. Yet all went on in tolerable order till towards
Shrovetide, when, in the neighbourhood of Professor Winkler's house on
the _Thomas-place_, the most delicious fritters came hot out of the
pan just at the hour of lecture, and these delayed us so long, that
our note-books became disordered, and the conclusion of them, towards
spring, melted away, together with the snow, and was lost.

It was soon quite as bad with the law lectures: for I already knew
just as much as the professor thought good to communicate to us. My
stubborn industry in writing down the lectures at first, was paralyzed
by degrees, for I found it excessively tedious to pen down once more
that which, partly by question, partly by answer, I had repeated with
my father often enough to retain it for ever in my memory. The harm
which is done when young people at school are advanced too far in many
things, was afterwards manifested still more when time and attention
were diverted from exercises in the languages, and a foundation in what
are, properly speaking, preparatory studies, in order to be applied to
what are called "Realities," which dissipate more than they cultivate,
if they are not methodically and thoroughly taught.

I here mention, by the way, another evil by which students are much
embarrassed. Professors, as well as other men in office, cannot all
be of the same age; but when the younger ones teach, in fact, only
that they may learn, and moreover, it they have talent, anticipate
their age, they acquire their own cultivation altogether at the cost
of their hearers, since these are not instructed in what they really
need, but in that which the professor finds it necessary to elaborate
for himself. Among the oldest professors, on the contrary, many are for
a long time stationary; they deliver on the whole only fixed views,
and, in the details, much that time has already condemned as useless
and false. Between the two arises a sad conflict, in which young minds
are dragged hither and thither, and which can scarcely be set right by
the middle-aged professors, who, though sufficiently instructed and
cultivated, always feel within themselves an active endeavour after
knowledge and reflection.

Now as in this way I learned to know much more than I could digest,
whereby a constantly increasing uncomfortableness was forced upon me,
so also from life I experienced many disagreeable trifles, as indeed
one must always pay one's footing when one changes one's place and
comes into a new position. The first thing that the ladies blamed in me
related to my dress; for I had come from home to the university rather
oddly equipped.

[Side-note: Domestic Tailoring.]

My father, who detested nothing so much as when something happened in
vain, when any one did not know how to make use of his time, or found
no opportunity for turning it to account, carried his economy of time
and abilities so far, that nothing gave him greater pleasure than to
kill two birds with one stone.[2] He had therefore never engaged a
servant who could not be useful to the house in something else. Now, as
he had always written everything with his own hand, and had, latterly,
the convenience of dictating to the young inmate of the house, he
found it most advantageous to have tailors for his domestics, who were
obliged to make good use of their time, as they not only had to make
their own liveries, but the clothes for my father and the children,
besides doing all the mending. My father himself took pains to have the
best cloths and stuffs, by getting fine wares of the foreign merchants
at the fair, and laying them up in store. I still remember well that
he always visited the Herrn von Löwenicht, of Aix-la-Chapelle, and
from my earliest youth made me acquainted with these and other eminent
merchants.

Care was also taken for the fitness of the stuff, and there was a
plentiful stock of different kinds of cloth, serge, and Götting stuff,
besides the requisite lining, so that, as far as the materials were
concerned, we might well venture to be seen. But the form spoiled
almost everything. For if one of our home-tailors was anything of a
clever hand at sewing and making up a coat which had been cut out for
him in masterly fashion, he was now obliged also to cut out the dress
for himself, which did not always succeed to perfection. In addition to
this my father kept whatever belonged to his clothing in very good and
neat order, and preserved more than used it for many years. Thus he had
a predilection for certain old cuts and trimmings, by which our dress
sometimes acquired a strange appearance.

In this same way had the wardrobe which I took with me to the
university been furnished: it was very complete and handsome, and
there was even a laced suit amongst the rest. Already accustomed to
this kind of attire, I thought myself sufficiently well dressed; but
it was not long before my female friends, first by gentle raillery,
then by sensible remonstrances, convinced me that I looked as if I had
dropped down out of another world. Much as I felt vexed at this, I did
not at first see how I could help myself. But when Herr von Masuren,
the favourite poetical country squire, once entered the theatre in a
similar costume, and was heartily laughed at, more by reason of his
external than his internal absurdity, I took courage, and ventured at
once to exchange my whole wardrobe for a new-fashioned one, suited to
the place, by which, however, it shrunk considerably.

After this trial was surmounted, a new one was to make its appearance,
which proved to be far more unpleasant, because it concerned a matter
which one does not so easily put off and exchange.

I had been born and bred in the Upper-German dialect, and although
my father always laboured after a certain purity of language, and,
from our youth upwards, had made us children attentive to what may
be really called the defects of that idiom, and so prepared us for a
better maimer of speaking, I retained nevertheless many deeper-seated
peculiarities, which, because they pleased me by their _naïveté_, I was
fond of making conspicuous, and thus every time I used them incurred
a severe reprimand from my new fellow-townsmen. The Upper-German, and
perhaps chiefly he who lives by the Rhine and Maine (for great rivers,
like the sea-coast, always have something animating about them),
expresses himself much in similes and allusions, and makes use of
proverbial sayings with a native common-sense aptness. In both cases
he is often blunt, but when one sees the drift of the expression, it
is always appropriate; only something, to be sure, may often slip in,
which proves offensive to a more delicate ear.

[Side-note: Provincial Dialect.]

Every province loves its own dialect: for it is, properly speaking,
the element in which the soul draws its breath. But every one knows
with what obstinacy the Misnian dialect has contrived to domineer over
the rest, and even, for a long time, to exclude them. We have suffered
for many years under this pedantic tyranny, and only by reiterated
struggles have all the provinces again established themselves in
their ancient rights. What a lively young man had to endure from this
continual tutoring, may be easily inferred by any one who reflects
that modes of thought, imagination, feeling, native character, must be
sacrificed with the pronunciation which one at last consents to alter.
And this intolerable demand was made by men and women of education,
whose convictions I could not adopt, whose injustice I believed I
felt, though I was unable to make it plain to myself. Allusions to the
pithy biblical texts were to be forbidden me, as well as the use of
the honest-hearted expressions from the Chronicles. I had to forget
that I had read the _Kaiser von Geisersberg_, and eschew the use of
proverbs, which nevertheless, instead of much fiddle-faddle, just hit
the nail upon the head;--all this, which I had appropriated to myself
with youthful ardour, I was now to do without; I felt myself paralyzed
to the core, and scarcely knew any more how I had to express myself on
the commonest things. I was told, besides, that one should speak as one
writes, and write as one speaks; while, to me, speaking and writing
seemed once for all two different things, each of which might well
maintain its own rights. And even in the Misnian dialect had I to hear
many things which would have made no great figure on paper.

Every one who perceives in this the influence which men and women
of education, the learned, and other persons who take pleasure in
refined society, so decidedly exercise over a young student, would
be immediately convinced that we were in Leipzig, even if it had not
been mentioned. Each one of the German universities has a particular
character: for, as no universal cultivation can pervade our fatherland,
every place adheres to its own fashion, and carries out, even to the
last, its own characteristic peculiarities; exactly the same thing
holds good of the universities. In Jena and Halle roughness had been
carried to the highest pitch: bodily strength, skill in fighting, the
wildest self-help was there the order of the day; and such a state of
affairs can only be maintained and propagated by the most universal
riot. The relations of the students to the inhabitants of those cities,
various as they might be, nevertheless agreed in this, that the wild
stranger had no regard for the citizen, and looked upon himself as a
peculiar being, privileged to all sorts of freedom and insolence. In
Leipzig, on the contrary, a student could scarcely be anything else
than polite, as soon as he wished to stand on any footing at all with
the rich, well-bred, and punctilious inhabitants.

All politeness, indeed, when it does not present itself as the
flowering of a great and comprehensive mode of life, must appear
restrained, stationary, and from some points of view, perhaps, absurd;
and so those wild huntsmen from the Saale[3] thought they had a great
superiority over the tame shepherds on the Pleisse.[4] Zachariä's
_Renommist_ will always be a valuable document, from which the manner
of life and thought at that time rises visibly forth; as in general
his poems must be welcome to every one who wishes to form for himself
a conception of the then prevailing state of social life and manners,
which was indeed feeble, but amiable on account of its innocence and
childlike simplicity.

All manners which result from the given relations of a common existence
are indestructible, and, in my time, many things still reminded us
of Zachariä's epic poem. Only one of our fellow-academicians thought
himself rich and independent enough to snap his fingers at public
opinion. He drank acquaintance with all the hackney-coachmen, whom he
allowed to sit inside the coach as if they were gentlemen, while he
drove them on the box, thought it a great joke to upset them now and
then, and contrived to satisfy them for their smashed vehicles as well
as for their occasional bruises; but otherwise he did no harm to any
one, seeming only to make a mock of the public _en masse._ Once, on a
most beautiful promenade-day, he and a comrade of his seized upon the
donkeys of the miller in St. Thomas's-square; well-dressed, and in
their shoes and stockings, they rode around the city with the greatest
solemnity, stared at by all the promenaders, with whom the glacis was
swarming. When some sensible persons remonstrated with him on the
subject, he assured them, quite unembarrassed, that he only wanted to
see how the Lord Christ might have looked in a like case. Yet he found
no imitators, and few companions.

[Side-note: Student-life at Leipzig.]

For the student of any wealth and standing had every reason to
show himself attentive to the mercantile class, and to be the more
solicitous about the proper external forms, as the colony[5] exhibited
a model of French manners. The professors, opulent both from their
private property and from their liberal salaries, were not dependent
upon their scholars, and many subjects of the state, educated at the
Government schools or other gymnasia, and hoping for preferment, did
not venture to throw off the traditional customs. The neighbourhood
of Dresden, the attention paid to us from thence, and the true piety
of the superintendent of the course of study, could not be without a
moral, nay, a religious influence.

At first this kind of life was not repugnant to me; my letters of
introduction had given me the _entrée_ into good families, whose
circle of relatives also received me well. But as I was soon forced
to feel that the company had much to find fault with in me, and that
after dressing myself in their fashion, I must now talk according to
their tongue also, and as, moreover, I could plainly see that I was,
on the other hand, but little benefited by the instruction and mental
improvement I had promised myself from my academical residence, I began
to be lazy, and to neglect the social duties of visiting, and other
attentions, and indeed I should have sooner withdrawn from all such
connexions, had not fear and esteem bound me fast to Hofrath Böhme,
and confidence and affection to his wife. The husband, unfortunately,
had not the happy gift of dealing with young people, of winning their
confidence, and of guiding them, for the moment, as occasion might
require. When I visited him I never got any good by it; his wife, on
the contrary, showed a genuine interest in me. Her ill health kept
her constantly at home. She invited me to spend many an evening with
her, and knew how to direct and improve me in many little external
particulars; for my manners were good, indeed, but I was not yet master
of what is properly termed _étiquette._ Only one female friend spent
the evenings with her; but she was more dictatorial and pedantic, for
which reason she displeased me excessively, and, out of spite to her, I
often resumed those unmannerly habits from which the other had already
weaned me. Nevertheless she always had patience enough with me, taught
me piquet, ombre, and similar games, the knowledge and practice of
which is held indispensable in society.

But it was in the matter of taste that Madame Böhme had the greatest
influence upon me; in a negative way truly, yet one in which she agreed
perfectly with the critics. The Gottsched waters[6] had inundated the
German world with a true deluge, which threatened to rise up even
over the highest mountains. It takes a long time for such a flood to
subside again, for the mire to dry away; and as in any epoch there
are numberless aping poets, so the imitation of the flat and watery
produced a chaos, of which now scarcely a notion remains. To find out
that trash was trash was hence the greatest sport, yea, the triumph
of the critics of those days. Whoever had only a little common sense,
was superficially acquainted with the ancients, and was somewhat
more familiar with the moderns, thought himself provided with a
standard scale which he could everywhere apply. Madame Böhme was an
educated woman, who opposed the trivial, weak, and commonplace; she
was, besides, the wife of a man who lived on bad terms with poetry
in general, and would not even allow that of which she perhaps might
have somewhat approved. She listened, indeed, for some time, with
patience, when I ventured to recite to her the verse or prose of famous
poets, who already stood in good repute,--for then, as always, I knew
by heart everything that chanced in any degree to please me; but her
complaisance was not of long duration. The first whom she outrageously
abused were the poets of the Weisse school, who were just then often
quoted with great applause, and had delighted me very particularly. If
I looked more closely into the matter, I could not say she was wrong.
I had sometimes even ventured to repeat to her, though anonymously,
some of my own poems; but these fared no better than the rest of the
set. And thus, in a short time, the beautiful variegated meadows at the
foot of the German Parnassus, where I was fond of luxuriating, were
mercilessly mowed down, and I was even compelled to toss about the
drying hay myself, and to ridicule that as lifeless which, a short time
before, had given me such lively joy.

[Side-note: German Poetry.]

Without knowing it, Professor Morus came to strengthen her
instructions. He was an uncommonly gentle and friendly man, with whom I
became acquainted at the table of Hofrath Ludwig, and who received me
very pleasantly when I begged the privilege of visiting him. Now while
making inquiries of him concerning antiquity, I did not conceal from
him what delighted me among the modems; when he spoke about such things
with more calmness, but, what was still worse, with more profundity
than Madame Böhme; and he thus opened my eyes, at first to my greatest
chagrin, but afterwards to my surprise, and at last to my edification.

Besides this, there came the _Jeremiads_, with which Gellert, in his
course, was wont to warn us against poetry. He wished only for prose
essays, and always criticised these first. Verses he treated as a sorry
addition, and what was the worst of all, even my prose found little
favour in his eyes; for, after my old fashion, I used always to lay,
as the foundation, a little romance, which I loved to work out in the
epistolary form. The subjects were impassioned, the style went beyond
ordinary prose, and the contents probably did not display any very
deep knowledge of mankind in the author; and so I stood in very little
favour with our professor, although he carefully looked over my labours
as well as those of the others, corrected them with red ink, and here
and there added a moral remark. Many leaves of this kind, which I kept
for a long time with satisfaction, have unfortunately, in the course of
years, at last disappeared from among my papers.

If elderly persons wish to play the pedagogue properly, they should
neither prohibit nor render disagreeable to a young man anything which
gives him pleasure, of whatever kind it may be, unless, at the same
time, they have something else to put in its place, or can contrive a
substitute. Everybody protested against my tastes and inclinations;
and, on the other hand, what they commended to me, lay either so far
from me that I could not perceive its excellencies, or stood so near me
that I thought it not a whit better than what they inveighed against.
I thus became thoroughly perplexed on the subject, and promised myself
the best results from a lecture of Ernesti's on _Cicero de Oratore._ I
learned something, indeed, from this lecture, but was not enlightened
on the subject which particularly concerned me. I required a standard
of opinion, and thought I perceived that nobody possessed it; for no
one agreed with another, even when they brought forward examples; and
where were we to get a settled judgment, when they managed to reckon
up against a man like Wieland so many faults in his amiable writings,
which so completely captivated us younger folks?

Amid this manifold distraction, this dismemberment of my existence and
my studies, it happened that I took my dinners at Hofrath Ludwig's. He
was a medical man, a botanist, and his company, with the exception of
Morus, consisted of physicians just commencing or near the completion
of their studies. Now during these hours I heard no other conversation
than about medicine or natural history, and my imagination was drawn
over into quite a new field. I heard the names of Haller, Linnæus,
Buffon, mentioned with great respect; and even if disputes often arose
about mistakes into which it was said they had fallen, all agreed in
the end to honour the acknowledged abundance of their merits. The
subjects were entertaining and important, and enchained my attention.
By degrees I became familiar with many names and a copious terminology,
which I caught up the more willingly as I was afraid to write down a
rhyme, however spontaneously it presented itself, or to read a poem,
for I was fearful that it might please me at the time, and that perhaps
immediately afterwards, like so much else, I should be forced to
pronounce it bad.

[Side-note: Destruction of Juvenile Poems.]

This uncertainty of taste and judgment disquieted me more and more
every day, so that at last I fell into despair. I had brought with me
those of my youthful labours which I thought the best, partly because I
hoped to get some credit by them, partly that I might be able to test
my progress with greater certainty; but I found myself in the miserable
situation in which one is placed when a complete change of mind is
required,--a renunciation of all that one has hitherto loved and found
good. However, after some time, and many struggles, I conceived so
great a contempt for my labours, begun and ended, that one day I burnt
up poetry and prose, plans, sketches, and projects all together on the
kitchen hearth, and threw our good old landlady into no small fright
and anxiety by the smoke which filled the whole house.


[1] This word, which signifies something like our "bully," is specially
used to designate a fighting student.--_Trans._

[2] Literally: "to strike two flies with one flapper."--_Trans._

[3] The river on which Halle is built.--_Trans._

[4] The river that flows by Leipzig.--_Trans._

[5] Leipzig was so called, because a large and influential portion of
its citizens were sprung from a colony of Huguenots, who settled there
after the revocation of the edict of Nantes_.--American Note._

[6] That is to say, the influence of Gottsched on German literature, of
which more is said in the next book.--_Trans._



SEVENTH BOOK.


About the condition of German literature at that time so much has
been written, and that so sufficiently, that every one who takes any
interest in it can be completely informed; the judgments of it are now
pretty well agreed; and what at present I intend to say piece-meal
and disconnectedly concerning it, relates not so much to how it was
constituted in itself, as to how it stood towards me. I will therefore
first speak of those things by which the public is particularly
excited; of those two hereditary foes of all comfortable life, and
of all cheerful, self-sufficient, living poetry:--I mean, satire and
criticism.

In quiet times every one will live after his own fashion; the citizen
will carry on his trade or his business, and enjoy the fruits of it
afterwards; thus will the author too willingly compose something,
publish his labours, and since he thinks he has done something good
and useful, hope for praise, if not reward. In this tranquillity the
citizen is disturbed by the satirist, the author by the critic, and
peaceful society is thus put into a disagreeable agitation.

The literary epoch in which I was born was developed out of the
preceding one by opposition. Germany, so long inundated by foreign
people, interpenetrated by other nations, directed to foreign languages
in learned and diplomatic transactions, could not possibly cultivate
her own. Together with so many new ideas, innumerable strange words
were obtruded necessarily and unnecessarily upon her, and even for
objects already known, people were induced to make use of foreign
expressions and turns of language. The German, having run wild for
nearly two hundred years in an unhappy tumultuary state, went to school
to the French to learn manners, and to the Romans in order to express
himself properly. But this was to be done in the mother-tongue, when
the literal application of those idioms, and their half-Germanization,
made both the social and business style ridiculous. Besides this,
they adopted without moderation the similes of the southern languages,
and employed them most extravagantly. Just so they transferred the
stately deportment of the prince-like citizens of Rome to the learned
German small-town officers, and were at home nowhere, least of all with
themselves.

But as in this epoch works of genius had already appeared, the German
sense of freedom and joy also began to stir itself. This, accompanied
by a genuine earnestness, insisted that men should write purely and
naturally, without the intermixture of foreign words, and as common
intelligible sense dictated. By these praiseworthy endeavours,
however, the doors and gates were thrown open to an extended national
insipidity, nay, the dike was dug through by which the great deluge was
shortly to rush in. Meanwhile, a stiff pedantry long stood its ground
in all the four faculties, until at last, much later, it fled for
refuge from one of them into another.

Men of parts, children of nature looking freely about them, had
therefore two objects on which they could exercise themselves, against
which they could labour, and, as the matter was of no great importance,
give a vent to their petulance; these were: a language disfigured by
foreign words, forms, and turns of speech on the one hand, and the
worthlessness of such writings as had been careful to keep themselves
free from those faults on the other, though it occurred to nobody, that
while they were battling against one evil, the other was called on for
assistance.

[Side-note: Liskow.]

LISKOW, a daring young man, first ventured to attack by name a shallow,
silly writer, whose awkward demeanour soon gave him an opportunity
to proceed still more severely. He then went further, and constantly
aimed his scorn at particular persons and objects, whom he despised and
sought to render despicable, nay, even persecuted them with passionate
hatred. But his career was short; for he soon died, and was gradually
forgotten as a restless, irregular youth. The talent and character
shown in what he did, although he had accomplished little, may have
seemed valuable to his countrymen: for the Germans have always shown a
peculiar pious kindliness to talents of good promise, when prematurely
cut off. Suffice it to say, that Liskow was very early praised and
recommended to us as an excellent satirist, who could have attained a
rank even above the universally-beloved Rabener. Here, indeed, we saw
ourselves no better off than before: for we could discover nothing in
his writings, except that he had found the silly, silly, which seemed
to us quite a matter of course.

RABENER, well educated, grown up under good scholastic instruction,
of a cheerful, and by no means passionate or malicious disposition,
took up general satire. His censure of the so-called vices and follies
springs from the clear views of a quiet common sense, and from a fixed
moral conception of what the world ought to be. His denunciation of
faults and failings is harmless and cheerful; and in order to excuse
even the slight boldness of his writings, it is supposed that the
improving of fools by ridicule is no fruitless undertaking.

Rabener's personal character will not easily appear again. As an able,
punctual man of business, he does his duty, and thus gains the good
opinion of his fellow-townsmen and the confidence of his superiors:
along with which, he gives himself up to the enjoyment of a pleasant
contempt for all that immediately surrounds him. Pedantic _literati_,
vain youngsters, every sort of narrowness and conceit, he banters
rather than satirizes, and even his banter expresses no contempt. Just
in the same way does he jest about his own condition, his misfortune,
his life, and his death.

There is little of the æsthetic in the manner in which this writer
treats his subjects. In external forms he is indeed varied enough, but
throughout he makes too much use of direct irony, namely, in praising
the blameworthy and blaming the praiseworthy, whereas this figure of
speech should be used but extremely seldom; for, in the long run, it
becomes annoying to clear-sighted men, perplexes the weak, while indeed
it pleases the great middle class, who, without any special expense
of mind, can fancy themselves more knowing than others. But all that
he brings before us, and however he does it, alike bears witness to
his rectitude, cheerfulness, and equanimity, so that we always feel
prepossessed in his favour. The unbounded applause of his own times was
a consequence of such moral excellencies.

[Side-note: Rabener.]

That people looked for originals to his general descriptions and found
them, was natural; that individuals complained of him, followed from
the above; his over-long apologies that his satire is not personal,
prove the spite which has been provoked. Some of his letters crown him
at once as a man and an author. The confidential epistle in which
he describes the siege of Dresden, and how he loses his house, his
effects, his writings, and his wigs, without having his equanimity
in the least shaken or his cheerfulness clouded, is highly valuable,
although his contemporaries and fellow-citizens could not forgive him
his happy turn of mind. The letter where he speaks of the decay of his
strength and of his approaching death is in the highest degree worthy
of respect, and Rabener deserves to be honoured as a saint by all
cheerful intelligent men, who cheerfully resign themselves to earthly
events.

I tear myself away from him reluctantly, yet I would make this remark:
his satire refers throughout to the middle-class; he lets us see here
and there that he is also well acquainted with the higher ranks, but
does not hold it advisable to come in contact with them. It may be
said, that he has had no successor, that no one has been found who
could consider himself equal, or even similar to him.

Now for criticism! and first of all for the theoretic attempts. It is
not going too far when we say that the ideal had, at that time, escaped
out of the world into religion; it scarcely even made its appearance in
moral philosophy; of a highest principle of art no one had a notion.
They put Gottsched's _Critical Art of Poetry_ into our hands; it was
useful and instructive enough, for it gave us a historical information
of all the kinds of poetry, as well as of rhythm and its different
movements; the poetic genius was presupposed! But besides that the poet
was to have acquirements and even learning, he should possess taste,
and everything else of that kind. They directed us at last to Horace's
_Art of Poetry_; we gazed at single golden maxims of this invaluable
work, but did not know in the least what to do with it as a whole, or
how we should use it.

The Swiss stepped forth as Gottsched's antagonists; they must
take it into their heads to do something different, to accomplish
something better: accordingly we heard that they were, in fact,
superior. BREITINGER'S _Critical Art of Poetry_ was taken in hand.
Here we reached a wider field, but, properly speaking, only a greater
labyrinth, which was so much the more tiresome, as an able man, in
whom we had confidence, was driving us about in it. Let a brief review
justify these words.

For poetry in itself they had been able to find no fundamental axiom;
it was too spiritual and too volatile. Painting, an art which one could
hold fast with one's eyes, and follow step by step with the external
senses, seemed more favourable for such an end; the English and French
had already theorized about plastic art, and by a comparison drawn from
this, it was thought that poetry might be grounded. The former placed
images before the eyes, the latter before the fancy; poetical images,
therefore, were the first thing which was taken into consideration.
People began with comparisons, descriptions followed, and only that was
expressed which had always been apparent to the external senses.

Images, then! But where should these images be got except from nature?
The painter professedly imitated nature; why not the poet also? But
nature, as she lies before us, cannot be imitated: she contains
so much that is insignificant and worthless, that one must make a
selection; but what determines the choice? one must select that which
is important; but what is important?

To answer this question the Swiss may have taken a long time to
consider: for they came to a notion, which is indeed singular, but
clever, and even comical, inasmuch as they say, the new is always the
most important: and after they have considered this for a while, they
discover that the marvellous is always newer than everything else.

They had now pretty well collected their poetical requisitions; but
they had still to consider that the marvellous might also be empty and
without relation to man. But this relation, demanded as necessary, must
be a moral one, from which the improvement of mankind should manifestly
follow, and thus a poem had reached its utmost aim when, with
everything else accomplished, it was useful besides. They now wished to
test the different kinds of poetry according to all these requisites;
those which imitated nature, besides being marvellous, and at the same
time of a moral aim and use, were to rank as the first and highest. And
after much deliberation this great preeminence was at last ascribed,
with the highest degree of conviction, to Æsop's fables!

Strange as such a deduction may now appear, it had the most decided
influence on the best minds. That GELLERT and subsequently LICHTWER
devoted themselves to this department, that even LESSING attempted to
labour in it, that; so many others turned their talents towards it,
speaks for the confidence which this species of poetry had gained.
Theory and practice always act upon each other; one can see from their
works what is the men's opinion; and, from their opinions, predict what
they will do.

[Side-note: Bodmer--Breitinger--Guenther.]

Yet we must not dismiss our Swiss theory without doing it justice.
BODMER, with all the pains he took, remained theoretically and
practically a child all his life. BREITINGER was an able, learned,
sagacious man, whom when he looked rightly about him, the essentials
of a poem did not all escape; nay, it can be shown that he may have
dimly felt the deficiencies of his system. Remarkable, for instance,
is his query:--"Whether a certain descriptive poem by König, on the
_Review-camp of Augustus the Second_, is properly a poem?" and the
answer to it displays good sense. But it may serve for his complete
justification that he, starting from a false point, on a circle almost
run out already, still struck upon the main principle, and at the end
of his book finds himself compelled to recommend as additions, so to
speak, the representation of manners, character, passions, in short,
the whole inner man; to which, indeed, poetry pre-eminently belongs.

It may well be imagined into what perplexity young minds felt
themselves thrown by such dislocated maxims, half-understood laws,
and shivered up dogmas. We adhered to examples, and there, too, were
no better off; foreigners as well as the ancients stood too far
from us, and from the best native poets always peeped out a decided
individuality, to the good points of which we could not lay claim, and
into the faults of which we could not but be afraid of falling. For him
who felt anything productive in himself it was a desperate condition.

When one considers closely what was wanting in the German poetry,
it was a material, and that, too, a national one; there was never a
lack of talent. Here we make mention only of GUENTHER, who may be
called a poet in the full sense of the word. A decided talent, endowed
with sensuousness, imagination, memory, the gifts of conception and
representation, productive in the highest degree, ready at rhythm,
ingenious, witty, and of varied information besides;--he possessed,
in short, all the requisites for creating, by means of poetry, a
second life within life, even within common real life. We admire the
great facility with which, in his occasional poems, he elevates all
circumstances by the feelings, and embellishes them with suitable
sentiments, images, and historical and fabulous traditions. Their
roughness and wildness belong to his time, his mode of life, and
especially to his character, or if one would have it so, his want of
fixed character. He did not know how to curb himself, and so his life,
like his poetry, melted away from him.

By his vacillating conduct, Günther had trifled away the good fortune
of being appointed at the court of Augustus the Second, where, in
addition to every other species of ostentation, they were also looking
about for a court-poet, who could give elevation and grace to their
festivities, and immortalize a transitory pomp. VON KOENIG was more
mannerly and more fortunate; he filled this post with dignity and
applause.

In all sovereign states the material for poetry comes downwards from
above, and the _Review-camp at Mühlberg_ (_Das Lustlager bei Mühlberg_)
was, perhaps, the first worthy object, provincial, if not national,
which presented itself to a poet. Two kings saluting one another in the
presence of a great host, their whole courts and military state around
them, well-appointed troops, a mock-fight, _fêtes_ of all kinds,--this
is business enough for the outward sense, and overflowing material for
delineating and descriptive poetry.

This subject had, indeed, the internal defect, that it was only pomp
and show, from which no real action could result. None except the
very first distinguished themselves, and even if they had done so,
the poet could not render any one conspicuous lest he should offend
the others. He had to consult the _Court and State Calendar_, and the
delineation of the persons therefore went off pretty drily; nay, even
his contemporaries very strongly reproached him with having described
the horses better than the men. But should not this redound to his
credit, that he showed his art just where an object for it presented
itself? The main difficulty, too, seems soon to have manifested itself
to him--since the poem never advanced beyond the first canto.

[Side-note: Schlosser.]

Amidst such studies and reflections, an unexpected event surprised me,
and frustrated my laudable design of becoming acquainted with our new
literature from the beginning. My countryman, JOHN GEORGE SCHLOSSER,
after spending his academical years with industry and exertion, had
repaired to Frankfort-on-the-Maine, in the customary profession of an
advocate; but his mind, aspiring and seeking after the universal, could
not reconcile itself to this situation for many reasons. He accepted,
without hesitation, an office as private secretary to the Duke LUDWIG
of WURTEMBERG, who resided in Treptow; for the Prince was named among
those great men who, in a noble and independent manner, purposed to
enlighten themselves, their families, and the world, and to unite for
higher aims. It was this Prince Ludwig who, to ask advice about the
education of his children, had written to Rousseau, whose well-known
answer began with the suspicious-looking phrase--"_Si j'avais le
malheur d'être né prince._"

Not only in the affairs of the Prince, but also in the education of
his children, Schlosser was now willingly to assist in word and deed,
if not to superintend them. This noble young man, who harboured the
best will, and laboured after a perfect purity of morals, would have
easily kept men from him by a certain dry austerity, if his fine and
rare literary cultivation, his knowledge of languages, and his facility
at expressing himself by writing, both in verse and prose, had not
attracted every one, and made living with him more agreeable. It had
been announced to me that he would pass through Leipzig, and I expected
him with longing. He came and put up at a little inn or wine-house
that stood in the _Brühl_ (Marsh), and the host of which was named
Schönkopf. This man had a Frankfort woman for his wife, and although
he entertained few persons during the rest of the year, and could
lodge no guests in his little house, yet at fair-time he was visited
by many Frankforters, who used to eat, and, in case of need, even take
quarters there also. Thither I hastened to seek after Schlosser, when
he had sent to inform me of his arrival. I scarcely remembered having
seen him before, and found a young, well-formed man, with a round,
compressed face, without the features losing their sharpness on that
account. The form of his rounded forehead, between black eyebrows and
locks, indicated earnestness, sternness, and perhaps obstinacy. He
was, in a certain measure, the opposite of myself, and this very thing
doubtless laid the foundation of our lasting friendship. I had the
greatest respect for his talents, the more so as I very well saw that
in the certainty with which he acted and produced, he was completely my
superior. The respect and the confidence which I showed him confirmed
his affection, and increased the indulgence he was compelled to have
for my lively, impetuous, and ever-excitable disposition, in such
contrast with his own. He studied the English writers diligently; Pope,
if not his model, was his aim, and in opposition to that author's
_Essay on Man_, he had written a poem in like form and measure, which
was to give the Christian religion the triumph over the deism of the
other work. From the great store of papers which he carried with
him, he showed me poetical and prose compositions in all languages,
which, as they challenged me to imitation, once more gave me infinite
disquietude. Yet I contrived to help myself immediately by activity.
I wrote German, French, English and Italian poems, addressed to him,
the subject-matter of which I took from our conversations, which were
always important and instructive.

Schlosser did not wish to leave Leipzig without having seen face to
face the men who had a name. I willingly took him to those I knew;
with those whom I had not yet visited, I in this way became honourably
acquainted, since he was received with distinction as a well-informed
man of education, of already established character, and well knew how
to pay for the outlay of conversation. I cannot pass over our visit to
GOTTSCHED, as it exemplifies the character and manners of that man. He
lived very respectably in the first story of the Golden Bear, where the
elder Breitkopf, on account of the great advantage which Gottsched's
writings, translations, and other aids had brought to the trade, had
promised him a lodging for life.

We were announced. The servant led us into a large chamber, saying his
master would come immediately. Now whether we misunderstood a gesture
which he made, I cannot say; it is enough, we thought he directed us
into an adjoining room. We entered, and to a singular scene; for, on
the instant, Gottsched, that tall, broad, gigantic man, came in at the
opposite door in a morning-gown of green damask lined with red taffeta;
but his monstrous head was bald and uncovered. This, however, was to
be immediately provided for; the servant sprang in at a side-door
with a great full-bottomed wig in his hand (the curls came down to
the elbows), and handed the head-ornament to his master with gestures
of terror. Gottsched, without manifesting the least vexation, raised
the wig from the servant's arm with his left, hand, and while he very
dexterously swung it up on his head, gave the poor fellow such a box
on the ear with his right paw, that the latter, as often happens in a
comedy, went spinning out at the door; whereupon the respectable old
grandfather invited us quite gravely to be seated, and kept up a pretty
long discourse with good grace.

[Side-note: Fellow-boarders at Leipzig.]

As long as Schlosser remained in Leipzig, I dined daily with him, and
became acquainted with a very pleasant set of boarders. Some Livonians,
and the son of HERMANN (chief court-preacher in Dresden), afterwards
burgermaster in Leipzig, and their tutor, HOFRATH PFEIL, author of
the _Count von P._, a continuation of Gellert's _Swedish Countess_;
ZACHARIÆ, a brother of the poet; and KREBEL, editor of geographical and
genealogical manuals; all these were polite, cheerful, and friendly
men. Zachariä was the most quiet; Pfeil, an elegant man, who had
something almost diplomatic about him, yet without affectation, and
with great good-humour; Krebel, a genuine Falstaff, tall, corpulent,
fair, with prominent, merry eyes, as bright as the sky, always happy
and in good spirits. These persons all treated me in the most handsome
manner, partly on Schlosser's account--partly, too, on account of
my own frank good-humour and obliging disposition; and it needed no
great persuasion to make me partake of their table in future. In fact,
I remained with them after Schlosser's departure, deserted Ludwig's
table, and found myself so much the better off in this society, which
was limited to a certain number, as I was very well pleased with the
daughter of the family, a very neat, pretty girl, and had opportunities
to exchange friendly glances with her,--a comfort which I had neither
sought nor found by accident since the mischance with Gretchen. I
spent the dinner-hours with my friends cheerfully and profitably.
Krebel, indeed, loved me, and continued to teaze me and stimulate me in
moderation; Pfeil, on the contrary, showed his earnest affection for me
by trying to guide and settle my judgment upon many points.

During this intercourse, I perceived through conversation, through
examples, and through my own reflections, that the first step in
delivering ourselves from the wishy-washy, long-winded, empty epoch,
could be taken only by definiteness, precision, and brevity. In the
style which had hitherto prevailed, one could not distinguish the
commonplace from what was better, since all were brought down to a
level with each other. Authors had already tried to escape from this
widespread disease, with more or less success. HALLER and RAMLER were
inclined to compression by nature; LESSING and WIELAND were led to
it by reflection. The former became by degrees quite epigrammatical
in his poems, terse in _Minna_, laconic in _Emilia Galotti_,--it was
not till afterwards that he returned to that serene _naïveté_ which
becomes him so well in _Nathan._ Wieland, who had been occasionally
prolix in _Agathon_, _Don Sylvio_, and the _Comic Tales_, becomes
condensed and precise to a wonderful degree, as well as exceedingly
graceful, in _Musarion_ and _Idris._ KLOPSTOCK, in the first cantos
of the _Messiah_, is not without diffuseness; in his _Odes_ and other
minor poems he appears compressed, as also in his tragedies. By
his emulation of the ancients, especially Tacitus, he sees himself
constantly forced into narrower limits, by which he at last becomes
obscure and unpalatable. GERSTENBERG, a fine but eccentric talent,
also distinguishes himself; his merit is appreciated, but on the
whole he gives little pleasure. GLEIM, diffuse and easy by nature,
is scarcely once concise in his war-songs. RAMLER is properly more
a critic than a poet. He begins to collect what the Germans have
accomplished in lyric poetry. He now finds that scarcely one poem
fully satisfies him; he must leave out, arrange, and alter, that the
things may have some shape or other. By this means he makes himself
almost as many enemies as there are poets and amateurs, since every
one, properly speaking, recognizes himself only in his defects; and
the public interests itself sooner for a faulty individuality than
for that which is produced or amended according to a universal law of
taste. Rhythm lay yet in the cradle, and no one knew of a method to
shorten its childhood. Poetical prose came into the ascendant. GESSNER
and KLOPSTOCK excited many imitators: others, again, still demanded an
intelligible metre, and translated this prose into rhythm. But even
these gave nobody satisfaction; for they were obliged to omit and
add, and the prose original always passed for the better of the two.
But the more, with all this, conciseness is aimed at, the more does a
judgment become possible, since that which is important, being more
closely compressed, allows a certain comparison at last. It happened,
also, at the same time, that many kinds of truly poetical forms arose;
for as they tried to represent only what was necessary in the objects
they wished to imitate, they were forced to do justice to every one
of these; and in this manner, though no one did it consciously, the
modes of representation multiplied themselves, among which, indeed,
were some which were really caricatures, while many an attempt proved
unsuccessful.

[Side-note: Wieland.]

Without question, WIELAND possessed the finest natural gifts of all. He
had early cultivated himself thoroughly in those ideal regions where
youth so readily lingers; but when, by what is called experience, by
the events of the world and women, these were rendered distasteful
to him, he threw himself on the side of the actual, and pleased
himself and others with the contest of the two worlds, where, in light
skirmishing between jest and earnest, his talent displayed itself most
beautifully. How many of his brilliant productions fall into the time
of my academic years! _Musarion_ had the most effect upon me, and I
can yet remember the place and the very spot where I got sight of the
first proof-sheet, which Oeser gave me. Here it was that I believed I
saw antiquity again living and fresh. Everything that is plastic in
Wieland's genius here showed itself in its highest perfection; and
when that Phanias-Timon, condemned to an unhappy insipidity, finally
reconciles himself to his mistress and to the world, one can well, with
him, live through the misanthropical epoch. For the rest, we willingly
conceded to these works a cheerful aversion from those exalted
sentiments, which, by reason of their easy misapplication to life,
are often open to the suspicion of dreaminess. We pardoned the author
for prosecuting with ridicule what we held as true and reverend, the
more readily, as he thereby gave us to understand that it caused him
continual trouble.

How miserably criticism then received such labours may be seen from
the first volumes of the _Universal German Library._ Of the _Comic
Tales_ there is honourable mention; but there is no trace of any
insight into the character of the kind of poetry. The reviewer, like
every one at that time, had formed his taste on examples. He never
takes it into consideration that, in a judgment of such parodistical
works, one must first of all have before one's eyes the original noble,
beautiful object, in order to see whether the parodist has really
gotten from it a weak and comical side, whether he has borrowed
anything from it, or, under the appearance of such an imitation, has
perhaps given us an excellent invention of his own. Of all this there
is not a notion, but the poems are praised and blamed by passages. The
reviewer, as he himself confesses, has marked so much that pleased
him, that he cannot quote it all in print. When they even meet the
highly meritorious translation of Shakspeare with the exclamation:
"By rights, a man like Shakspeare should not have been translated at
all!" it will be understood, without further remark, how infinitely
the _Universal German Library_ was behindhand in matters of taste, and
that young people, animated by true feeling, had to look about them for
other guiding stars. The material which, in this manner, more or less
determined the form, the Germans sought everywhere. They had handled
few national subjects, or none at all. Schlegel's _Hermann_ only showed
the way. The idyllic tendency extended itself without end. The want of
distinctive character with Gessner, with all his great gracefulness and
childlike heartiness, made every one think that he could do something
of the same kind. Just in the same manner, out of the more generally
human, some snatch those poems which should have portrayed a foreign
nationality, as, for instance, the Jewish pastoral poems, those on the
patriarchs altogether, and whatever else related to the Old Testament.
Bodmer's _Noachide_ was a perfect symbol of the watery deluge that
swelled high around the German Parnassus, and which abated but slowly.
The leading-strings of Anacreon likewise allowed innumerable mediocre
geniuses to reel about at large. The precision of Horace compelled the
Germans, though but slowly, to conform to him. Comic heroic poems,
mostly after the model of Pope's _Rape of the Lock_, did not serve to
bring in a better time.

Yet I must here mention a delusion, which operated as seriously as it
must be ridiculous when one examines it more closely. The Germans had
now sufficient historical knowledge of all the kinds of poetry in which
the different nations had distinguished themselves. This pigeon-hole
work, which, properly speaking, totally destroys the inner conception
of poetry, had been already pretty completely hammered together by
Gottsched in his _Critical Art of Poetry_, and it had been shown at
the same time that German poets, too, had already known how to fill up
all the rubrics with excellent works. And thus it ever went on. Each
year the collection was more considerable, but every year one work
pushed another out of the place in which it had hitherto shone. We now
possessed, if not Homers, yet Virgils and Miltons; if not a Pindar,
yet a Horace; of Theocrituses there was no lack; and thus they weighed
themselves by comparisons from without, whilst the mass of poetical
works always increased, so that at last there could be a comparison
from within.

[Side-note: Popular Philosophy.]

Now, though matters of taste stood on a very uncertain footing, there
could be no dispute but that, within the Protestant part of Germany
and of Switzerland, what is generally called common-sense began to
bestir itself briskly at that epoch. The scholastic philosophy--which
always has the merit of propounding according to received axioms, in
a favourite order, and under fixed rubrics, everything about which
man can at all inquire,--had, by the frequent darkness and apparent
uselessness of its subject-matter, by its unseasonable application
of a method in itself respectable, and by its too great extension
over so many subjects, made itself foreign to the mass, unpalatable,
and at last superfluous. Many a one became convinced that nature had
endowed him with as great a portion of good and straightforward sense
as, perchance, he required to form such a clear notion of objects
that he could manage them and turn them to his own profit, and that
of others, without laboriously troubling himself about the most
universal problems, and inquiring how the most remote things which
do not particularly affect us may hang together. Men made the trial,
opened their eyes, looked straight before them, observant, industrious,
active, and believed that when one judges and acts correctly in one's
own circle, one may well presume to speak of other things also, which
lie at a greater distance.

In accordance with such a notion, every one was now entitled, not only
to philosophize, but also by degrees to consider himself a philosopher.
Philosophy, therefore, was more or less sound and practised common
sense, which ventured lo enter upon the universal, and to decide upon
inner and outer experiences. A clear-sighted acuteness and an especial
moderation, while the middle path and fairness to all opinions was held
to be right, procured respect and confidence for writings and oral
statements of the sort, and thus at last philosophers were found in all
the faculties, nay, in all classes and trades.

In this way the theologians could not help inclining to what is called
natural religion, and when the discussion was how far the light of
nature may suffice to advance us in the knowledge of God and the
improving and ennobling of ourselves, they commonly ventured to decide
in its favour without much scruple. According to the same principle of
moderation, they then granted equal rights to all positive religions,
by which they all became alike indifferent and uncertain. For the rest,
they let everything stand, and since the Bible is so full of matter,
that, more than any other book, it offers material for reflection and
opportunity for meditation on human affairs, it could still, as before,
be always laid as the foundation of all sermons and other religious
treatises.

But over this work, as well as over the whole body of profane writers,
was impending a singular fate, which, in the lapse of time, was not
to be averted. Hitherto it had been received as a matter of implicit
faith, that this book of books was composed in one spirit; that it
was even inspired, and, as it were, dictated by the Divine Spirit.
Yet already for a long time the discrepancies of the different parts
of it had been now cavilled at, now apologized for, by believers and
unbelievers. English, French, and Germans had attacked the Bible with
more or less violence, acuteness, audacity, and wantonness; and just as
often had it been taken under the protection of earnest, sound-thinking
men of each nation. As for myself, I loved and valued it: for almost
to it alone did I owe my moral culture, and the events, the doctrines,
the symbols, the similes, had all impressed themselves deeply upon me,
and had influenced me in one way or another. These unjust, scoffing,
and perverting attacks, therefore, disgusted me; but people had already
gone so far as very willingly to admit, partly as a main ground for
the defence of many passages, that God had accommodated himself to the
modes of thought and power of comprehension in men; that even those
moved by the Spirit had not on that account been able to renounce their
character, their individuality, and that Amos, a cow-herd, did not
wield the language of Isaiah, who is said to have been a prince.

[Side-note: State of Theology.]

Out of such views and convictions, especially with a constantly
increasing knowledge of languages, was very naturally developed that
kind of study by which it was attempted to examine more accurately the
oriental localities, nationalities, natural products, and phenomena,
and in this manner to make present to one's-self that ancient time.
Michaelis employed the whole strength of his talents and his knowledge
on this side. Descriptions of travels became a powerful help in
explaining the Holy Scriptures, and later travellers, furnished with
numerous questions, were made, by the answers to them, to bear witness
for the prophets and apostles.

But whilst they were on all sides busied to bring the Holy Scriptures
to a natural intuition, and to render peculiar modes of thought and
representation in them more universally comprehensible, that by
this historico-critical aspect many an objection might be removed,
many offensive things effaced, and many a shallow scoffing be made
ineffective, there appeared in some men just the opposite disposition,
since these chose the darkest, most mysterious writings as the subject
of their meditations, and wished, if not to elucidate them, yet to
confirm them through internal evidence, by means of conjectures,
calculations, and other ingenious and strange combinations, and so far
as they contained prophecies, to prove them by the results, and thus to
justify a faith in what was next to be expected.

The venerable BENGEL had procured a decided reception for his labours
on the Revelations of St. John, from the fact that he was known as
an intelligent, upright, God-fearing, blameless man. Deep minds are
compelled to live in the past as well as in the future. The ordinary
movements of the world can be of no importance to them, if they do
not, in the course of ages up to the present, revere prophecies which
have been revealed, and in the immediate, as well as in the most
remote futurity, predictions still veiled. Hence arises a connexion
that is wanting in history, which seems to give us only an accidental
wavering backwards and forwards in a necessarily limited circle. Doctor
CRUSIUS** was one of those whom the prophetic part of Scripture suited
more than any other, since it brings into action the two most opposite
qualities of human nature, the affections, and the acuteness of the
intellect. Many young men had devoted themselves to this doctrine, and
already formed a respectable body, which attracted the more attention,
as ERNESTI with his friends threatened, not to illuminate, but
completely to disperse the obscurity in which these delighted. Hence
arose controversies, hatred, persecution and much that was unpleasant.
I attached myself to the lucid party, and sought to appropriate
to myself their principles and advantages, although I ventured to
forebode, that by this extremely praiseworthy, intelligent method of
interpretation, the poetic contents of the writings must at last be
lost along with the prophetical.

But those who devoted themselves to German literature and the _belles
lettres_ were more nearly concerned with the efforts of such men, who,
as JERUSALEM, ZOLLIKOFER, and SPALDING, tried, by means of a good and
pure style in their sermons and treatises, to gain even among persons
of a certain degree of sense and taste, applause and attachment for
religion, and for the moral philosophy which is so closely related to
it. A pleasing manner of writing began to be everywhere necessary; and
since such a manner must, above all, be comprehensible, so did writers
arise, on many sides, who undertook to write about their studies and
their professions clearly, perspicuously, and impressively, and as well
for the adepts as for the multitude.

After the example of Tissot, a foreigner, the physicians also now
began to labour zealously for the general cultivation HALLER, UNZER,
ZIMMERMAN had a very great influence, and whatever may be said against
them in detail, especially the last, they produced a very great effect
in their time. And mention should be made of this in history, but
particularly in biography: for a man remains of consequence, not so far
as he leaves something behind him, but so far as he acts and enjoys,
and rouses others to action and enjoyment.

The jurists, accustomed from their youth upwards to an abstruse style,
which, in all legal papers, from the petty court of the Immediate
Knight up to the Imperial Diet at Ratisbon, was still maintained in
all its quaintness, could not easily elevate themselves to a certain
freedom, the less so as the subjects of which they had to treat were
most intimately connected with the external form, and consequently also
with the style. Yet the younger VON MOSER had already shown himself
an independent and original writer, and PUTTER, by the clearness of
his delivery, had also brought clearness into his subject, and the
style in which he was to treat it. All that proceeded from his school
was distinguished by this. And even the philosophers, in order to
be popular, now found themselves compelled to write clearly and
intelligibly. MENDELSOHN and GARVE appeared, and excited universal
interest and admiration.

With the cultivation of the German language and style in every
department, the capacity for forming a judgment also increased, and we
admire the reviews then published of works upon religious and moral,
as well as medical subjects; while, on the contrary, we remark that
the judgments of poems, and of whatever else may relate to the _belles
lettres_, will be found, if not pitiful, at least very feeble. This
holds good of the _Literary Epistles_ (_Literaturbriefen_), and of the
_Universal German Library_, as well as of the _Library of the Belles
Lettres_, notable instances of which could easily be produced.

[Side-note: The "Image-Hunt."]

No matter in how motley a manner all this might be confused, still
for every one who contemplated producing anything from himself, who
would not merely take the words and phrases out of the mouths of his
predecessors, there was nothing further left but, early and late, to
look about him for some subject-matter which he might determine to use.
Here, too, we were much led astray. People were constantly repeating a
saying of KLEIST, which we had to hear often enough. He had sportively,
ingeniously, and truly replied to those who took him to task on account
of his frequent lonely walks: "that he was not idle at such times,--he
was going to the image hunt." This simile was very suitable for a
nobleman and soldier, who by it placed himself in contrast with the
men of his rank, who did not neglect going out, with their guns on
their shoulders, hare-hunting and patridge-shooting, as often as an
opportunity presented itself. Hence we find in Kleist's poems many
such individual images, happily seized, although not always happily
elaborated, which in a kindly manner remind us of nature. But now they
also recommended us, quite seriously, to go out on the image-hunt,
which did not at last leave us wholly without fruit, although Apel's
Garden, the kitchen-gardens, the Rosenthal, Golis, Raschwitz and
Konnewitz, would be the oddest ground to beat up poetical game in. And
yet I was often induced by that motive to contrive that my walk should
be solitary, and, because many objects neither beautiful nor sublime
met the eye of the beholder, and in the truly splendid Rosenthal, the
gnats, in the best season of the year, allowed no tender thoughts to
arise, so,did I, by unwearied, persevering endeavour, become extremely
attentive to the small life of nature, (I would use this word after
the analogy of "still life,") and since the pretty events which one
perceives within this circle represent but little in themselves, so I
accustomed myself to see in them a significance, which inclined now
towards the symbolical, now towards the allegorical side, accordingly
as intuition, feeling, or reflection had the preponderance. I will
relate one incident, in place of many.

I was, after the fashion of humanity, in love with my name, and, as
young uneducated people commonly do, I wrote it down everywhere. Once
I had carved it very handsomely and accurately on the smooth bark of a
linden-tree of moderate age. The following autumn, when my affection
for Annette was in its fullest bloom, I took the trouble to cut hers
above it. Towards the end of the winter, in the meantime, like a
capricious lover, I had wantonly sought many opportunities to teaze her
and cause her vexation; in the spring I chanced to visit the spot, and
the sap, which was rising strongly in the trees, had welled out through
the incisions which formed her name, and which were not yet crusted
over, and moistened with innocent vegetable tears the already hardened
traces of my own. Thus to see her here weeping over me,--me, who had so
often called up her tears by my ill-conduct, filled me with confusion.
At the remembrance of my injustice and of her love, even the tears came
into my eyes, I hastened to implore pardon of her, doubly and trebly,
and I turned this incident into an idyl[1], which I never could read to
myself without affection, or to others without emotion.

While I now, like a shepherd on the Pleisse, was absorbed childishly
enough in such tender subjects, and always chose only such as I
could easily recall into my bosom, provision from a greater and more
important side had long been made for German poets.

The first true and really vital material of the higher order came into
German poetry through Frederick the Great and the deeds of the Seven
Years' War. All national poetry must be shallow or become shallow which
does not rest on that which is most universally human,--upon the events
of nations and their shepherds, when both stand for one man. Kings are
to be represented in war and danger, where, by that very means, they
appear as the first, because they determine and share the fate of
the very least, and thus become much more interesting than the gods
themselves, who, when they have once determined the fates, withdraw
from all participation in them. In this view of the subject, every
nation, if it would be worth anything at all, must possess an epopee,
to which the precise form of the epic poem is not necessary.

[Side-note: Gleim-Ramler.]

The war-songs started by Gleim maintain so high a rank among German
poems, because they arose with and in the achievements which are their
subject, and because, moreover, their felicitous form, just as if a
fellow-combatant had produced them in the loftiest moments, makes us
feel the most complete effectiveness.

Ramler sings the deeds of his king in a different and most noble
manner. All his poems are full of matter, and occupy us with great,
heart-elevating objects, and thus already maintain an indestructible
value.

For the internal matter of the subject worked is the beginning and end
of art. It will not, indeed, be denied that genius, that thoroughly
cultivated artistical talent, can make everything out of everything by
its method of treatment, and can subdue the most refractory material.
But when closely examined, the result is rather a trick of art than a
work of art, which should rest upon a worthy object, that the treatment
of it by skill, pains, and industry, may present to us the dignity of
the subject-matter only the more happily and splendidly.

The Prussians, and with them Protestant Germany, acquired thus for
their literature a treasure which the opposite party lacked, and
the want of which they have been able to supply by no subsequent
endeavours. Upon the great idea which the Prussian writers could
well entertain of their king, they first established themselves, and
the more zealously as he, in whose name they did it all, wished once
for all to know nothing about them. Already before this, through the
French colony, afterwards through the king's predilection for the
literature of that nation, and for their financial institutions, had
a mass of French civilization come into Prussia, which was highly
advantageous to the Germans, since by it they were challenged to
contradiction and resistance; thus the very aversion of Frederick
from German was a fortunate thing for the formation of its literary
character. They did everything to attract the king's attention, not
indeed to be honoured, but only noticed by him; yet they did it in
German fashion, from an internal conviction; they did what they held
to be right, and desired and wished that the king should recognize
and prize this German uprightness. That did not and could not happen;
for how can it be required of a king, who wishes to live and enjoy
himself intellectually, that he shall lose his years in order to see
what he thinks barbarous developed and rendered palatable too late? In
matters of trade and manufacture, he might indeed force upon himself,
but especially upon his people, very moderate substitutes instead of
excellent foreign wares; but here everything comes to perfection more
rapidly, and it needs not a man's life-time to bring such things to
maturity.

But I must here, first of all, make honourable mention of one work, the
most genuine production of the Seven Years' War, and of perfect North
German nationality; it is the first theatrical production caught from
the important events of life, one of specific temporary value, and one
which therefore produced an incalculable effect,--_Minna von Barnhelm._
Lessing, who, in opposition to Klopstock and Gleim, was fond of casting
off his personal dignity, because he was confident that he could at any
moment seize it and take it up again, delighted in a dissipated life
in taverns and the world, as he always needed a strong counterpoise
to his powerfully labouring interior; and for this reason also he had
joined the suite of General Tauentzien. One easily discovers how the
above-mentioned piece was generated betwixt war and peace, hatred and
affection. It was this production which happily opened the view into a
higher, more significant world, from the literary and citizen world in
which poetic art had hitherto moved.

The intense hatred in which the Prussians and Saxons stood towards
each other during this war, could not be removed by its termination.
The Saxon now first felt, with true bitterness, the wounds which the
upstart Prussian had inflicted upon him. Political peace could not
immediately re-establish a peace between their dispositions. But this
was to be brought about symbolically by the above-mentioned drama.
The grace and amiability of the Saxon ladies conquer the worth, the
dignity, and the stubbornness of the Prussians, and, in the principal
as well as in the subordinate characters, a happy union of bizarre and
contradictory elements is artistically represented.

If I have put my reader in some perplexity by these cursory and
desultory remarks on German literature, I have succeeded in giving
them a conception of that chaotic condition in which my poor brain
found itself, when, in the conflict of two epochs so important for the
literary fatherland, so much that was new crowded in upon me before
I could come to terms with the old, so much that was old yet made me
feel its right over me, when I believed I had already cause to venture
on renouncing it altogether. I will at present try to impart, as
well as possible, the way I entered on to extricate myself from this
difficulty, if only step by step.

[Side-note: Goethe's Peculiar Tendency.]

The period of prolixity into which my youth had fallen, I had
laboured through with genuine industry, in company with so many
worthy men. The numerous quarto volumes of manuscript which I left
behind with my father might serve for sufficient witnesses of this;
and what a mass of essays, rough draughts, and half-executed designs,
had, more from despondency than conviction, gone up in smoke! Now,
through conversation, through instruction in general, through so
many conflicting opinions, but especially through my fellow-boarder
Hofrath Pfeil, I learned to value more and more the importance of
the subject-matter, and the conciseness of the treatment; without,
however, being able to make it clear to myself where the former was
to be sought, or how the latter was to be attained. For, what with
the great narrowness of my situation,--what with the indifference of
my companions, the reserve of the professors, the exclusiveness of
the educated inhabitants, and what with the perfect insignificance of
the natural objects, I was compelled to seek for everything within
myself. If I now desired a true basis in feeling or reflection for my
poems, I was forced to grasp into my own bosom; if I required for my
poetic representation an immediate intuition of an object or an event,
I could not step outside the circle which was fitted to teach me and
inspire me with an interest. In this view I wrote at first certain
little poems, in the form of songs or in a freer measure; they are
founded on reflection, treat of the past, and for the most part take an
epigrammatic turn.

And thus began that tendency from which I could not deviate my whole
life through; namely, the tendency to turn into an image, into a poem,
everything that delighted or troubled me, or otherwise occupied me, and
to come to some certain understanding with myself upon it, that I might
both rectify my conceptions of external things, and set my mind at rest
about them. The faculty of doing this was necessary to no one more
than to me, for my natural disposition whirled me constantly from one
extreme to the other. All, therefore, that has been confessed by me,
consists of fragments of a great confession, and this little book is an
attempt which I have ventured on to render it complete.

My early affection for Gretchen I had now transferred to one Annette
(_Aennchen_), of whom I can say nothing more than that she was young,
handsome, sprightly, loving, and so agreeable that she well deserved
to be set up for a time in the shrine of the heart as a little saint,
that she might receive all that reverence which it often causes more
pleasure to bestow than to receive. I saw her daily without hindrance;
she helped to prepare the meals which I enjoyed, she brought, in the
evening at least, the wine which I drank, and indeed our select club
of noon-day boarders was a warranty that the little house, which was
visited by few guests except during the fair, well merited its good
reputation. Opportunity and inclination were found for various kinds
of amusement. But as she neither could nor dared go much out of the
house, the pastime was somewhat limited. We sang the songs of Zachariä,
played the _Duke Michael_ of Krüger, in which a knotted handkerchief
had to take the place of the nightingale; and so, for a while, it went
on quite tolerably. But since such connexions, the more innocent they
are, afford the less variety in the long run,--so was I seized with
that wicked distemper which seduces us to derive amusement from the
torment of a beloved one, and to domineer over a girl's devotedness
with wanton and tyrannical caprice. My ill-humour at the failure of my
poetical attempts, at the apparent impossibility of coming to a clear
understanding about them, and at everything else that might pinch me
here and there, I thought I might vent on her, because she truly loved
me with all her heart, and did whatever she could to please me. By
unfounded and absurd fits of jealousy, I destroyed our most delightful
days both for myself and her. She endured it for a time with incredible
patience, which I was cruel enough to try to the uttermost. But to
my shame and despair I was at last forced to remark that her heart
was alienated from me, and that I might now have good ground for the
madness in which I had indulged without necessity and without cause.
There were also terrible scenes between us, in which I gained nothing;
and I then first felt that I had truly loved her, and could not bear
to lose her. My passion grew, and assumed all the forms of which it
is capable under such circumstances; nay, at last I even took up the
_rôle_ which the girl had hitherto played. I sought everything possible
in order to be agreeable to her, even to procure her pleasure by means
of others; for I could not renounce the hope of winning her again. But
it was too late! I had lost her really, and the frenzy with which I
revenged my fault upon myself, by assaulting in various frantic ways
my physical nature, in order to inflict some hurt on my moral nature,
contributed very much to the bodily maladies under which I lost some
of the best years of my life; indeed I should perchance have been
completely ruined by this loss, had not my poetic talent here shown
itself particularly helpful with its healing power.

[Side-note: Die Laune Des Verliebten.]

Already, at many intervals before, I had clearly enough perceived
my ill-conduct. I really pitied the poor child, when I saw her so
thoroughly wounded by me, without necessity. I pictured to myself so
often and so circumstantially, her condition and my own, and, as a
contrast, the contented state of another couple in our company, that
at last I could not forbear treating this situation dramatically, as a
painful and instructive penance. Hence arose the oldest of my extant
dramatic labours, the little piece entitled, _Die Laune des Verliebten_
(_The Lover's Caprice_); in the simple nature of which one may at the
same time perceive the impetus of a boiling passion.

But before this, a deep, significant, impulsive world had already
interested me. Through my adventure with Gretchen and its consequences,
I had early looked into the strange labyrinths by which civil society
is undermined. Religion, morals, law, rank, connexions, custom, all
rule only the surface of city existence. The streets, bordered by
splendid houses, are kept neat, and every one behaves himself there
properly enough; but indoors, it often seems only so much the more
disordered; and a smooth exterior, like a thin coat of mortar, plasters
over many a rotten wall that tumbles together overnight, and produces
an effect the more frightful, as it comes into the midst of a condition
of repose. How many families, far and near, had I not already seen,
either overwhelmed in ruin or kept miserably hanging on the brink of
it, by means of bankruptcies, divorces, seduced daughters, murders,
house-robberies, poisonings; and young as I was, I had often, in such
cases, lent a hand for help and preservation. For as my frankness
awakened confidence, as my secresy was proved, as my activity feared
no sacrifice, and loved best to exert itself in the most dangerous
affairs, I had often enough found opportunity to mediate, to hush up,
to divert the lightning-flash, with every other assistance of the
kind; in the course of which, as well in my own person as through
others, I could not fail to come to the knowledge of many afflicting
and humiliating facts. To relieve myself I designed several plays,
and wrote the arguments[2] of most of them. But since the intrigues
were always obliged to be painful, and almost all these pieces
threatened a tragical conclusion, I let them drop one after another.
_Die Mitschuldigen_ (_The Fellow-sinners_) is the only one that was
finished, the cheerful and burlesque tone of which upon the gloomy
family-ground appears as if accompanied by somewhat of apprehension, so
that on the whole it is painful in representation, although it pleases
in detached passages. The illegal deeds, harshly expressed, wound
the æsthetic and moral feeling, and the piece could therefore find
no favour on the German stage, although the imitations of it, which
steered clear of those rocks, were received with applause.

Both the above-mentioned pieces were however written from a more
elevated point of view, without my having been aware of it. They
direct us to a considerate forbearance in casting moral imputations,
and in somewhat harsh and coarse touches sportively express that most
Christian maxim: _Let him who is without sin among you, cast the first
stone._

[Side-note: Youthful Pranks.]

Through this earnestness, which cast a gloom over my first pieces,
I committed the fault of neglecting very favourable materials which
lay quite decidedly in my natural disposition. In the midst of these
serious, and for a young man, fearful experiences, was developed in me
a reckless humour, which feels itself superior to the moment, and not
only fears no danger, but rather wantonly courts it. The ground of this
lay in the exuberance of spirits in which the vigorous time of life so
much delights, and which, if it manifests itself in a frolicsome way,
causes much pleasure, both at the moment and in remembrance. These
things are so usual that in the vocabulary of our young university
friends they are called _Suites_, and on account of the close
similarity of signification, to say "_play suites_," means just the
same as to "play pranks."[3]

Such humorous acts of daring, brought on the theatre with wit and
sense, are of the greatest effect. They are distinguished from
intrigue, inasmuch as they are momentary, and that their aim, whenever
they are to have one, must not be remote. Beaumarchais has seized
their full value, and the effects of his _Figaro_ spring pre-eminently
from this. If now such good-humoured roguish and half-knavish pranks
are practised with personal risk for noble ends, the situations which
arise from them are æsthetically and morally considered of the greatest
value for the theatre; as for instance the opera of the _Water-Carrier_
treats perhaps the happiest subject which we have ever yet seen upon
the stage.

To enliven the endless tedium of daily life, I played off numberless
tricks of the sort, partly without any aim at all, partly in the
service of my friends whom I liked to please. For myself, I could not
say that I had once acted in this designedly, nor did I ever happen
to consider a feat of the kind as a subject for art. Had I, however,
seized upon and elaborated such materials, which were so close at hand,
my earliest labours would have been more cheerful and available. Some
incidents of this kind occur indeed later, but isolated and without
design. For since the heart always lies nearer to us than the head,
and gives us trouble when the latter knows well how to help itself,
so the affairs of the heart had always appeared to me as the most
important. I was never weary of reflecting upon the transient nature of
attachments, the mutability of human character, moral sensuality, and
all the heights and depths, the combination of which in our nature may
be considered as the riddle of human life. Here, too, I sought to get
rid of that which troubled me, in a song, an epigram, in some kind of
rhyme, which, since they referred to the most private feelings and the
most peculiar circumstances, could scarcely interest any one but myself.

In the meanwhile, my external position had very much changed after
the lapse of a short time. Madame Böhme, after a long and melancholy
illness, had at last died; she had latterly ceased to admit me to her
presence. Her husband could not be particularly satisfied with me;
I seemed to him not sufficiently industrious, and too frivolous. He
especially took it very ill of me, when it was told him that, at the
lectures on German Public Law, instead of taking proper notes, I had
been drawing on the margin of my note-book the personages presented
to our notice in them, such as the President of the Chamber, the
Moderators and Assessors, in strange wigs; and by this drollery had
disturbed my attentive neighbours and set them laughing. After the
loss of his wife he lived still more retired than before, and at last
I shunned him in order to avoid his reproaches. But it was peculiarly
unfortunate that Gellert would not use the power which he might have
exercised over us. Indeed he had not time to play the father-confessor,
and to inquire after the character and faults of everybody; he
therefore took the matter very much in the lump, and thought to curb us
by means of the church forms. For this reason, commonly, when he once
admitted us to his presence, he used to lower his little head, and,
in his weeping, winning voice, to ask us whether we went regularly to
church, who was our confessor, and whether we took the holy communion?
If now we came off badly at this examination we were dismissed with
lamentations; we were more vexed than edified, yet could not help
loving the man heartily.

[Side-note: Sacraments of the Church.]

On this occasion, I cannot forbear recalling somewhat of my earlier
youth, in order to make it obvious that the great affairs of the
ecclesiastical religion must be carried on with order and coherence,
if they are to prove as fruitful as is expected. The Protestant
service has too little fulness and consistency to be able to hold the
congregation together; hence, it easily happens that members secede
from it, and either form little congregations of their own, or, without
ecclesiastical connexion, quietly carry on their citizen-life side
by side. Thus for a considerable time complaints were made that the
church-goers were diminishing from year to year, and, just in the same
ratio, the persons who partook of the Lord's Supper. With respect to
both, but especially the latter, the cause lies close at hand; but who
dares to speak it out? We will make the attempt.

In moral and religious, as well as in physical and civil matters, man
does not like to do anything on the spur of the moment; he needs a
sequence from which results habit; what he is to love and to perform,
he cannot represent to himself as single or isolated, and if he is to
repeat anything willingly, it must not have become strange to him.
If the Protestant worship lacks fulness in general, so let it be
investigated in detail, and it will be found that the Protestant has
too few sacraments, nay, indeed he has only one in which he is himself
an actor,--the Lord's Supper: for baptism he sees only when it is
performed on others, and is not greatly edified by it. The sacraments
are the highest part of religion, the symbols to our senses of an
extraordinary divine favour and grace. In the Lord's Supper earthly
lips are to receive a divine Being embodied, and partake of an heavenly
under the form of an earthly nourishment. This sense is just the same
in all Christian churches; whether the Sacrament is taken with more
or less submission to the mystery, with more or less accommodation as
to that which is intelligible; it always remains a great holy thing,
which in reality takes the place of the possible or the impossible,
the place of that which man can neither attain nor do without. But
such a sacrament should not stand alone; no Christian can partake
of it with the true joy for which it is given, if the symbolical or
sacramental sense is not fostered within him. He must be accustomed
to regard the inner religion of the heart and that of the external
church as perfectly one, as the great universal sacrament, which again
divides itself into so many others, and communicates to these parts its
holiness, indestructibleness, and eternity.

Here a youthful pair give their hands to one another, not for a passing
salutation or for the dance; the priest pronounces his blessing upon
them, and the bond is indissoluble. It is not long before this wedded
pair bring a likeness to the threshold of the altar; it is purified
with holy water, and so incorporated into the church, that it cannot
forfeit this benefit but through the most monstrous apostacy. The
child in the course of life practises himself in earthly things of his
own accord, in heavenly things he must be instructed. Does it prove
on examination that this has been fully done, he is now received into
the bosom of the church as an actual citizen, as a true and voluntary
professor, not without outward tokens of the weightiness of this act.
Now is he first decidedly a Christian, now for the first time he knows
his advantages, and also his duties. But, in the meanwhile, much that
is strange has happened to him as a man; through instruction and
affliction he has come to know how critical appears the state of his
inner self, and there will constantly be a question of doctrines and of
transgressions; but punishment shall no longer take place. For here,
in the infinite confusion in which he must entangle himself, amid the
conflict of natural and religious claims, an admirable expedient is
given him, in confiding his deeds and misdeeds, his infirmities and
doubts, to a worthy man, appointed expressly for that purpose, who
knows how to calm, to warn, to strengthen him, to chasten him likewise
by symbolical punishments, and at last by a complete washing away of
his guilt, to render him happy and to give him back, pure and cleansed,
the tablet of his manhood. Thus prepared, and purely calmed to rest by
several sacramental acts, which, on closer examination, branch forth
again into minuter sacramental traits, he kneels down to receive the
host; and that the mystery of this high act may be still enhanced,
he sees the chalice only in the distance; it is no common eating and
drinking that satisfies, it is a heavenly feast, which makes him thirst
after heavenly drink.

Yet let not the youth believe that this is all he has to do; let not
even the man believe it. In earthly relations we are at last accustomed
to depend on ourselves, and, even there, knowledge, understanding,
and character, will not always suffice; in heavenly things, on
the contrary, we have never finished learning. The higher feeling
within us, which often finds itself not even truly at home, is,
besides, oppressed by so much from without, that our own power hardly
administers all that is necessary for counsel, consolation, and help.
But, to this end, that remedy is instituted for our whole life, and an
intelligent, pious man is continually waiting to show the right way to
the wanderers, and to relieve the distressed.

[Side-note: Catholic Sacraments.]

And what has been so well tried through the whole life, is now to
show forth all its healing power with tenfold activity at the gate of
Death. According to a trustful custom, inculcated from youth upwards,
the dying man receives with fervour those symbolical, significant
assurances, and there, where every earthly warranty fails, he is
assured, by a heavenly one, of a blessed existence for all eternity. He
feels himself perfectly convinced that neither a hostile element nor a
malignant spirit can hinder him from clothing himself with a glorified
body, so that, in immediate relation with the Godhead, he may partake
of the boundless happiness which flows forth from Him.

Then in conclusion, that the whole may be made holy, the feet also are
anointed and blessed. They are to feel, even in the event of possible
recovery, a repugnance to touching this earthly, hard, impenetrable
soil. A wonderful nimbleness is to be imparted to them, by which they
spurn from under them the clod of earth which hitherto attracted them.
And so, through a brilliant circle of equally holy acts, the beauty of
which we have only briefly hinted at, the cradle and the grave, however
far asunder they may chance to be, are bound in one continuous circle.

But all these spiritual wonders spring not, like other fruits, from
the natural soil, where they can neither be sown, nor planted, nor
cherished. We must supplicate for them from another region, a thing
which cannot be done by all persons, nor at all times. Here we meet
the highest of these symbols, derived from pious tradition. We are
told that one man can be more favoured, blessed, and sanctified from
above than another. But that this may not appear as a natural gift,
this great boon, bound up with a heavy duty, must be communicated to
others by one authorized person to another; and the greatest good that
a man can attain, without his having to obtain it by his own wrestling
or grasping, must be preserved and perpetuated on earth by spiritual
heirship. In the very ordination of the priest, is comprehended all
that is necessary for the effectual solemnizing of those holy acts, by
which the multitude receive grace, without any other activity being
needful on their part, than that of faith and implicit confidence.
And thus the priest steps forth in the line of his predecessors and
successors, in the circle of those anointed with him, representing the
highest source of blessings, so much the more gloriously, as it is not
he, the priest, whom we reverence, but his office; it is not his nod
to which we bow the knee, but the blessing which he imparts, and which
seems the more holy, and to come the more immediately from heaven,
because the earthly instrument cannot at all weaken or invalidate it by
its own sinful, nay, wicked nature.

How is this truly spiritual connexion shattered to pieces in
Protestantism, by part of the above-mentioned symbols being declared
apocryphal, and only a few canonical;--and how, by their indifference
to one of these, will they prepare us for the high dignity of the
others?

In my time I had been confided to the religious instruction of a good
old infirm clergyman, who had been confessor of the family for many
years. The _Catechism_, a _Paraphrase_ of it, and the _Scheme of
Salvation_, I had at my fingers' ends, I lacked not one of the strongly
proving biblical texts, but from all this I reaped no fruit; for as
they assured me that the honest old man arranged his chief examination
according to an old set form, I lost all pleasure and inclination for
the business, spent the last week in all sorts of diversions, laid in
my hat the loose leaves borrowed from an older friend, who had gotten
them from the clergyman, and unfeelingly and senselessly read aloud all
that I should have known how to utter with feeling and conviction.

[Side-note: Religious Apprehensions.]

But I found my good-will and my aspirations in this important matter
still more paralyzed by a dry, spiritless routine, when I was now
to approach the confessional. I was indeed conscious to myself of
many failings, but of no great faults; and that very consciousness
diminished them, since it directed me to the moral strength which
lay within me, and which, with resolution and perseverance, was at
last to become master over the old Adam. We were taught that we were
much better than the catholics for this very reason: that we were not
obliged to acknowledge anything in particular in the confessional,
nay, that this would not be at all proper, even if we wished to do it.
This last did not seem right to me; for I had the strangest religious
doubts, which I would readily have had cleared up on such an occasion.
Now as this was not to be done, I composed a confession for myself,
which, while it well expressed my state of mind, was to confess to an
intelligent man, in general terms, that which I was forbidden to tell
him in detail. But when I entered the old choir of the Barefoot Friars,
when I approached the strange latticed closets in which the reverend
gentlemen used to be found for that purpose, when the sexton opened the
door for me, when I now saw myself shut up in the narrow place face
to face with my spiritual grandsire, and he bade me welcome with his
weak nasal voice, all the light of my mind and heart was extinguished
at once, the well-conned confession-speech would not cross my lips;
I opened, in my embarrassment, the book which I had in hand, and
read from it the first short form I saw, which was so general, that
anybody might have spoken it with quite a safe conscience. I received
absolution, and withdrew neither warm nor cold; went the next day with
my parents to the Table of the Lord, and, for a few days, behaved
myself as was becoming after so holy an act.

In the sequel, however, there came over me that evil, which from the
fact of our religion being complicated by various dogmas, and founded
on texts of scripture which admit of several interpretations, attacks
scrupulous men in such a manner, that it brings on a hypochondriacal
condition, and raises this to its highest point, to fixed ideas. I have
known several men who, though their manner of thinking and living was
perfectly rational, could not free themselves from thinking about the
sin against the Holy Ghost, and from the fear that they had committed
it. A similar trouble threatened me on the subject of the communion,
for the text that one who unworthily partakes of the Sacrament _eateth
and drinketh damnation to himself_, had, very early, already made a
monstrous impression upon me. Every fearful thing that I had read in
the histories of the middle ages, of the judgments of God, of those
most strange ordeals, by red-hot iron, flaming fire, swelling water,
and even what the Bible tells us of the draught which agrees well with
the innocent, but puffs up and bursts the guilty,--all this pictured
itself to my imagination; and formed itself into the most frightful
combinations, since false vows, hypocrisy, perjury, blasphemy, all
seemed to weigh down the unworthy person at this most holy act, which
was so much the more horrible, as no one could dare to pronounce
himself worthy, and the forgiveness of sins, by which everything was to
be at last done away, was found limited by so many conditions, that one
could not with certainty dare appropriate it to oneself.

This gloomy scruple troubled me to such a degree, and the expedient
which they would represent to me as sufficient, seemed so bald and
feeble, that it gave the bugbear only a more fearful aspect, and, as
soon as I had reached Leipzig, I tried to free myself altogether from
my connexion with the church. How oppressive then must have been to me
the exhortations of Gellert, whom, considering the generally laconic
style with which he was obliged to repel our obtrusiveness, I was
unwilling to trouble with such singular questions, and the less so as
in my more cheerful hours I was myself ashamed of them; and at last
left completely behind me this strange anguish of conscience, together
with church and altar.

[Side-note: Decline of Gellert's Authority.]

Gellert, in accordance with his pious feelings, had composed for
himself a course of ethics, which from time to time he publicly read,
and thus in an honourable manner acquitted himself of his duty to the
public. Gellert's writings had already, for a long time, been the
foundation of German moral culture, and every one anxiously wished to
see that work printed; but as this was not to be done till after the
good man's death, people thought themselves very fortunate to hear him
deliver it himself in his lifetime. The philosophical auditorium[4]
was at such times crowded, and the beautiful soul, the pure will,
and the interest of the noble man in our welfare, his exhortations,
warnings, and entreaties, uttered in a somewhat hollow and sorrowful
tone, made indeed an impression for the moment, but this did not last
long, the less so, as there were many scoffers, who contrived to make
us suspicious of this tender, and, as they thought, enervating manner.
I remember a Frenchman travelling through the town, who inquired after
the maxims and opinions of the man who attracted such an immense
concourse. When we had given him the necessary information, he shook
his head and said, smiling, _Laissez le faire, il nous forme des dupes._

And thus also did good society, which cannot easily endure anything
estimable in its neighbourhood, know how to spoil on occasion the moral
influence which Gellert might have had upon us. Now it was taken ill of
him that he instructed the Danes of distinction and wealth, who were
particularly recommended to him, better than the other students, and
had a marked solicitude for them; now he was charged with selfishness
and nepotism for causing a table d'hôte to be established for these
young men at his brother's house. This brother, a tall, good-looking,
blunt, unceremonious and somewhat rude man, had, it was said, been
a fencing-master, and notwithstanding the too great lenity of his
brother, the noble boarders were often treated harshly and roughly;
hence the people thought they must again take the part of these young
folks, and pulled about the good reputation of the excellent Gellert
to such a degree, that, in order not to be mistaken about him, we
became indifferent towards him, and visited him no more; yet we always
saluted him in our best manner when he came riding along on his tame
grey horse. This horse the Elector had sent him, to oblige him to take
an exercise so necessary for his health;--a distinction which was not
easily forgiven him.

And thus, by degrees, the epoch approached when all authority was to
vanish from before me, and I was to become suspicious, nay, to despair,
even of the greatest and best individuals whom I had known or imagined.

Frederick the Second still stood at the head of all the distinguished
men of the century, in my thoughts, and it must therefore have appeared
very surprising to me, that I could praise him as little before the
inhabitants of Leipzig as formerly in my grandfather's house. They had
felt the hand of war heavily, it is true, and therefore they were not
to blame for not thinking the best of him who had begun and continued
it. They therefore were willing to let him pass, as a distinguished,
but by no means as a great man. "There was no art," they said, "in
performing something with great means; and if one spares neither
lands, nor money, nor blood, one may well accomplish one's purpose
at last. Frederick had shown himself great in none of his plans, and
in nothing that he had, properly speaking, undertaken. So long as it
depended on himself, he had only gone on making blunders, and what was
extraordinary in him, had only come to light when he was compelled to
make these blunders good again. It was purely from this that he had
obtained his great reputation, since every man wishes for himself that
same talent of making good, in a clever way, the blunders which he
frequently commits. If one goes through the Seven Years' War, step by
step, it will be found that the king quite uselessly sacrificed his
fine army, and that it was his own fault that this ruinous feud had
been protracted to so great a length. A truly great man and general
would have got the better of his enemies much sooner." In support of
these opinions they could cite infinite details, which I did not know
how to deny; and I felt the unbounded reverence which I had devoted to
this remarkable prince, from my youth upwards, gradually cooling away.

[Side-note: Behrisch.]

As the inhabitants of Leipzig had now destroyed for me the pleasant
feeling of revering a great man, so did a new friend whom I gained at
the time very much diminish the respect which I entertained for my
present fellow-citizens. This friend was one of the strangest fellows
in the world. He was named Behrisch, and was tutor to the young Count
Lindenau. Even his exterior was singular enough. Lean and well-built,
far advanced in the thirties, a very large nose, and altogether marked
features; he wore from morning till night a scratch which might well
have been called a peruke, but dressed himself very neatly, and never
went out but with his sword by his side, and his hat under his arm. He
was one of those men who have quite a peculiar gift of killing time,
or rather, who know how to make something out of nothing, in order to
pass time away. Everything that he did must be done with slowness,
and a certain deportment which might have been called affected, if
Behrisch had not even by nature had something affected in his manner.
He resembled an old Frenchman, and also spoke and wrote French very
well and easily. His greatest delight was to busy himself seriously
about drolleries, and to follow up without end any silly notion. Thus
he was constantly dressed in grey, and as the different parts of his
attire were of different stuffs, and also of different shades, he could
reflect for whole days as to how he should procure one grey more for
his body, and was happy when he had succeeded in this, and could put
to shame us who had doubted it, or had pronounced it impossible. He
then gave us long severe lectures, about our lack of inventive power,
and our want of faith in his talents.

For the rest, he had studied well, was particularly versed in the
modern languages and their literature, and wrote an excellent hand.
He was very well disposed to me, and I, having been always accustomed
and inclined to the society of older persons, soon attached myself to
him. My intercourse, too, served him for a special amusement, since he
took pleasure in taming my restlessness and impatience, with which, on
the other hand, I gave him enough to do. In the art of poetry he had
what is called taste, a certain general opinion about the good and bad,
the mediocre and tolerable; but his judgment was rather censorious,
and he destroyed even the little faith in contemporary writers which I
cherished within me, by unfeeling remarks, which he knew how to advance
with wit and humour, about the writings and poems of this man and that.
He received my own affairs with indulgence, and let me have my way, but
only on the condition that I should have nothing printed. He promised
me, on the other hand, that he himself would copy those pieces which he
thought good, and would present me with them in a handsome volume. This
undertaking now afforded an opportunity for the greatest possible waste
of time. For before he could find the right paper, before he could
make up his mind as to the size, before he had settled the breadth of
the margin, and the form of handwriting, before the crow-quills were
provided and cut into pens, and Indian ink was rubbed, whole weeks
passed, without the least bit having been done. With just as much ado
he always set about his writing, and really, by degrees, put together
a most charming manuscript. The title of the poems was in German text,
the verses themselves in a perpendicular Saxon hand, and at the end
of every poem was an analogous vignette, which he had either selected
somewhere or other, or had invented himself, and in which he contrived
to imitate very neatly the hatching of the wood-cuts and tail-pieces
which are used for such purposes. To show me these things as he went
on, to celebrate beforehand in a comico-pathetical manner my good
fortune in seeing myself immortalized in such exquisite handwriting,
and that in a style which no printing-press could attain, gave another
occasion for passing the most agreeable hours. In the meantime, his
intercourse was always secretly instructive, by reason of his liberal
acquirements, and, as he knew how to subdue my restless impetuous
disposition, was also quite wholesome for me in a moral sense. He had,
too, quite a peculiar abhorrence of roughness, and his jests were
always quaint, without ever falling into the coarse or the trivial.
He indulged himself in a distorted aversion from his countrymen, and
described with ludicrous touches even what they were able to undertake.
He was particularly inexhaustible in a comical representation of
individual persons, as he found something to find fault with in the
exterior of every one. Thus, when we lay together at the window, he
could occupy himself for hours criticising the passers-by, and when he
had censured them long enough, in showing exactly and circumstantially
how they ought to have dressed themselves, ought to have walked, and
ought to have behaved to look like orderly people. Such attempts, for
the most part, ended in something improper and absurd, so that we did
not so much laugh at how the man looked, but at how, perchance, he
might have looked, had he been mad enough to caricature himself. In
all such matters, Behrisch went quite unmercifully to work, without
being in the slightest degree malicious. On the other hand, we knew
how to teaze him, on our side, by assuring him that, to judge from his
exterior, he must be taken, if not for a French dancing-master, at
least for the academical teacher of the language. This reproval was
usually the signal for dissertations an hour long, in which he used to
set forth the difference, wide as the heavens, which there was between
him and an old Frenchman. At the same time he commonly imputed to us
all sorts of awkward attempts, that we might possibly have made for the
alteration and modification of his wardrobe.

The direction of my poetizing, which I only carried on the more
zealously as the transcript went on becoming more beautiful and more
careful, now inclined altogether to the natural and the true; and if
the subjects could not always be important, I nevertheless always
endeavoured to express them clearly and pointedly, the more so as
my friend often gave me to understand, what a great thing it was to
write down a verse on Dutch paper, with the crow-quill and Indian
ink; what time, talent, and exertion it required, which ought not to
be squandered on anything empty and superfluous. At the same time, he
commonly used to open a finished parcel and circumstantially to explain
what ought not to stand in this or that place, or congratulate us that
it actually did not stand there. He then spoke, with great contempt, of
the art of printing, mimicked the compositor, ridiculed his gestures
and his hurried picking out of letters here and there, and derived from
this manœuvre all the calamities of literature. On the other hand, he
extolled the grace and the noble posture of a writer, and immediately
sat down himself to exhibit it to us, while he rated us at the same
time for not demeaning ourselves at the writing-table precisely after
his example and model. He now returned to the contrast with the
compositor, turned a begun letter upside down, and showed how unseemly
it would be to write anything from the bottom to the top, or from the
right to the left, with other things of like kind with which whole
volumes might have been,filled.

With such harmless fooleries we lavished away our precious time, while
it could have occurred to none of us, that anything would chance to
proceed out of our circle, which would awaken a general sensation and
bring us into not the best repute.

[Side-note: Professor Clodius.]

Gellert may have taken little pleasure in his _Practicum_, and if,
perhaps, he took pleasure in giving some directions as to prose and
poetical style, he did it most privately only to a few, among whom we
could not number ourselves. Professor Clodius thought to fill the gap
which thus arose in the public instruction. He had gained some renown
in literature, criticism, and poetry, and as a young, lively, obliging
man, found many friends both in the university and in the city. Gellert
himself referred us to the lectures now commenced by him, and, as far
as the principal matter was concerned, we remarked little difference.
He, too, only criticised details, corrected likewise with red ink, and
one found oneself in company with mere blunders, without a prospect as
to where the right was to be sought. I had brought to him some of my
little labours, which he did not treat harshly. But just at this time
they wrote to me from home, that I must without fail furnish a poem for
my uncle's wedding. I felt myself far from that light and frivolous
period in which a similar thing would have given me pleasure, and since
I could get nothing out of the actual circumstance itself, I determined
to trick out my work in the best manner, with extraneous ornament.
I therefore convened all Olympus to consult about the marriage of a
Frankfort lawyer; and seriously enough, to be sure, as well became the
festival of such an honourable man. Venus and Themis had quarrelled for
his sake; but a roguish prank which Amor played the latter, gained the
suit for the former, and the gods decided in favour of the marriage.

My work by no means displeased me. I received from home a handsome
letter in its praise, took the trouble to have another fair copy, and
hoped to extort some applause from my professor also. But here I had
missed my aim. He took the matter severely, and as he did not notice
the tone of parody, which nevertheless lay in the notion, he declared
the great expenditure of divine means for such an insignificant human
end, in the highest degree reprehensible; inveighed against the use
and abuse of such mythological figures, as a false habit originating
in pedantic times; found the expression now too high, now too low, and
in divers particulars had indeed not spared the red ink, though he
asserted that he had yet done too little.

Such pieces were read out and criticised anonymously, it is true;
but we used to watch each other, and it remained no secret that this
unfortunate assembly of the gods was my work. Yet since his critique,
when I took his point of view, seemed to be perfectly just, and those
divinities more nearly inspected were in fact only hollow shadow-forms;
I cursed all Olympus, flung the whole mythic Pantheon away, and from
that time Amor and Luna have been the only divinities which at all
appear in my little poems.

[Side-note: Ridicule of Clodius.]

Among the persons whom Behrisch had chosen as the butts of his wit,
Clodius stood just at the head; nor was it hard to find a comical side
in him. As a little, rather stout, thick-set figure, he was violent
in his motions, somewhat impetuous in his utterances, and restless
in his demeanour. In all this he differed from his fellow-citizens,
who, nevertheless, willingly put up with him on account of his good
qualities and the fine promise which he gave.

He was usually commissioned with the poems which had become necessary
on festal occasions. In the so-called _Ode_, he followed the manner
used by Ramler, whom, however, it alone suited. But Clodius, as an
imitator, had especially marked the foreign words by means of which
the poems of Ramler come forth with a majestic pomp, which, because
it is conformable to the greatness of his subject and the rest of his
poetic treatment, produces a very good effect on the ear, feelings,
and imagination. In Clodius, on the contrary, these expressions had
a heterogeneous air, since his poetry was in other respects not
calculated to elevate the mind in any manner.

Now we had often been obliged to see such poems printed and highly
lauded in our presence, and we found it highly offensive, that he who
had sequestered the heathen gods from us, now wished to hammer together
another ladder to Parnassus out of Greek and Roman word-rungs. These
oft-recurring expressions stamped themselves firmly on our memory,
and in a merry hour, when we were eating some most excellent cakes in
the Kitchen-gardens (_Kohlgärten_), it all at once struck me to put
together these words of might and power, in a poem on the cake-baker
Hendel. No sooner thought than done! And let it stand here, too, as it
was written on the wall of the house with a lead-pencil.

    "O Hendel, dessen Ruhm vom _Süd_ zum _Norden_ reicht,
    Vernimm den _Päan_ der zu deinen Ohren steigt
    Du bäckst was _Gallien_ und _Britten_ emsig suchen,
    Mit _schöpfrischen Genie, originelle_ Kuchen.
    Des Kaffee's _Ocean_, der sich vor dir ergiesst,
    Ist süsser als der Saft der vom _Hymettus_ fliesst.
    Dein Haus ein _Monument_, wie wir den Künsten lohnen
    Umhangen mit _Trophän_, erzählt den _Nationen_:
    Auch ohne _Diadem_ fand Hendel hier sein Glück
    Und raubte dem _Cothurn_ gur manch Achtgroschenstück.
    Glänzt deine _Urn_ dereinst in majestäts'chen _Pompe_,
    Dann weint der _Patriot_ un deinem _Katacomhe._
    Doch leb! dein _Torus_ sey von edler Brut ein _Nest_,
    Steh'hoch wie der _Olymp_, wie der _Parnassus_ fest!
    Kein _Phalanx_ Griechenland mit Römischen _Ballisten_
    Vermög _Germanien_ und Hendel zu verwüsten.
    Dein _Wohl_ is unser _Stolz_, dein _Leiden_ unser _Schmerz
    Und_ Hendel's _Tempel ist der Musensöhne Herz._"[5]

This poem stood a long time among many others which disfigured the
walls of that room, without being noticed, and we, who had sufficiently
amused ourselves with it, forgot it altogether amongst other things. A
long time afterwards, Clodius came out with his _Medon_, whose wisdom,
magnanimity and virtue we found infinitely ridiculous, much as the
first representation of the piece was applauded. That evening, when we
met together in the wine-house, I made a prologue in doggerel verse,
in which Harlequin steps out with two great sacks, places them on each
side of the _proscenium_, and after various preliminary jokes, tells
the spectators in confidence, that in the two sacks moral æsthetic**
dust is to be found, which the actors will very frequently throw
into their eyes. One, to wit, was filled with good deeds, that cost
nothing, and the other with splendidly expressed opinions, that had
no meaning behind them. He reluctantly withdrew, and sometimes came
back, earnestly exhorted the spectators to attend to his warning and
shut their eyes, reminded them that he had always been their friend,
and meant well with them, with many more things of the kind. This
prologue was acted in the room, on the spot, by friend Horn, but the
jest remained quite among ourselves, not even a copy had been taken,
and the paper was soon lost. However, Horn, who had performed the
Harlequin very prettily, took it into his head to enlarge my poem to
Hendel by several verses, and then to make it refer to _Medon._ He
read it aloud to us, and we could not take any pleasure in it, for
we did not find the additions even ingenious, while the first poem,
being written for quite a different purpose, seemed to us disfigured.
Our friend, out of humour at our indifference, or rather censure, may
have shown it to others, who found it new and amusing. Copies were now
made of it, to which the reputation of Clodius's _Medon_ gave at once
a rapid publicity. Universal disapproval was the consequence, and the
originators (it was soon found out that the poem had proceeded from our
clique) were severely censured: for nothing of the sort had been seen
since Cronegk's and Rost's** attacks upon Gottsched. We had besides
already secluded ourselves, and now found ourselves quite in the case
of the owl with respect to the other birds. In Dresden, too, they did
not like the affair, and it had for us serious, if not unpleasant
consequences. For some time, already, Count Lindenau had not been quite
satisfied with his son's tutor. For, although the young man was by no
means neglected, and Behrisch kept himself either in the chamber of the
young Count, or at least close to it, when the instructors gave their
daily lessons, regularly frequented the lectures with him, never went
out in the day-time without him, and accompanied him in all his walks;
yet the rest of us were always to be found in Apel's house, and joined
them whenever they went on a pleasure ramble; this already excited some
attention. Behrisch, too, accustomed himself to our society, and at
last, towards nine o'clock in the evenings, generally transferred his
pupil into the hands of the _valet de chambre_, and went in quest of
us to the wine-house, whither, however, he never used to come but in
shoes and stockings, with his sword by his side, and commonly his hat
under his arm. The jokes and fooleries, which he generally started,
went on _ad infinitum._ Thus, for instance, one of our friends had a
habit of going away precisely at ten, because he had a connexion with a
pretty girl, with whom he could converse only at that hour. We did not
like to lose him; and one evening, when we sat very happily together,
Behrisch secretly determined that he would not let him off this time.
At the stroke of ten, the other arose and took leave. Behrisch called
after him and begged him to wait a moment, as he was just going with
him. He now began, in the most amusing manner, first to look after his
sword, which stood just before his eyes, and in buckling it on behaved
awkwardly, so that he could never accomplish it. He did this, too, so
naturally, that no one took offence at it. But when, to vary the theme,
he at last went further, so that the sword came now on the right side,
now between his legs, an universal laughter arose, in which the man in
a hurry, who was likewise a merry fellow, chimed in, and let Behrisch
have his own way till the happy hour was past, when, for the first
time, there followed general pleasure and agreeable conversation till
deep into the night.

[Side-note: Eccentricities of Behrisch.]

Unfortunately Behrisch, and we through him, had a certain other
propensity for some girls who were better than their reputation; by
which our own reputation could not be improved. We had often been seen
in their garden, and we directed our walks thither, even when the young
Count was with us. All this may have been treasured up, and at last
communicated to his father; enough, he sought, in a gentlemanly manner,
to get rid of the tutor, to whom the event proved fortunate. His good
exterior, his knowledge and talents, his integrity, which no one could
call in question, had won him the affection and esteem of distinguished
persons, on whose recommendation he was appointed tutor to the
hereditary prince of Dessau; and at the court of a prince, excellent in
every respect, found a solid happiness.

The loss of a friend like Behrisch was of the greatest consequence to
me. He had** spoiled, while he cultivated me, and his presence was
necessary, if the pains he had thought good to spend upon me were in
any degree to bring forth fruit for society. He knew how to engage
me in all kinds of pretty and agreeable things, in whatever was just
appropriate, and to bring out my social talents. But as I had gained
no self-dependence in such things, so when I was alone again, I
immediately relapsed into my confused and crabbed disposition, which
always increased, the more discontented I was with those about me,
since I fancied that they were not contented with me. With the most
arbitrary caprice, I took offence at what I might have reckoned as an
advantage to me; thus alienated many with whom I had hitherto stood
on a tolerable footing; and, on account of the many disagreeable
consequences which I had drawn on myself and others, whether by doing
or leaving undone, by doing too much or too little, was obliged to
hear the remark from my well-wishers, that I lacked experience. The
same thing was told me by every person of sound sense who saw my
productions, especially when these referred to the external world.
I observed this as well as I could, but found in it little that was
edifying, and was still forced to add enough of my own to make it only
tolerable. I had often pressed my friend Behrisch, too, that he would
make plain to me what experience might be? But, because he was full
of nonsense, he put me off with fair words from one day to another,
and at last, after great preparations, disclosed to me, that true
experience was properly when one experiences how an experienced man
must experience in experiencing his experience. Now when we scolded
him outrageously, and called him to account for this, he assured us
that a great mystery lay hidden behind these words, which we could not
comprehend until we had experienced ... and so on without end;--for
it cost him nothing to talk on in that way by the quarter of an hour
since the experience would always become more experienced and at last
come to true experience. When we were falling into despair at such
fooleries, he protested that he had learned this way of making himself
intelligible and impressive from the latest and greatest authors, who
had made us observe how one can rest a restful rest, and how silence,
in being silent, can constantly become more silent.

[Side-note: What is Experience?]

By chance an officer, who came among us on furlough, was praised in
good company as a remarkable sound-minded and experienced man, who
had fought through the Seven Years' War, and had gained universal
confidence. It was not difficult for me to approach him, and we often
went walking with each other. The idea of experience had almost become
fixed in my brain, and the craving to make it clear to me passionate.
Open-hearted as I was, I disclosed to him the uneasiness in which I
found myself. He smiled, and was kind enough to tell me, as an answer
to my question, something of his own life, and generally of the world
immediately about us; from which, indeed, little better was to be
gathered than that experience convinces us that our best thoughts,
wishes and designs are unattainable, and that he who fosters such
vagaries and advances them with eagerness, is especially held to be an
inexperienced man.

[Side-note: What is Experience?]

Yet, as he was a gallant, good fellow, he assured me that he had
himself not quite given up these vagaries, and felt himself tolerably
well off with the little faith, love, and hope which remained. He
then felt obliged to tell me a great deal about war, about the sort
of life in the field, about skirmishes and battles, especially so
far as he had taken part in them; when these vast events, by being
considered in relation to a single individual, gained a very marvellous
aspect. I then led him on to an open narration of the late situation
of the court, which seemed to me quite like a tale. I heard of the
bodily strength of Augustus the Second, of his many children and his
vast expenses, then of his successor's love of art and of making
collections, of Count Brühl and his boundless love of magnificence,
which in detail appeared almost absurd, of his numerous banquets and
gorgeous amusements, which were all cut off by Frederick's invasion of
Saxony. The royal castles now lay in ruins, Brühl's splendours were
annihilated, and, of the whole, a glorious land, much injured alone
remained.

When he saw me astonished at that mad enjoyment of fortune, and then
grieved by the calamity that followed, and informed me that one expects
from an experienced man exactly this, that he shall be astonished at
neither the one nor the other, nor take too lively an interest in them,
I felt a great desire still to remain awhile in the same inexperience
as hitherto; in which desire he strengthened me, and very urgently
entreated me, for the present at least, always to cling to agreeable
experiences, and to try to avoid those that were disagreeable as much
as possible, if they should intrude themselves upon me. But once, when
the discussion was again about experience in general, and I related to
him those ludicrous phrases of my friend Behrisch, he shook his head,
smiling, and said, "There, one sees how it is with words which are only
once uttered! These sound so comical, nay, so silly, that it would
seem almost impossible to put a rational meaning into them; and yet,
perhaps, the attempt might be made."

And when I pressed him, he replied in his intelligent, cheerful
manner, "If you will allow me, while commenting on and completing
your friend, to go on after his fashion, think he meant to say, that
experience is nothing else than that one experiences what one does not
wish to experience; which is what it amounts to for the most part, at
least in this world."


[1] "Die Laune des Verliebten," translated as _The Lover's Caprice_,
see p. 241

Footnote 2: "_Exposition_," in a dramatic sense, properly means a
statement of the events which take place before the action of the play
commences.--_Trans._]

[3] The real meaning of the passage is that the idiom "Possen reissen,"
used also with the university word "Suite," so that one can say "Suiten
reissen."--_Trans_.

[4] The lecture-room. The word is also used in university language to
denote a professor's audience.

[5] The humour of the above consists, not in the thoughts, but in the
particular words employed. These have no remarkable effect in English,
as to us the words of Latin origin are often as familiar as those
which have Teutonic roots, and these form the chief peculiarity of the
style. We have therefore given the poem in the original language, with
the peculiar words (as indicated by Goethe) in italics, and subjoin a
literal translation. It will be observed that we have said that the
peculiarity consists _chiefly_, not _solely_, in the use of the foreign
words, for there are two or three instances of unquestionably German
words, which are italicised on account of their high-sounding pomp.

"Oh Hendel, whose fame extends from _south_ to _north_, hear the
_Pæan_ which ascends to thine ears. Thou bakest that which _Gauls_
and _Britons_ industriously seek, (thou bakest) with _creative genius
original_ cakes. The _ocean_ of coffee which pours itself out before
thee, is sweeter than the juice which flows from _Hymettus._ Thy house,
a _monument_, how we reward the arts, hung round with _trophies_, tells
the _nations_: 'Even without a _diadem_, Hendel formed his fortune
here, and robbed the _Cothurnus_ of many an eight-groschen-piece.'
When thine _urn_ shines hereafter in majestic _pomp_, then will the
_patriot_ weep at thy _catacomb._ But live! let thy bed (_torus_)
be the _nest_ of a noble brood, stand high as _Olympus_, and firm
as _Parnassus._ May no _phalanx_ of Greece with Roman _ballistæ_ be
able to destroy _Germania_ and Hendel. Thy _weal_ is our _pride_, thy
_suffering_ our _pain_, and Hendel's _temple_ is the _heart_ of the
_sons of the Muses._"--_Trans._



EIGHTH BOOK.


[Side-note: Oeser.]

Another man, although infinitely different from Behrisch in every
respect, might yet be compared with him in a certain sense; I mean
OESER, who was also one of those men who dream away their lives in
a comfortable state of being busy. His friends themselves secretly
acknowledged that, with very fine natural powers, he had not spent
his younger years in sufficient activity; for which reason, he never
went so far as to practise his art with perfect technicality. Yet
a certain diligence appeared to be reserved for his old age, and,
during the many years which I knew him, he never lacked invention or
laboriousness. From the very first moment he had much attracted me;
even his residence, strange and portentous, was highly charming to me.
In the old castle Pleissenburg, at the right-hand corner, one ascended
a repaired, cheerful, winding staircase. The saloons of the Academy
of Design, of which he was director, were found to the left, and were
light and roomy; but he himself could only be reached through a narrow,
dark passage, at the end of which one first sought the entrance into
his apartments, having just passed between the whole suite of them and
an extensive granary. The first apartment was adorned with pictures
from the later Italian school, by masters whose grace he used highly to
commend. As I, with some noblemen, had taken private lessons of him, we
were permitted to draw here, and we often penetrated into his adjoining
private cabinet, which contained at the same time his few books,
collections of art and natural curiosities, and whatever else might
have most interested him. Everything was arranged with taste, simply,
and in such a manner that the little space held a great deal. The
furniture, presses, and portfolios were elegant, without affectation
or superfluity. Thus also the first thing which he recommended to us,
and to which he always recurred, was simplicity in everything that art
and manual labour united are called upon to produce. As a sworn foe
of the scroll-and-shell style, and of the whole taste for quaintness,
he showed us in copper-plates and drawings old patterns of the sort,
contrasted with better decorations and simpler forms of furniture, as
well as with other appurtenances of a room; and, because everything
about him corresponded with these maxims, his words and instructions
made a good and lasting impression on us. Besides this, he had an
opportunity to let us see his opinions in practice, since he stood in
good consideration both with private and with official persons, and
was asked for advice when there were new buildings and alterations. He
seemed in general to be more fond of preparing anything on occasion,
for a certain end and use, than of undertaking and completing things
which exist for themselves and require a greater perfection; he
was therefore always ready and at hand when the publishers needed
larger and smaller copper-plates for any work; thus the vignettes
to Winckelmann's first writings were etched by him. But he often
made only very sketchy drawings, to which Geyser knew very well how
to adapt himself. His figures had throughout something general, not
to say ideal. His women were pleasing and agreeable, his children
_naïve_ enough; only he could not succeed with the men, who, in his
spirited but always cloudy and at the same time foreshortening manner,
had for the most part the look of _Lazzaroni._ Since he designed his
composition less with regard to form than to light, shade, and masses,
the general effect was good; as indeed all that he did and produced
was attended by a peculiar grace. As he at the same time neither could
nor would control a deep-rooted propensity to the significant and the
allegorical--to that which excites a secondary thought, so his works
always furnished something to reflect upon, and were complete through
a conception, even where they could not be so from art and execution.
This bias, which is always dangerous, frequently led him to the very
bounds of good taste, if not beyond them. He often sought to attain
his views by the oddest notions, and by whimsical jests; nay, his best
works always have a touch of humour. If the public were not always
satisfied with such things, he revenged himself by a new and even
stranger drollery. Thus he afterwards exhibited in the ante-room of
the great concert-hall, an ideal female figure, in his own style, who
was raising a pair of snuffers to a taper, and he was extraordinarily
delighted when he was able to cause a dispute on the question: whether
this singular muse meant to snuff the light or to extinguish it? when
he roguishly allowed all sorts of bantering by-thoughts to peep forth.

But the building of the new theatre, in my time, made the greatest
noise; in which his curtain, when it was still quite new, had certainly
an uncommonly charming effect. Oeser had taken the Muses out of the
clouds, upon which they usually hover on such occasions, and set them
upon the earth. The statues of Sophocles and Aristophanes, around whom
all the modern dramatic writers were assembled, adorned a vestibule to
the Temple of Fame. Here, too, the goddesses of the arts were likewise
present, and all was dignified and beautiful. But now comes the oddity!
Through the open centre was seen the portal of the distant temple, and
a man in a light jerkin was passing between the two above-mentioned
groups, and without troubling himself about them, directly up to
the temple; he was seen from behind, and was not particularly
distinguished. Now this man was to represent Shakspeare, who, without
predecessors or followers, without concerning himself about models,
went to meet immortality in his own way. This work was executed on the
great floor over the new theatre. We often assembled round him there,
and in that place I read aloud to him the proof-sheets of _Musarion._

[Side-note: Influence of Oeser.]

As to myself, I by no means advanced in the practice of the art. His
instructions worked upon our mind and our taste; but his own drawing
was too undefined to guide me, who had only glimmered along by the
objects of art and of nature, to a severe and decided practice. Of the
faces and bodies he gave us rather the aspect than the forms, rather
the postures than the proportions. He gave us the conceptions of the
figures, and desired that we should impress them vividly upon our
minds. That might have been beautifully and properly done, if he had
not had mere beginners before him. If, on this account, a pre-eminent
talent for instruction may be well denied him, it must, on the other
hand, be acknowledged that he was very discreet and politic, and that
a happy adroitness of mind qualified him very peculiarly for a teacher
in a higher sense. The deficiencies under which each one laboured he
clearly saw; but he disdained to reprove them directly, and rather
hinted his praise and censure indirectly and very laconically. One
was now compelled to think over the matter, and soon came to a far
deeper insight. Thus, for instance, I had very carefully executed,
after a pattern, a nosegay on blue paper, with white and black crayon,
and partly with the stump, partly by hatching it up, had tried to
give effect to the little picture. After I had been long labouring in
this way, he once came behind me and said: "More paper!" upon which
he immediately withdrew. My neighbour and I puzzled our heads as to
what this could mean: for my bouquet, on a large half-sheet, had
plenty of space around it. After we had reflected a long while, we
thought, at last, that we had hit his meaning, when we remarked that,
by working together the black and the white, I had quite covered up
the blue ground, had destroyed the middle tint, and, in fact, with
great industry, had produced a disagreeable drawing. As to the rest,
he did not fail to instruct us in perspective, and in light and shade,
sufficiently indeed, but always so that we had to exert and torment
ourselves to find the application of the principles communicated.
Probably his view with regard to us who did not intend to become
artists, was only to form the judgment and taste, and to make us
acquainted with the requisites of a work of art, without precisely
requiring that we should produce one. Since, moreover, patient industry
was not my talent, for nothing gave me pleasure except what came to
me at once, so by degrees I became discouraged, if not lazy, and as
knowledge is more comfortable than doing, I was quite content to follow
wherever he chose, after his own fashion, to lead us.

At this time the _Lives of the Painters_, by D'Argenville, was
translated into German; I obtained it quite fresh, and studied it
assiduously enough. This seemed to please Oeser, and he procured us
an opportunity of seeing many a portfolio out of the great Leipzig
collections, and thus introduced us to the history of the art. But even
these exercises produced in me an effect different from that which he
probably had in mind. The manifold subjects which I saw treated by
artists awakened the poetic talent in me, and as one easily makes an
engraving for a poem, so did I now make poems to the engravings and
drawings, by contriving to present to myself the personages introduced
in them, in their previous and subsequent condition, and sometimes to
compose a little song which might have suited them; and thus accustomed
myself to consider the arts in connexion with each other. Even the
mistakes which I made, so that my poems were often descriptive, were
useful to me in the sequel, when I came to more reflection, by making
me attentive to the differences between the arts. Of the little things
many were in the collection which Behrisch had arranged; but there is
nothing left of them now.

The atmosphere of art and taste in which Oeser lived, and into which
one was drawn, provided one visited him frequently, was the more and
more worthy and delightful, because he was fond of remembering departed
or absent persons, with whom he had been, or still continued to be, on
good terms; for if he had once given any one his esteem, he remained
unalterable in his conduct towards him, and always showed himself
equally friendly.

After we had heard CAYLUS pre-eminently extolled among the French, he
made us also acquainted with Germans of activity in this department.
Thus we learned that Professor CHRIST, as an amateur, a collector, a
connoisseur, a fellow-labourer, had done good service for art; and
had applied his learning to its true improvement. HEINECKEN**, on
the contrary, could not be honourably mentioned, partly because he
devoted himself too assiduously to the ever-childish beginnings of
German art, which Oeser little valued, partly because he had once
treated Winckelmann shabbily, which could never be forgiven him. Our
attention, however, was strongly drawn to the labours of LIPPERT,
since our instructor knew how to set forth his merits sufficiently.
"For," he said, "although single statues and larger groups of sculpture
remain the foundation and the summit of all knowledge of art, yet
either as originals or as casts they are seldom to be seen; on the
contrary, by Lippert, a little world of gems is made known, in which
the more comprehensible merit of the ancients, their happy invention,
judicious composition, tasteful treatment, are made more striking and
intelligible, while, from the great number of them, comparison is much
more possible." While now we were busying ourselves with these as much
as was allowed, WINCKELMANN'S lofty life of art in Italy was pointed
out, and we took his first writings in hand with devotion: for Oeser
had a passionate reverence for him, which he was able easily to instil
into us. The problematical part of those little treatises, which are,
besides, confused even from their irony, and from their referring to
opinions and events altogether peculiar, we were, indeed, unable to
decipher; but as Oeser had great influence over us, and incessantly
gave them out to us as the gospel of the beautiful, and still more
of the tasteful and the pleasing, we found out the general sense,
and fancied that with such interpretations we should go on the more
securely, as we regarded it no small happiness to draw from the same
fountain from which Winckelmann had allayed his earliest thirst.

[Side-note: Feeling for Art in Leipzig.]

No greater good fortune can befall a city, than when several educated
men, like-minded in what is good and right, live together in it.
Leipzig had this advantage, and enjoyed it the more peacefully, as so
many differences of judgment had not yet manifested themselves. HUBER,
a print collector, and a well-experienced connoisseur, had furthermore
the gratefully acknowledged merit of having determined to make the
worth of German literature known to the French; KREUCHAUF, an amateur
with a practised eye, who, as the friend of the whole society of art,
might regard all collections as his own; WINKLER, who much loved to
share with others the intelligent delight which he cherished for his
treasures; many more who were added to the list, all lived and laboured
with one feeling, and often as I was permitted to be present when they
examined works of art, I do not remember that a dispute ever arose: the
school from which the artist had proceeded, the time in which he lived,
the peculiar talent which nature had bestowed on him, and the degree of
excellence to which he had brought it in his performances, were always
fairly considered. There was no prejudice for spiritual or terrestrial
subjects, for landscape or for city views, for animate or inanimate;
the question was always about the accordance with art.

Now although from their situation, mode of thought, abilities, and
opportunities, these amateurs and collectors inclined more to the Dutch
school, yet, while the eye was practised on the endless merits of the
north-western artist, a look of reverential longing was always turned
towards the south-east.

And so the university, where I neglected the ends both of my family
and myself, was to ground me in that in which I afterwards found the
greatest satisfaction of my life; the impression of those localities,
too, in which I received such important incitements, has always
remained to me most dear and precious. The old Pleissenburg, the
rooms of the Academy, but, above all, the abode of Oeser, and no less
the collections of Winkler and Richter, I have always vividly present
before me.

But a young man who, while older persons are conversing with each other
on subjects already familiar to them, is instructed only incidentally,
and for whom the most difficult part of the business, that of rightly
arranging all, yet remains, must find himself in a very painful
situation. I therefore, as well as others, looked about with longing
for some new light, which was indeed to come to us from a man to whom
we owed so much already.

[Side-note: Lessing's Laocoön.]

The mind can be highly delighted in two ways, by perception and
conception. But the former demands a worthy object, which is not
always at hand, and a proportionate culture, which one does not
immediately attain. Conception, on the other hand, requires only
susceptibility; it brings its subject-matter with it, and is itself
the instrument of culture. Hence that beam of light was most welcome
to us which that most excellent thinker brought down to us through
dark clouds. One must be a young man to render present to oneself the
effect which Lessing's _Laocoön_ produced upon us, by transporting
us out of the region of scanty perceptions into the open fields of
thought. The so long misunderstood _ut pictura poesis_ was at once
laid aside, the difference between plastic and speaking art[1] was
made clear, the summits of the two now appeared sundered, however
near their bases might border on each other. The plastic artist was
to keep himself within the bounds of the beautiful, if the artist of
language, who cannot dispense with the significant in any kind, is
permitted to ramble abroad beyond them. The former labours for the
outer sense, which is satisfied only by the beautiful; the latter for
the imagination, which may even reconcile itself to the ugly. All the
consequences of this splendid thought were illumined to us as by a
lightning flash; all the criticism which had hitherto guided and judged
was thrown away like a worn-out coat; we considered ourselves freed
from all evil, and fancied we might venture to look down with some
compassion upon the otherwise so splendid sixteenth century, when, in
German sculptures and poems, they knew how to represent life only under
the form of a fool hung with bells, death under the misformed shape
of a rattling skeleton, and the necessary and accidental evils of the
world under the image of the caricatured devil.

We were the most enchanted with the beauty of that thought, that
the ancients had recognised death as the brother of sleep, and had
represented them similar even to confusion, as becomes Menæchmi. Here
we could first do high honour to the triumph of the beautiful, and
banish the ugly of every kind into the low sphere of the ridiculous in
the kingdom of art, since it could not be utterly driven out of the
world.

The splendour of such leading and fundamental conceptions appears only
to the mind upon which they exercise their infinite activity--appears
only to the age in which, after being longed for, they come forth at
the right moment. Then do those at whose disposal such nourishment is
placed, fondly occupy whole periods of their lives with it, and rejoice
in a superabundant growth; while men are not wanting, meanwhile, who
resist such an effect on the spot, nor others who afterwards haggle and
cavil at its high meaning.

But as conception and perception mutually require each other, I could
not long work up these new thoughts, without an infinite desire arising
within me to see important works of art, once and away, in great
number. I therefore determined to visit Dresden without delay. I was
not in want of the necessary cash; but there were other difficulties
to overcome, which I needlessly increased still further, through my
whimsical disposition; for I kept my purpose a secret from every one,
because I wished to contemplate the treasures of art there quite after
my own way, and, as I thought, to allow no one to perplex me. Besides
this, so simple a matter became more complicated by still another
eccentricity.

We have weaknesses, both by birth and by education, and it may be
questioned which of the two gives us the most trouble. Willingly as
I made myself familiar with all sorts of conditions, and many as had
been my inducements to do so, an excessive aversion from all inns had
nevertheless been instilled into me by my father. This feeling had
rooted itself firmly in him on his travels through Italy, France, and
Germany. Although he seldom spoke in images, and only called them to
his aid when he was very cheerful, yet he used often to repeat that he
always fancied he saw a great cobweb spun across the gate of an inn,
so ingeniously that the insects could indeed fly in, but that even the
privileged wasps could not fly out again unplucked. It seemed to him
something horrible, that one should be obliged to pay immoderately
for renouncing one's habits and all that was dear to one in life,
and living after the manner of publicans and waiters. He praised the
hospitality of the olden time, and reluctantly as he otherwise endured
even anything unusual in the house, he yet practised hospitality,
especially towards artists and virtuosi; thus gossip Seekatz always had
his quarters with us, and Abel, the last musician who handled the _viol
di gamba_ with success and applause, was well received and entertained.
With such youthful impressions, which nothing had as yet rubbed off,
how could I have resolved to set foot in an inn in a strange city?
Nothing would have been easier than to find quarters with good friends.
Hofrath Krebel, Assessor Hermann, and others had often spoken to me
about it already; but even to these my trip was to remain a secret,
and I hit upon a most singular notion. My next-room neighbour, the
industrious theologian, whose eyes unfortunately constantly grew weaker
and weaker, had a relation in Dresden, a shoemaker, with whom from time
to time he corresponded. For a long while already this man had been
highly remarkable to me on account of his expressions, and the arrival
of one of his letters was always celebrated by us as a holiday. The
mode in which he replied to the complaints of his cousin, who feared
blindness, was quite peculiar; for he did not trouble himself about
grounds of consolation, which are always hard to find; but the cheerful
way in which he looked upon his own narrow, poor, toilsome life,
the merriment which he drew even from evils and inconveniences, the
indestructible conviction that life is in itself and on its own account
a blessing, communicated itself to him who read the letter, and, for
the moment at least, transposed him into a like mood. Enthusiastic as
I was, I had often sent my compliments to this man, extolled his happy
natural gift, and expressed the wish to become acquainted with him. All
this being premised, nothing seemed to me more natural than to seek
him out, to converse with him, nay, to lodge with him, and to learn to
know him intimately. My good candidate, after some opposition, gave
me a letter, written with difficulty, to carry with me, and, full of
longing, I went to Dresden in the yellow coach, with my matriculation
in my pocket.

[Side-note: The Dresden Shoemaker.]

I looked for my shoemaker, and soon found him in the suburb
(_Vorstadt_). He received me in a friendly manner, sitting upon his
stool, and said smiling, after he had read the letter, "I see from
this, young Sir, that you are a whimsical Christian." "How so, master?"
replied I. "No offence meant by '_whimsical_,'" he continued; "one
calls every one so who is not consistent with himself; and I call you
a whimsical Christian because you acknowledge yourself a follower of
our Lord in one thing, but not in another." On my requesting him to
enlighten me, he said further: "It seems that your view is to announce
glad tidings to the poor and lowly; that is good, and this imitation
of the Lord is praiseworthy; but you should reflect besides, that he
rather sat down to table with prosperous rich folks, where there was
good fare, and that he himself did not despise the sweet scent of the
ointment, of which you will find the opposite in my house."

This pleasant beginning put me at once in good-humour, and we rallied
each other for some time. His wife stood doubting how she should board
and lodge such a guest. On this point, too, he had notions which
referred not only to the Bible, but also to _Gottfried's Chronicle_,
and when we were agreed that I was to stay, I gave my purse, such as
it was, into the charge of my hostess, and requested her to furnish
herself from it, if anything should be necessary. When he would have
declined it, and somewhat waggishly gave me to understand that he was
not so burnt out as he might appear, I disarmed him by saying, "Even
if it were only to change water into wine, such a well-tried domestic
resource would not be out of place, since there are no more miracles
now-a-days." The hostess seemed to find my conduct less and less
strange; we had soon accommodated ourselves to each other, and spent
a very merry evening. He remained always the same, because all flowed
from one source. His peculiarity was an apt common-sense, which rested
upon a cheerful disposition, and took delight in uniform habitual
activity. That he should labour incessantly was his first and most
necessary care; that he regarded everything else as secondary,--this
kept up his comfortable state of mind; and I must reckon him before
many others in the class of those who are called practical unconscious
philosophers.[2]

The hour when the gallery was to open, after being expected with
impatience, appeared. I entered into this sanctuary, and my
astonishment surpassed every conception which I had formed. This
saloon, returning into itself, in which splendour and neatness reigned,
together with the deepest stillness, the dazzling frames, all nearer
to the time in which they had been gilded, the floor polished with
bees'-wax, the spaces more trodden by spectators than used by copyists,
imparted a feeling of solemnity, unique of its kind, which so much
the more resembled the sensation with which one treads a church, as
the adornments of so many a temple, the objects of so much adoration,
seemed here again set up only for the sacred purposes of art. I readily
put up with the cursory description of my conductor; only I requested
that I might be allowed to remain in the outer gallery. Here, to my
comfort, I found myself really at home. I had already seen the works
of several artists, others I knew from engravings, others by name.
I did not conceal this, and I thus inspired my conductor with some
confidence; nay, the rapture which I expressed at pieces where the
pencil had gained the victory over nature, delighted him; for such were
the things which principally attracted me, where the comparison with
known nature must necessarily enhance the value of art.

When I again entered my shoemaker's house to dinner, I scarcely
believed my eyes; for I fancied I saw before me a picture by Ostade,
so perfect that one could only hang it up in the gallery. The position
of the objects, the light, the shadow, the brownish tint of the whole,
the magical harmony, everything that one admires in those pictures,
I here saw in reality. It was the first time that I perceived, in so
high a degree, the faculty which I afterwards exercised with more
consciousness, namely, that of seeing nature with the eyes of this or
that artist, to whose works I had devoted a particular attention. This
faculty has afforded me much enjoyment, but has also increased the
desire zealously to abandon myself, from time to time, to the exercise
of a talent which nature seemed to have denied me.

[Side-note: Counsellor Riedel.]

I visited the gallery at all permitted hours, and continued to express
too loudly my ecstasy at many precious works. I thus frustrated my
laudable purpose of remaining unknown and unnoticed; and whereas only
one of the under-keepers had hitherto had intercourse with me, the
gallery-inspector, Counsellor Riedel, now also took notice of me, and
made me attentive to many things which seemed chiefly to lie within my
sphere. I found this excellent man just as active and obliging then, as
when I afterwards saw him during many years, and as he shows himself
to this day. His image has, for me, interwoven itself so closely with
those treasures of art, that I can never regard the two apart; the
remembrance of him has even accompanied me to Italy, where, in many
large and rich collections, his presence would have been very desirable.

Since, even with strangers and unknown persons, one cannot gaze on
such works silently and without mutual sympathy, nay, since the first
sight of them is rather adapted, in the highest degree, to open hearts
towards each other, I fell there into conversation with a young man who
seemed to be residing at Dresden, and to belong to some embassy. He
invited me to come in the evening to an inn where a lively company met,
and where, by each one's paying a moderate reckoning, one could pass
some very pleasant hours.

I repaired thither, but did not find the company; and the waiter
somewhat surprised me when he delivered the compliments of the
gentleman who made the appointment with me, by which the latter sent
an excuse for coming somewhat later, with the addition that I must not
take offence at anything that might occur; also, that I should have
nothing to pay beyond my own score. I knew not what to make of these
words; my father's cobwebs came into my head, and I composed myself to
await whatever might befall. The company assembled, my acquaintance
introduced me, and I could not be attentive long, without discovering
that they were aiming at the mystification of a young man, who showed
himself a novice by an obstreperous, assuming deportment; I therefore
kept very much on my guard, so that they might not find delight
in selecting me as his fellow. At table this intention became more
apparent to everybody, except to himself. They drank deeper and deeper,
and when a _vivat_ in honour of sweethearts was started, every one
solemnly swore that there should never be another out of those glasses;
they flung them behind them; and this was the signal for far greater
follies. At last I withdrew, very quietly, and the waiter, while
demanding quite a moderate reckoning, requested me to come again, as
they did not go on so wildly every evening. I was far from my lodgings,
and it was near midnight when I reached them. I found the doors
unlocked, everybody was in bed, and one lamp illuminated the narrow
domestic household, where my eye, more and more practised, immediately
perceived the finest picture by Schalken, from which I could not tear
myself away, so that it banished from me all sleep.

The few days of my residence in Dresden were solely devoted to the
picture-gallery. The antiquities still stood in the pavilion of the
great garden, but I declined seeing them, as well as all the other
precious things which Dresden contained; being but too full of the
conviction that, even in and about the collection of paintings much
must yet remain hidden from me. Thus I took the excellence of the
Italian masters more on trust and in faith, than by pretending to any
insight into them. What I could not look upon as nature, put in the
place of nature, and compare with a known object, was without effect
upon me. It is the material impression which makes the beginning even
to every more elevated amateurship.

With my shoemaker I lived on very good terms. He was witty and
varied enough, and we often outvied each other in merry conceits;
nevertheless, a man who thinks himself happy, and desires others
to do the same, makes us discontented; indeed, the repetition of
such sentiments produces weariness. I found myself well occupied,
entertained, excited, but by no means happy; and the shoes from his
last would not fit me. We parted, however, as the best friends; and
even my hostess, on my departure, was not dissatisfied with me.

Shortly before my departure, something else very pleasant was to
happen. By the mediation of that young man, who wished to restore
himself to some credit with me, I was introduced to the Director Von
Hagedorn, who with great kindness showed me his collection, and was
highly delighted with the enthusiasm of the young lover of art. He
himself, as becomes a connoisseur, was quite peculiarly in love with
the pictures which he possessed, and therefore seldom found in others
an interest such as he wished. It gave him particular satisfaction that
I was beyond measure pleased with a picture by Schwanefeld, and that I
was not tired of praising and extolling it in every single part; for
landscapes, which again reminded me of the beautiful clear sky under
which I had grown up---of the vegetable luxuriance of those spots--and
of whatever other favours a warmer climate offers to man, were just the
things that most affected me in the imitation, while they awakened in
me a longing remembrance.

[Side-note: State of Dresden.]

These precious experiences, preparing both mind and sense for true art,
were nevertheless interrupted and damped by one of the most melancholy
sights, by the destroyed and desolate condition of so many of the
streets of Dresden through which I took my way. The Mohrenstrasse in
ruins, and the Church (_Kreuzkirche_) of the Cross, with its shattered
tower, impressed themselves deeply upon me, and still stand like a
gloomy spot in my imagination. From the cupola of the Lady Church
(_Frauenkirche_)** I saw these pitiable ruins scattered about amid the
beautiful order of the city. Here the clerk commended to me the art
of the architect, who had already fitted up church and cupola for so
undesirable an event, and had built them bomb-proof. The good sacristan
then pointed out to me the ruins on-all sides, and said doubtfully and
laconically, "_The enemy hath done this!_"

Now then, at last, though unwillingly, I returned back to Leipzig, and
found my friends, who were not used to such digressions in me, in great
astonishment, busied with all sorts of conjectures as to what might
be the import of my mysterious journey. When upon this I told them my
story quite in order, they declared it was only a made-up tale, and
sagaciously tried to get at the bottom of the riddle which I had been
waggish enough to conceal under my shoemaker-lodgings.

But could they have looked into my heart, they would have discovered no
waggery there; for the truth of that old proverb, "He that increaseth
knowledge increaseth sorrow," had struck me with all its force; and
the more I struggled to arrange and appropriate to myself what I had
seen, the less I succeeded. I had at last to content myself with a
silent after-operation. Ordinary life carried me away again, and I
at last felt myself quite comfortable when a friendly intercourse,
improvement in branches of knowledge which were suitable for me, and a
certain practice of the hand, engaged me in a manner less important,
but more in accordance with my strength.

Very pleasant and wholesome for me was the connexion which I formed
with the Breitkopf family. BERNHARD CHRISTOPH BREITKOPF, the proper
founder of the family, who had come to Leipzig as a poor journeyman
printer, was yet living, and occupied the Golden Bear, a respectable
house in the new Newmarket, with Gottsched as an inmate. The son,
Johann Gottlob Immanuel, had already been long married, and was the
father of many children. They thought they could not spend a part of
their considerable wealth better than in putting up, opposite the
first house, a large new one, the Silver Bear, which they built higher
and more extensive than the original house itself. Just at the time
of the building I became acquainted with the family. The eldest son
might have been some years older than I was, a well-formed young man,
devoted to music, and practised to play skilfully on both the piano
and the violin. The second, a true, good soul, likewise musical,
enlivened the concerts which were often got up, no less than his elder
brother. They were both kindly disposed towards me, as well as their
parents and sisters. I lent them a helping-hand during the building up
and the finishing, the furnishing and the moving in, and thus formed
a conception of much that belongs to such an affair; I also had an
opportunity of seeing Oeser's instructions put in practice. In the new
house, which I had thus seen erected, I was often a visitor. We had
many pursuits in common, and the eldest son set some of my songs to
music, which, when printed, bore his name, but not mine, and have been
little known. I have selected the best, and inserted them among my
other little poems. The father had invented or perfected musical type.
He permitted me the use of a fine library, which related principally to
the origin and progress of printing, and thus I gained some knowledge
in that department. I found there moreover, good copper-plates, which
exhibited antiquity, and advanced on this side also my studies, which
were still further promoted by the circumstance that a considerable
collection of casts had fallen into disorder in moving. I set them
right again as well as I could, and in doing so was compelled to search
Lippert and other authorities. A physician, Doctor REICHEL, likewise an
inmate of the house, I consulted from time to time when I felt, if not
sick, yet unwell, and thus we led together a quiet, pleasant life.

[Side-note: Taste for Etching.]

I was now to enter into another sort of connexion in this house; for
the copper-plate engraver, STOCK, had moved into the attic. He was
a native of Nuremberg, a very industrious man, and, in his labours,
precise and methodical. He also, like Geyser, engraved, after Oeser's
designs, larger and smaller plates, which came more and more into vogue
for novels and poems. He etched very neatly, so that his work came out
of the aquafortis almost finished, and but little touching-up remained
to be done with the graver, which he handled very well. He made an
exact calculation how long a plate would occupy him, and nothing could
call him off from his work if he had not completed the daily task he
had set himself. Thus he sat at a broad work-table, by the great**
gable-window, in a very neat and orderly chamber, where his wife and
two daughters afforded him a domestic society. Of these last, one
is happily married, and the other is an excellent artist; they have
continued my friends all my life long. I now divided my time between
the upper and lower stories, and attached myself much to the man, who,
together with his persevering industry, possessed an excellent humour,
and was good-nature itself.

The technical neatness of this branch of art charmed me, and I
associated myself with him to execute something of the kind. My
predilection was again directed towards landscape, which, while it
amused me in my solitary walks, seemed in itself more attainable and
more comprehensible for works of art than the human figure, which
discouraged me. Under his directions, therefore, I etched, after
THIELE and others, various landscapes, which, although executed by an
unpractised hand, produced some effect, and were well received. The
grounding (varnishing) of the plates, the putting in the high lights,
the etching, and at last the biting with aquafortis, gave me variety
of occupation, and I soon got so far that I could assist my master in
many things. I did not lack the attention necessary for the biting,
and I seldom failed in anything; but I had not care enough in guarding
against the deleterious vapours which are generated on such occasions,
and these may have contributed to the maladies which afterwards
troubled me for a long time. Amidst such labours, that everything
might be tried, I often made wood-cuts also. I prepared various little
printing-blocks after French patterns, and many of them were found fit
for use.

Let me here make mention of some other men who resided in Leipzig, or
tarried there for a short time. WEISSE, the custom-house collector of
the district, in his best years, cheerful, friendly, and obliging, was
loved and esteemed by us. We would not, indeed, allow his theatrical
pieces to be models throughout, but we suffered ourselves to be
carried away by them, and his operas, set to music by Hiller in an
easy style, gave us much pleasure. SCHIEBLER, of Hamburgh, pursued the
same track; and his _Lisuard and Dariolette_ was likewise favoured by
us. ESCHENBURG, a handsome young man, but little older than we were,
distinguished himself advantageously among the students. ZACHARIÆ
was pleased to spend some weeks with us, and being introduced by his
brother, dined every day with us at the same table. We rightly deemed
it an honour to gratify our guest in return, by a few extra dishes,
a richer dessert, and choicer wine; for, as a tall, well-formed,
comfortable man, he did not conceal his love of good eating. LESSING
came at a time when we had I know not what in our heads; it was our
good pleasure to go nowhere on his account, nay, even to avoid the
places to which he came, probably because we thought ourselves too
good to stand at a distance, and could make no pretension to obtain a
closer intimacy with him. This momentary absurdity, which, however, is
nothing rare in presuming and freakish youth, proved, indeed, its own
punishment in the sequel; for I have never set eyes on that eminent
man, who was most highly esteemed by me.

Notwithstanding all our efforts relative to art and antiquity, we
each of us always had WINCKELMANN before our eves, whose ability
was acknowledged in his fatherland with enthusiasm. We read his
writings diligently, and tried to make ourselves acquainted with the
circumstances under which he had written the first of them. We found in
them many views which seemed to have originated with Oeser, even jests
and whims after his fashion, and we did not rest until we had formed
some general conception of the occasion on which these remarkable and
sometimes so enigmatical writings had arisen, though we were not very
accurate; for youth likes better to be excited than instructed, and it
was not the last time that I was to be indebted to Sibylline leaves for
an important step in cultivation.

[Side-note: Death of Winckelmann.]

It was then a fine period in literature, when eminent men were yet
treated with respect, although the disputes of Klotz and Lessing's
controversies, already indicated that this epoch would soon close.
Winckelmann enjoyed an universal, unassailed reverence, and it is
known how sensitive he was with regard to anything public which did
not seem commensurate with his deeply felt dignity. All the periodical
publications joined in his praise, the better class of tourists came
back from him instructed and enraptured, and the new views which he
gave extended themselves over science and life. The Prince of Dessau
had raised himself up to a similar degree of respect. Young, well and
nobly minded, he had on his travels and at other times shown himself
truly desirable. Winckelmann was in the highest degree delighted with
him, and, whenever he mentioned him, loaded him with the handsomest
epithets. The laying out of a park, then unique, the taste for
architecture, which Von Erdmannsdorf supported by his activity,
everything spoke in favour of a prince, who, while he was a shining
example for the rest, gave promise of a golden age for his servants and
subjects. We young people now learned with rejoicings that Winckelmann
would return back from Italy, visit his princely friend, call on
Oeser by the way, and so come within our sphere of vision. We made no
pretensions to speaking with him, but we hoped to see him; and as at
that time of life one willingly changes every occasion into a party
of pleasure, we had already agreed upon a journey to Dessau, where,
in a beautiful spot, made glorious by art, in a land well governed,
and at the same time externally adorned, we thought to lie in wait
now here, now there, in order to see with our own eyes these men so
highly exalted above us walking about. Oeser himself was quite elated
if he only thought of it, and the news of Winckelmann's death fell down
into the midst of us like a thunderbolt from a clear sky. I still
remember the place where I first heard it; it was in the court of the
Pleissenburg, not far from the little gate through which one used to
go up to Oeser's residence. One of my fellow-pupils met me and told
me that Oeser was not to be seen, with the reason why. This monstrous
event[3] produced a monstrous effect; there was an universal mourning
and lamentation, and Winckelmann's untimely death sharpened the
attention paid to the value of his life. Perhaps, indeed, the effect
of his activity, if he had continued it to a more advanced age, would
probably not have been so great as it now necessarily became, when,
like many other extraordinary men, he was distinguished by fate through
a strange and calamitous end.

Now, while I was infinitely lamenting the death of Winckelmann, I
did not think that I should soon find myself in the case of being
apprehensive about my own life: since, during all these events, my
bodily condition had not taken the most favourable turn. I had already
brought with me from home a certain touch of hypochondria, which, in
this new sedentary and lounging life, was rather strengthened than
diminished. The pain in the breast, which I had felt from time to
time ever since the accident at Auerstädt, and which after a fall
from horseback had perceptibly increased, made me dejected. By an
unfortunate diet, I destroyed my powers of digestion; the heavy
Merseburg beer clouded my brain; the coffee, which gave me a peculiarly
melancholy tone, especially when taken with milk after dinner,
paralysed my bowels, and seemed completely to suspend their functions,
so that I experienced great uneasiness on this account, yet without
being able to embrace a resolution for a more rational mode of life.
My natural disposition, supported by the sufficient strength of youth,
fluctuated between the extremes of unrestrained gaiety and melancholy
discomfort. Besides this, the epoch of the cold water bath, which was
unconditionally recommended, had then begun. One was to sleep on a
hard bed, only slightly covered, by which all the usual perspiration
was suppressed. These and other follies, in consequence of some
misunderstood suggestions of Rousseau, would, it was promised, bring
us nearer to nature, and deliver us from the corruption of morals.
Now, all the above, without discrimination, applied with injudicious
alternation, were felt by many most injuriously, and I irritated my
happy organization to such a degree, that the particular systems
contained within it necessarily broke out at last into a conspiracy and
revolution, in order to save the whole.

One night I awoke with a violent hæmorrhage, and had just strength and
presence of mind enough to waken my next room neighbour. Dr. Reichel
was called in, who assisted me in the most friendly manner, and thus
for many days I wavered betwixt life and death; and even the joy of
a subsequent improvement was embittered by the circumstance that,
during that eruption, a tumour had formed on the left side of the neck,
which, after the danger was past, they now first found time to notice.
Recovery is, however, always pleasing and delightful, even though it
takes place slowly and painfully; and since nature had helped herself
with me, I appeared now to have become another man: for I had gained a
greater cheerfulness of mind than I had known for a long time, and I
was rejoiced to feel my inner self at liberty, although externally a
wearisome affliction threatened me.

But what particularly set me up at this time was, to see how many
eminent men had, undeservedly, given me their affection. Undeservedly,
I say: for there was not one among them to whom I had not been
troublesome through contradictory humours, not one whom I had not more
than once wounded by morbid absurdity, nay, whom I had not stubbornly
avoided for a long time, from a feeling of my own injustice. All this
was forgotten; they treated me in the most affectionate manner, and
sought, partly in my chamber, partly as soon as I could leave it, to
amuse and divert me. They drove out with me, entertained me at their
country-houses, and I seemed soon to recover.

[Side-note: Dr. Hermann.]

Among these friends I name first of all Doctor HERMANN, then senator,
afterwards burgomaster of Leipzig. He was among those boarders with
whom I had become acquainted through Schlosser, the one with whom an
always equable and enduring connexion was maintained. One might well
reckon him the most industrious of his academical fellow-citizens. He
attended his lectures with the greatest regularity, and his private
industry remained always the same. Step by step, without the slightest
deviation, I saw him attain his Doctor's degree, and then raise himself
to the assessorship, without anything of all this appearing arduous to
him, or his having in the least hurried or been too late with anything.
The gentleness of his character attracted me, his instructive
conversation held me fast; indeed I really believe that I took delight
in his methodical industry especially for this reason, because I
thought, by acknowledgments and high esteem, to appropriate to myself
at least a part of a merit of which I could by no means boast.

He was just as regular in the exercise of his talents and the enjoyment
of his pleasures as in his business. He played the harpsichord with
great skill, drew from nature with feeling, and stimulated me to do
the same; when, in his manner, on grey paper and with black and white
chalk, I used to copy many a willow-plot on the Pleisse, and many a
lovely nook of those still waters, and at the same time longingly
to indulge in my fancies. He knew how to meet my sometimes comical
disposition with merry jests, and I remember many pleasant hours
which we spent together when he invited me, with mock solemnity, to a
_tête-à-tête_ supper, where, with some dignity, by the light of waxen
candles, we ate what they call a council-hare, which had run into his
kitchen as a perquisite of his place, and with many jokes in the manner
of Behrisch, were pleased to season the meat and heighten the spirit of
the wine. That this excellent man, who is still constantly labouring
in his respectable office, rendered me the most faithful assistance
during a disease, of which there was indeed a foreboding, but which had
not been foreseen in its full extent, that he bestowed every leisure
hour upon me, and by remembrances of former happy times, contrived to
brighten the gloomy moment, I still acknowledge with the sincerest
thanks, and rejoice that after so long a time I can give them publicly.

Besides this worthy friend, GROENING of Bremen particularly interested
himself in me. I had made his acquaintance only a short time before,
and first discovered his good feeling towards me during my misfortune;
I felt the value of this favour the more warmly, as no one is apt to
seek a closer connexion with invalids. He spared nothing to give me
pleasure, to draw me away from musing on my situation, to hold up to my
view and promise me recovery and a wholesome activity in the nearest
future. How often have I been delighted, in the progress of life, to
hear how this excellent man has in the weightiest affairs shown himself
useful, and indeed a blessing to his native city.

Here, too, it was that friend HORN uninterruptedly brought into action
his love and attention. The whole Breitkopf household, the Stock
family, and many others, treated me like a near relative; and thus,
through the good-will of so many friendly persons, the feeling of my
situation was soothed in the tenderest manner.

[Side-note: Langer.]

I must here, however, make particular mention of a man, with whom
I first became acquainted at this time, and whose instructive
conversation so far blinded me to the miserable state in which I was,
that I actually forgot it. This was LANGER, afterwards librarian at
Wolfenbüttel. Eminently learned and instructed, he was delighted at
my voracious hunger after knowledge, which, with the irritability of
sickness, now broke out into a perfect fever. He tried to calm me
by perspicuous summaries, and I have been very much indebted to his
acquaintance, short as it was, since he understood how to guide me in
various ways, and made me attentive whither I had to direct myself at
the present moment. I found myself the more obliged to this important
man, as my intercourse exposed him to some danger: for when, after
Behrisch, he got the situation of tutor to the young Count Lindenau,
the father made it an express condition with the new Mentor that he
should have no intercourse with me. Curious to become acquainted with
such a dangerous subject, he frequently found means of meeting me
indirectly. I soon gained his affection, and he, more prudent than
Behrisch, called for me by night; we went walking together, conversed
on interesting things, and at last I accompanied him to the very door
of his mistress; for even this externally severe, earnest, scientific
man had not kept free from the toils of a very amiable lady.

German literature, and with it my own poetical undertakings, had
already for some time become strange to me, and as is usually the
result in such an auto-didactic circular course, I turned back towards
the beloved ancients who still constantly, like distant blue mountains,
distinct in their outlines and masses, but indiscernible in their parts
and internal relations, bounded the horizon of my intellectual wishes.
I made an exchange with Langer, in which I at last played the part of
Glaucus and Diomedes; I gave up to him whole baskets of German poets
and critics, and received in return a number of Greek authors, the
reading of whom was to give me recreation, even during the most tedious
convalescence.

The confidence which new friends repose in each other usually developes
itself by degrees. Common occupation and tastes are the first things
in which a mutual harmony shows itself; then the mutual communication
generally extends over past and present passions, especially over love
affairs; but it is a lower depth which opens itself, if the connexion
is to be perfected; the religious sentiments, the affairs of the heart
which relate to the imperishable, are the things which both establish
the foundation and adorn the summit of a friendship.

The Christian religion was wavering between its own historically
positive base and a pure deism, which, grounded on morality, was in its
turn to lay the foundation of ethics. The diversity of characters and
modes of thought here showed itself in infinite gradations, especially
when a leading difference was brought into play by the question arising
as to how great a share the reason, and how great a share the feelings
could and should bear a part in such convictions. The most lively and
ingenious men showed themselves, in this instance, like butterflies,
who, quite regardless of their caterpillar state, throw away the
chrysalis veil in which they have grown up to their organic perfection.
Others, more honestly and modestly minded, might be compared to the
flowers, which, although they unfold themselves to the most beautiful
bloom, yet do not tear themselves from the root, from the mother stalk,
nay, rather through this family connexion first bring the desired fruit
to maturity. Of this latter class was Langer; for, although a learned
man, and eminently versed in books, he would yet give the Bible a
peculiar pre-eminence over the other writings which have come down to
us, and regard it as a document from which alone we could prove our
moral and spiritual pedigree. He belonged to those who cannot conceive
an immediate connexion with the great God of the universe; a mediation,
therefore, was necessary for him, an analogy to which he thought he
could find everywhere, in earthly and heavenly things. His discourse,
which was pleasing and consistent, easily found a hearing with a young
man who, separated from worldly things by an annoying illness, found it
highly desirable to turn the activity of his mind towards the heavenly.
Grounded as I was in the Bible, all that was wanted was merely the
faith to explain as divine that which I had hitherto esteemed in human
fashion.--a belief, the easier for me, since I had made my first
acquaintance with that book as a divine one. To a sufferer, to one who
felt himself delicate, nay, weak, the gospel was therefore welcome,
and even though Langer, with all his faith, was at the same time a
very sensible man, and firmly maintained that one should not let the
feelings prevail, should not let oneself be led astray into mysticism,
I could not have managed to occupy myself with the New Testament
without feeling and enthusiasm.

In such conversations we spent much time, and he grew so fond of me
as an honest and well-prepared proselyte, that he did not scruple to
sacrifice to me many of the hours destined for his fair one, and even
to run the risk of being betrayed and looked upon unfavourably by his
patron, like Behrisch. I returned his affection in the most grateful
manner; and if what he did for me would have been of value at any time,
I could not but regard it, in my present condition, as worthy of the
highest honour.

[Side-note: Riot at Leipzig.]

But as when the concert of our souls is most spiritually attuned, the
rude shrieking tones of the world usually break in most violently and
boisterously, and the contrast which has gone on exercising a secret
control affects us so much the more sensibly when it comes forward all
at once; thus was I not to be dismissed from the peripatetic school of
my Langer without having first witnessed an event, strange at least
for Leipzig, namely, a tumult which the students excited, and that
on the following pretence. Some young people had quarrelled with the
city soldiers, and the affair had not gone off without violence. Many
of the students combined together to revenge the injuries inflicted.
The soldiers resisted stubbornly, and the advantage was not on the
side of the very discontented academical citizens. It was now said
that respectable persons had commended and rewarded the conquerors for
their valiant resistance, and by this, the youthful feeling of honour
and revenge was mightily excited. It was publicly said that on the
next evening windows would be broken in, and some friends who brought
me word that this was actually taking place, were obliged to carry me
there, for youth and the multitude are always attracted by danger and
tumult. There really began a strange spectacle. The otherwise open
street was lined on one side with men who, quite quiet, without noise
or movement, were waiting to see what would happen. About a dozen young
fellows were walking singly up and down the empty side-walk, with the
greatest apparent composure, but as soon as they came opposite the
marked house, they threw stones at the windows as they passed by, and
this repeatedly as they returned backwards and forwards, as long as
the panes would rattle. Just as quietly as this was done, all at last
dispersed, and the affair had no further consequences.

With such a ringing echo of university exploits, I left Leipzig in the
September of 1768, in a comfortable hired coach, and in the company of
some respectable persons of my acquaintance. In the neighbourhood of
Auerstädt I thought of that previous accident; but I could not forebode
that which many years afterwards would threaten me from thence with
still greater danger; just as little as in Gotha, where we had the
castle shown to us, I could think in the great hall adorned with stucco
figures, that so much favour and affection would befall me on that very
spot.

The nearer I approached my native city, the more I recalled to myself
doubtingly the circumstances, prospects, and hopes with which I had
left home, and it was a very disheartening feeling that I now returned,
as it were, like one shipwrecked. Yet since I had not very much with
which to reproach myself, I contrived to compose myself tolerably well;
however, the welcome was not without emotion. The great vivacity of
my nature, excited and heightened by sickness, caused an impassioned
scene. I might have looked worse than I myself knew, since for a long
time I had not consulted a looking-glass; and who does not become used
to himself? Enough, they silently resolved to communicate many things
to me only by degrees, and before all things to let me have some repose
both bodily and mental.

[Side-note: State of Goethe's Family.]

My sister immediately associated herself with me, and as previously,
from her letters, so I could now more in detail and accurately
understand the circumstances and situation of the family. My father
had, after my departure, concentrated all his didactic taste upon my
sister, and in a house completely shut up, rendered secure by peace,
and even cleared of lodgers, he had cut off from her almost every
means of looking about and recreating herself abroad. She had by turns
to pursue and work at French, Italian, and English, besides which he
compelled her to practise a great part of the day on the harpsichord.
Her writing also could not be neglected, and I had already remarked
that he had directed her correspondence with me, and had let his
doctrines come to me through her pen. My sister was and still continued
to be an undefinable being, the most singular mixture of strength and
weakness, of stubbornness and pliability, which qualities operated
now united, now isolated by will and inclination. Thus she had, in a
manner which seemed to me fearful, turned the hardness of her character
against her father, whom she did not forgive for having hindered or
embittered to her so many innocent joys for these three years, and of
his good and excellent qualities she would not acknowledge even one.
She did all that he commanded and arranged, but in the most unamiable
manner in the world. She did it in the established routine, but nothing
more and nothing less. From love or a desire to please she accommodated
herself to nothing, so that this was one of the first things about
which my mother complained in a private conversation with me. But since
love was as essential to my sister as to any human being, she turned
her affection wholly on me. Her care in nursing and entertaining me
absorbed all her time; her female companions, who were swayed by her
without her intending it, had likewise to contrive all sorts of things
to be pleasing and consolatory to me. She was inventive in cheering me
up, and even developed some germs of comical humour which I had never
known in her, and which became her very well. There soon arose between
us a coterie-language, by which we could converse before all people
without their understanding us, and she often used this gibberish with
great pertness in the presence of our parents.

My father was personally in tolerable comfort. He was in good health,
spent a great part of the day in the instruction of my sister, wrote at
the description of his travels, and was longer in tuning his lute than
in playing on it. He concealed at the same time, as well as he could,
his vexation at finding instead of a stout active son, who ought now
to take his degree and run through the prescribed course of life, an
invalid who seemed to suffer still more in soul than in body. He did
not conceal his wish that they would be expeditious with my cure; but
one was forced to be specially on one's guard in his presence against
hypochondriacal expressions, because he could then become passionate
and bitter.

[Side-note: Fräulein von Klettenberg.]

My mother, by nature very lively and cheerful, spent under these
circumstances very tedious days. Her little housekeeping was soon
provided for. The mind of the good lady, internally never unoccupied,
wished to find an interest in something, and that which was nearest
at hand was religion, which she embraced the more fondly as her most
eminent female friends were cultivated and hearty worshippers of God.
At the head of these stood Fräulein von Klettenberg. She is the same
person from whose conversations and letters arose the "Confessions of
a Beautiful Soul," which are found inserted in "Wilhelm Meister." She
was slenderly formed, of the middle size; a hearty natural demeanour
had been made still more pleasing by the manners of the world and the
court. Her very neat attire reminded of the dress of the Hernhutt
ladies. Her serenity and peace of mind never left her. She looked upon
her sickness as a necessary element of her transient earthly existence;
she suffered with the greatest patience, and, in painless intervals,
was lively and talkative. Her favourite, nay, indeed, perhaps her only
conversation, was on the moral experiences which a man who observes
himself can form in himself; to which was added the religious views
which, in a very graceful manner, nay, with genius, came under her
consideration as natural and supernatural. It scarcely needs more to
recall back to the friends of such representations, that complete
delineation composed from the very depths of her soul. Owing to the
very peculiar course which she had taken from her youth upwards, the
distinguished rank in which she had been born and educated, and the
liveliness and originality of her mind, she did not agree very well
with the other ladies who had set out on the same road to salvation.
Frau Griesbach, the chief of them, seemed too severe, too dry, too
learned; she knew, thought, comprehended more than the others, who
contented themselves with the development of their feelings, and she
was therefore burdensome to them, because every one neither could nor
would carry with her so great an apparatus on the road to bliss. But
for this reason the most of them were indeed somewhat monotonous,
since they confined themselves to a certain terminology which might
well have been compared to that of the later sentimentalists. Fräulein
von Klettenberg led her way between both extremes, and seemed, with
some self-complacency, to see her own reflection in the image of Count
Zinzendorf, whose opinions and actions bore witness to a higher birth
and more distinguished rank. Now she found in me what she needed,
a lively young creature, striving after an unknown happiness, who,
although he could not think himself an extraordinary sinner, yet found
himself in no comfortable condition, and was perfectly healthy neither
in body nor soul. She was delighted with what nature had given me, as
well as with much which I had gained for myself. And if she conceded to
me many advantages, this was by no means humiliating to her: for, in
the first place, she never thought of emulating one of the male sex,
and secondly, she believed that in regard to religious culture she was
very much in advance of me. My disquiet, my impatience, my striving,
my seeking, investigating, musing, and wavering, she interpreted in
her own way, and did not conceal from me her conviction, but assured
me in plain terms that all this proceeded from my having no reconciled
God. Now I had believed from my youth upwards that I stood on very good
terms with my God, nay, I even fancied to myself, according to various
experiences, that He might even be in arrears to me; and I was daring
enough to think that I had something to forgive Him. This presumption
was grounded on my infinite good-will, to which, as it seemed to me,
He should have given better assistance. It may be imagined how often
I and my female friend fell into disputes on this subject, which,
however, always terminated in the friendliest way, and often, like
my conversations with the old rector, with the remark: "that I was a
foolish fellow, for whom many allowances must be made."

I was much troubled with the tumour in my neck, as the physician and
surgeon wished first to disperse this excrescence, afterwards, as they
said, to draw it to a head, and at last thought good to open it; so for
a long time I had to sutler more from inconvenience than pain, although
towards the end of the cure, the continual touching with lunar caustic
and other corrosive substances could not but give me very disagreeable
prospects for every fresh day. The physician and surgeon both belonged
to the Pious Separatists, although both were of highly different
natural characters. The surgeon, a slender, well-built man, of easy
and skilful hand, was unfortunately somewhat hectic, but endured his
condition with truly Christian patience, and did not suffer his disease
to perplex him in his profession. The physician was an inexplicable,
sly-looking, friendly-speaking, and, moreover, abstruse man, who had
gained himself quite a peculiar confidence in the pious circle. Active
and attentive, he was consoling to the sick; but, more than by all
this, he extended his practice by the gift of showing in the background
some mysterious medicines prepared by himself, of which no one could
speak, since, with us, the physicians were strictly prohibited from
making up their own prescriptions. With certain powders, which may have
been some kind of digestive, he was not so reserved; but that powerful
salt, which could only be applied in the greatest danger, was only
mentioned among believers, although no one had yet seen it or traced
its effects. To excite and strengthen our faith in the possibility
of such an universal remedy, the physician, wherever he found any
susceptibility, had recommended certain chemico-alchemical books to
his patients, and given them to understand that by one's own study of
them, one could well attain this treasure for oneself; which was the
more necessary, as the mode of its preparation, both for physical and
especially for moral reasons, could not be well communicated; nay,
that in order to comprehend, produce and use this great work, one must
know the secrets of nature in connexion, since it was not a particular
but an universal remedy, and could indeed be produced under different
forms and shapes. My friend had listened to these enticing words. The
health of the body was too nearly allied to the health of the soul;
and could a greater benefit, a greater mercy be shown towards others,
than by appropriating to oneself a remedy by which so many sufferings
could be assuaged, so many a danger averted? She had already secretly
studied Welling's _Opus mago-cabalisticum_, for which, however, as the
author himself immediately darkens and removes the light he imparts,
she was looking about for a friend who, in this alternation of glare
and gloom, might bear her company. It needed small incitement to
inoculate me also with this disease. I procured the work, which, like
all writings of this kind, could trace its pedigree in a direct line
up to the Neo-Platonic school. My chief labour in this book was most
accurately to notice the dark hints by which the author refers from one
passage to another, and thus promises to reveal what he conceals; and
to mark down on the margin the number of the page where such passages
as should explain each other were to be found. But even thus the book
still remained dark and unintelligible enough; except that one at
last studied oneself into a certain terminology, and, by using it
according to one's own fancy, believed that one was at any rate saying,
if not understanding, something. The before-mentioned work makes
very honourable mention of its predecessors, and we were incited to
investigate those original sources themselves. We turned to the works
of Theophrastus, Paracelsus and Basilius Valentinus; as well as to
those of Helmont, Starkey, and others whose doctrines and directions,
resting more or less on nature and imagination, we endeavoured to
see into and follow out. I was particularly pleased with the _Aurea
Catena Homeri_, in which nature, though perhaps in fantastical
fashion, is represented in a beautiful combination; and thus sometimes
by ourselves, sometimes together, we employed much time on these
singularities, and spent the evenings of a long winter, during which I
was compelled to keep my chamber, very agreeably, since we three, my
mother being included, were more delighted with these secrets than we
could have been at their elucidation.

[Side-note: Alchemical Turn.]

In the meantime a very severe trial was preparing for me; for a
disturbed, and one might even say, for certain moments, destroyed
digestion, excited such symptoms that, in great tribulation, I thought
I should lose my life, and none of the remedies applied would produce
any further effect. In this last extremity, my distressed mother
constrained the embarrassed physician with the greatest vehemence
to come out with his universal medicine; after a long refusal, he
hastened home at the dead of night, and returned with a little glass of
crystallized dry salt, which was dissolved in water, and swallowed by
the patient. It had a decidedly alkaline taste. The salt was scarcely
taken than my situation appeared relieved, and from that moment the
disease took a turn which, by degrees, led to my recovery. I cannot say
how far this strengthened and enhanced our faith in our physician, and
our industry to make ourselves partakers of such a treasure.

My friend, who, without parents or brothers and sisters, lived in a
large, well-situated house, had already before this begun to purchase
herself a little air-furnace, alembics and retorts of moderate size;
and, in accordance with the hints of Welling, and the significant signs
of our physician and master, operated principally on iron, in which the
most healing powers were said to be concealed, if one only knew how to
open it. And as the volatile salt which must be produced made a great
figure in all the writings with which we were acquainted, so, for these
operations, alkalies also were required, which, while they flowed away
into the air, were to unite with these super-terrestrial things, and at
last produce _per se_, a mysterious and excellent neutral salt.

Scarcely was I in some measure recovered, and, favoured by the change
in the season, able once more to occupy my old gable-chamber, than
I also began to provide myself with a little apparatus. A small
air-furnace with a sand-bath was prepared, and I very soon learned to
change the glass alembics, with a piece of burning match-cord, into
vessels in which the different mixtures were to be evaporated. Now
were the strange ingredients of the macrocosm and microcosm handled
in an odd, mysterious manner, and before all I attempted to produce
neutral salts in an unheard-of way. But what busied me most, for a long
time, was the so-called _Liquor Silicum_ (flint-juice), which is made
by melting down pure quartz-flint with a proper proportion of alkali,
whence results a transparent glass, which melts away on exposure to the
air, and exhibits a beautiful clear fluidity. Whoever has once prepared
this himself, and seen it with his own eyes, will not blame those who
believe in a maiden earth, and in the possibility of producing further
effects upon it by means of it. I had acquired a peculiar dexterity
in preparing this _Liquor Silicum_; the fine white flints which are
found in the Maine furnished a perfect material for it; and I was not
wanting in the other requisites, nor in diligence. But I became weary
at last, because I could not but remark that the flinty substance was
by no means so closely combined with the salt as I had philosophically
imagined; for it very easily separated itself again, and this most
beautiful mineral fluidity, which, to my greatest astonishment, had
sometimes appeared in the form of an animal jelly, always deposited
a powder, which I was forced to pronounce the finest flint dust, but
which gave not the least sign of anything productive in its nature,
from which one could have hoped to see this maiden earth pass into the
maternal state.

Strange and unconnected as these operations were, I yet learned many
things from them. I paid strict attention to all the crystallizations
that might occur, and became acquainted with the external forms of
many natural things, and inasmuch as I well knew that in modern times
chemical subjects were treated more methodically, I wished to get a
general conception of them, although, as a half-adept, I had very
little respect for the apothecaries and all those who operated with
common fire. However, the chemical _Compendium_ of Boerhaave attracted
me powerfully, and led me on to read several of his writings, in which
(since, moreover, my tedious illness had inclined me towards medical
subjects,) I found an inducement to study also the _Aphorisms_ of this
excellent man, which I was glad to stamp upon my mind and in my memory.

[Side-note: Character of the Letters from Leipzig.]

Another employment, somewhat more human, and by far more useful for
my cultivation at the moment, was reading through the letters which I
had written home from Leipzig. Nothing reveals more with respect to
ourselves, than when we again see before us that which has proceeded
from us years before, so that we can now consider ourselves as an
object of contemplation. Only, in truth, I was then too young, and the
epoch which was represented by those papers was still too near. As
in our younger years we do not in general easily cast off a certain
self-complacent conceit, this especially shows itself in despising what
we have been but a little time before; for while, indeed, we perceive,
as we advance from step to step, that those things which we regard as
good and excellent in ourselves and others do not stand their ground,
we think we can best extricate ourselves from this dilemma by ourselves
throwing away what we cannot preserve. So it was with me also. For as
in Leipzig I had gradually learned to set little value on my childish
labours, so now my academical course seemed to me likewise of small
account, and I did not understand that for this very reason it must
be of great value to me, as it elevated me to a higher degree of
observation and insight. My father had carefully collected and sewed
together my letters to him, as well as those to my sister; nay, he had
even corrected them with attention, and improved the mistakes both in
writing and in grammar.

What first struck me in these letters was their exterior; I was shocked
at an incredible carelessness in the handwriting, which extended
from October, 1765, to the middle of the following January. But, in
the middle of March, there appeared all at once a quite compressed,
orderly hand, such as I used formerly to employ in writing for a prize.
My astonishment at this resolved itself into gratitude towards the
good Gellert, who, as I now well remembered, whenever we handed in our
essays to him, represented to us, in his hearty tone of voice, that
it was our sacred duty to practise our hand as much, nay, more than
our style. He repeated this as often as any scrawled, careless writing
came into his sight; on which occasion he often said that he would
much like to make a good hand of his pupils the principal end in his
instructions; the more so as he had often remarked that a good hand led
the way to a good style.

I could further notice that the French and English passages in my
letters, although not free from blunders, were nevertheless written
with facility and freedom. These languages I had likewise continued
to practise in my correspondence with George Schlosser, who was still
at Treptow, and I had remained in constant communication with him, by
which I was instructed in many secular affairs (for things did not
always turn out with him quite as he had hoped), and acquired an ever
increasing confidence in his earnest, noble way of thinking.

Another consideration which could not escape me in reading through
these letters, was that my good hither, with the best intentions, had
done me a special mischief, and had led me into that odd way of life
into which I had fallen at last. He had, namely, repeatedly warned me
against card-playing; but Frau Hofrath Böhme, as long as she lived,
contrived to persuade me, after her own fashion, by declaring that
my father's warnings were only against the abuse. Now as I likewise
saw the advantages of it in society, I easily suffered myself to be
led by her. I had indeed the sense of play, but not the spirit of
play; I learned all games easily and rapidly, but I could never keep
up the proper attention for a whole evening. Therefore, when I began
very well, I invariably failed at the end, and made myself and others
lose; through which I went off, always out of humour, either to the
supper-table or out of the company. Scarcely was Madame Böhme dead,
who, moreover, had no longer kept me in practice during her tedious
illness, than my father's doctrine gained force; I at first excused
myself from the card-tables, and as they now did not know what else
to do with me, I became even more of a burden to myself than to
others, and declined the imitations, which then became more rare,
and at last ceased altogether. Play, which is much to be recommended
to young people, especially to those who have a practical sense, and
wish to look about in the world for themselves, could never, indeed,
become a passion with me; for I never got further, though I might
play as long as I would. Had any one given me a general view of the
subject, and made me observe how here certain signs and more or less
of chance form a kind of material on which judgment and activity can
exercise themselves--had any one made me see several games at once,
I might sooner have become reconciled. With all this, at the time of
which I am now speaking, I had come to the conviction, from the above
considerations, that one should not avoid social games, but should
rather strive after a certain dexterity in them. Time is infinitely
long, and each day is a vessel into which a great deal may be poured,
if one will actually fill it up.

[Side-note: Taste for Drawing Revived.]

Thus variously was I occupied in my solitude; the more so, as the
departed spirits of the different tastes to which I had from time to
time devoted myself, had an opportunity to reappear. I thus went again
to drawing; and as I always wished to labour directly from nature,
or rather from reality, I made a picture of my chamber, with its
furniture, and the persons who were in it; and when this no more amused
me, I represented all sorts of town-tales, which were told at the time,
and in which interest was taken. All this was not without character and
a certain taste, but unfortunately the figures lacked proportion and
the proper vigour, besides which the execution was extremely misty. Sly
father, who continued to take pleasure in these things, wished to have
them more distinct; everything must be finished and properly completed.
He therefore had them mounted and surrounded with ruled lines; nay, the
painter Morgenstern, his domestic artist--the same who afterwards made
himself known, and indeed famous, by his church-views--had to insert
the perspective lines of the rooms and chambers, which then, indeed,
stood in pretty harsh contrast with those cloudy-looking figures. In
this manner he thought constantly to compel me to greater accuracy,
and, to please him, I drew various objects of still life, in which,
since the originals stood as patterns before me, I could work with more
distinctness and precision. At last I took it into my head to etch
once more. I had composed a tolerably interesting landscape, and felt
myself very happy when I could look out for the old receipts given me
by Stock, and could, at my work, call to mind those pleasant times. I
soon bit the plate and had a proof taken. Unluckily the composition
was without light and shade, and I now tormented myself to bring
in both; but as it was not quite clear** to me what was really the
essential point, I could not finish. Up to this time I had been quite
well, after my own fashion; but now a disease attacked me which had
never troubled me before. My throat, namely, had become completely
sore, and particularly what is called the _uvula_ very much inflamed;
I could only swallow with great pain, and the physicians did not know
what to make of it. They tormented me with gargles and hair-pencils,
but could not free me from my misery. At last it struck me that I had
not been careful enough in the biting of my plates, and that by often
and passionately repeating it, I had contracted this disease, and had
always revived and increased it. To the physicians this cause was
plausible and very soon certain on my leaving my etching and biting,
and that so much the more readily as the attempt had by no means
turned out well, and I had more reason to conceal than to exhibit my
labours; for which I consoled myself the more easily, as I very soon
saw myself free from the troublesome disease. Upon this I could not
refrain from the reflection that my similar occupations at Leipzig
might have greatly contributed to those diseases from which I had
suffered so much. It is, indeed, a tedious, and withal a melancholy
business to take too much care of ourselves, and of what injures and
benefits us; but there is no question but that with the wonderful
idiosyncrasy of human nature on the one side, and the infinite variety
in the mode of life and pleasure on the other, it is a wonder that
the human race has not worn itself out long ago. Human nature appears
to possess a peculiar kind of toughness and many-sidedness, since it
subdues everything which approaches it, or which it takes into itself,
and if it cannot assimilate, at least makes it indifferent. In case
of any great excess, indeed, it must yield to the elements in spite
of all resistance, as the many endemic diseases and the effects of
brandy convince us. Could we, without being morbidly anxious, keep
watch over ourselves as to what operates favourably or unfavourably
upon us in our complicated civil and social life, and would we leave
off what is actually pleasant to us as an enjoyment, for the sake of
the evil consequences, we should thus know how to remove with ease many
an inconvenience which, with a constitution otherwise sound, often
troubles us more than even a disease. Unfortunately, it is in dietetics
as in morals; we cannot see into a fault till we have got rid of it; by
which nothing is gained, for the next fault is not like the preceding
one, and therefore cannot be recognised under the same form.

[Side-note: Survey of Works Written at Leipzig.]

In reading through those letters which had been written from Leipzig
to my sister, this remark, among others, could not escape me,--that
from the very beginning of my academical course, I had esteemed myself
very clever and wise, since, as soon as I had learned anything, I put
myself in the place of the professor, and so became didactic on the
spot. I was amused to see how I had immediately applied to my sister
whatever Gellert had imparted or advised in his lectures, without
seeing that both in life and in books, a thing may be proper for a
young man without being suitable for a young lady; and we both together
made merry over these mimicries. The poems also which I had composed
in Leipzig were already too poor for me; and they seemed to me cold,
dry, and in respect to that which was meant to express the state of the
human heart or mind, too superficial. This induced me, now that I was
to leave my father's house once more, and go to a second university,
again to decree a great high _auto-da-fé_ against my labours. Several
commenced plays, some of which had reached the third or the fourth act,
while others had only the plot fully made out, together with many other
poems, letters, and papers, were given over to the fire, and scarcely
anything was spared except the manuscript by Behrisch, _Die Laune des
Verliebten_ and _Die Mitschuldigen_, which last I constantly went
on improving with peculiar affection, and, as the piece was already
complete, I again worked over the plot, to make it more bustling and
intelligible. Lessing, in the first two acts of his _Minna_, had set up
an unattainable model of the way in which a drama should be developed,
and nothing was to me of greater concern than to enter thoroughly into
his mind and his views.

The recital of whatever moved, excited, and occupied me at this time,
is already circumstantial enough; but I must nevertheless again recur
to that interest with which super-sensuous things had inspired me, of
which I, once for all, so far as might be possible, undertook to form
some notion.

I experienced a great influence from an important work that fell into
my hands; it was Arnold's _History of the Church and of Heretics._
This man is not merely a reflective historian, but at the same time
pious and feeling. His sentiments chimed in very well with mine, and
what particularly delighted me in his work was, that I received a more
favourable notion of many heretics, who had been hitherto represented
to me as mad or impious. The spirit of contradiction and the love of
paradoxes stick fast in us all. I diligently studied the different
opinions, and as I had often enough heard it said that every man has
his own religion at last, so nothing seemed more natural to me than
that I should form mine too, and this I did with much satisfaction. The
Neo-Platonism lay at the foundation: the hermetical, the mystical, the
cabalistic, also contributed their share, and thus I built for myself a
world that looked strange enough.

[Side-note: Concoction of a System of Theology.]

I could well represent to myself a Godhead which has gone on producing
itself from all eternity; but as production cannot be conceived without
multiplicity, so it must of necessity have immediately appeared to
itself as a Second, which we recognise under the name of the Son;
now these two must continue the act of producing, and again appear
to themselves in a Third, which was just as substantial, living, and
eternal as the Whole. With these, however, the circle of the Godhead
was complete, and it would not have been possible for them to produce
another perfectly equal to them. But since, however, the work of
production always proceeded, they created a fourth, which already
fostered in himself a contradiction, inasmuch as it was, like them,
unlimited, and yet at the same time was to be contained in them and
bounded by them. Now this was Lucifer, to whom the whole power of
creation was committed from this time, and from whom all other beings
were to proceed. He immediately displayed his infinite activity by
creating the whole body of angels; all, again, after his own likeness,
unlimited, but contained in him and bounded by him. Surrounded by such
a glory, he forgot his higher origin, and believed that he could
find himself in himself, and from this first ingratitude sprang all
that does not seem to us in accordance with the will and purposes of
the Godhead. Now the more he concentrated himself within himself, the
more painful must it have become to him, as well as to all the spirits
whose sweet uprising to their origin he had embittered. And so that
happened which is intimated to us under the form of the Fall of the
Angels. One part of them concentrated itself with Lucifer, the other
turned itself again to its origin. From this concentration of the
whole creation, for it had proceeded out of Lucifer, and was forced
to follow him, sprang all that we perceive under the form of matter,
which we figure to ourselves as heavy, solid, and dark, but which,
since it is descended, if not even immediately, yet by filiation, from
the Divine Being, is just as unlimited, powerful, and eternal as its
sire and grandsire. Since now the whole mischief, if we may call it so,
merely arose through the one-sided direction of Lucifer, the better
half was indeed wanting to this creation; for it possessed all that
is gained by concentration, while it lacked all that can be effected
by expansion alone; and so the whole creation could have destroyed
itself by everlasting concentration, could have annihilated itself with
its father Lucifer, and have lost all its claims to an equal eternity
with the Godhead. This condition the Elohim contemplated for a time,
and they had their choice, to wait for those Æons, in which the field
would again have become clear, and space would be left them for a new
creation; or, if they would, to seize upon that which existed already,
and supply the want, according to their own eternity. Now they chose
the latter, and by their mere will supplied in an instant the whole
want which the consequence of Lucifer's undertaking drew after it. They
gave to the Eternal Being the faculty of expanding itself, of moving
itself towards them; the peculiar pulse of life was again restored,
and Lucifer himself could not avoid its effects. This is the epoch
when that appeared which we know as light, and when that began which
we are accustomed to designate by the word creation. Greatly now as
this multiplied itself by progressive degrees, through the continually
working vital power of the Elohim, still a being was wanting who might
be able to restore the original connexion with the Godhead; and thus
man was produced, who in all things was to be similar, yea, equal to
the Godhead; but thereby, in effect, found himself once more in the
situation of Lucifer, that of being at once unlimited and bounded;
and, since this contradiction was to manifest itself in him through
all the categories of existence, and a perfect consciousness, as well
as a decided will, was to accompany his various conditions, it was
to be foreseen that he must be at the same time the most perfect and
the most imperfect, the most happy and the most unhappy creature. It
was not long before he, too, completely played the part of Lucifer.
True ingratitude is the separation from the benefactor, and thus that
fall was manifest for the second time, although the whole creation
is nothing and was nothing but a falling from and returning to the
original.

One easily sees how the Redemption is not only decreed from eternity,
but is considered as eternally necessary, nay, that it must ever
renew itself through the whole time of generation[4] and existence.
In this view of the subject, nothing is more natural than for the
Divinity himself to take the form of man, which had already prepared
itself as a veil, and to share his fate for a short time, in order,
by this assimilation, to enhance his joys and alleviate his sorrows.
The history of all religions and philosophies teaches us that this
great truth, indispensable for man, has been handed down by different
nations, in different times, in various ways, and even in strange
fables and images, in accordance with their limited knowledge; enough,
if it only be acknowledged that we find ourselves in a condition
which, even if it seems to drag us down and oppress us, yet gives
us opportunity, nay, even makes it our duty, to raise ourselves up,
and to fulfil the purposes of the Godhead in this manner, that while
we are compelled on the one hand to concentrate ourselves (_uns zu
verselbsten_), we, on the other hand, do not omit to expand ourselves
(_uns zu entselbstigen_) in regular pulsation.[5]


[1] "Bildende und Redende Kunst." The expression "speaking art " is
used to produce a corresponding antithesis, though "_belles lettres_"
would be the ordinary rendering.--_Trans._

[2] "Pratische Philosophen, bewusstlose Weltweisen." It is impossible
to give two substantives, as in the original, since this is effected by
using first the word of Greek, then the word of German origin, whereas
we have but one.--_Trans._

[3] Winckelmann was assassinated---_Trans._

[4] "Das Werden," the state of becoming, as distinguished from that
of being. The word, which is most useful to the Germans, can never be
rendered properly in English.--_Trans._

[5] If we could make use of some such verbs as "inself" and "unself,"
we should more accurately render this passage.--_Trans._.



NINTH BOOK


"The heart is often affected, moreover, to the advantage of different,
but especially of social and refined virtues, and the more tender
sentiments are excited and unfolded in it. Many touches, in particular,
will impress themselves, which give the young reader an insight into
the more hidden corner of the human heart and its passions--a knowledge
which is more worth than all Latin and Greek, and of which Ovid was
a very excellent master. But yet it is not on this account that the
classic poets, and therefore Ovid, are placed in the hands of youth.
We have from the kind Creator a variety of mental powers, to which we
must not neglect giving their proper culture in our earliest years, and
which cannot be cultivated either by logic or metaphysics, Latin or
Greek. We have an imagination, before which, since it should not seize
upon the very first conceptions that chance to present themselves, we
ought to place the fittest and most beautiful images, and thus accustom
and practise the mind to recognise and love the beautiful everywhere,
and in nature itself, under its determined, true, and also in its finer
features. A great quantity of conceptions and general knowledge is
necessary to us, as well for the sciences as for daily life, which can
be learned out of no compendium. Our feelings, affections, and passions
should be advantageously developed and purified."

This significant passage, which is found in the _Universal German
Library_, was not the only one of its kind. Similar principles and
similar views manifested themselves in many directions. They made
upon us lively youths a very great impression, which had the more
decided effect, as it was strengthened besides by Wieland's example;
for the works of his second brilliant period clearly showed that he
had formed himself according to such maxims. And what more could we
desire? Philosophy, with its abstruse questions, was set aside--the
classic languages, the acquisition of which is accompanied by so much
drudgery, one saw thrust into the background--the compendiums, about
the sufficiency of which Handel had already whispered a doubtful word
into the ear, came more and more into suspicion. We were directed
to the contemplation of an active life, which we were so fond of
leading, and to the knowledge of the passions which we partly felt,
partly anticipated, in our own bosoms, and which, if though they had
been rebuked formerly, now appeared to us as something important and
dignified, because they were to be the chief object of our studies,
and the knowledge of them was extolled as the most excellent means of
cultivating our mental powers. Besides this, such a mode of thought was
quite in accordance with my own conviction, nay, with my poetical mode
of treatment. I therefore, without opposition, after I had thwarted
so many good designs, and seen so many fair hopes vanish, reconciled
myself to my father's intention of sending me to Strasburg, where I was
promised a cheerful, gay life, while I should prosecute my studies, and
at last take my degree.

In spring I felt my health, but still more my youthful spirits, again
restored, and once more longed to be out of my father's house, though
with reasons far different from those on the first time. The pretty
chambers and spots where I had suffered so much had become disagreeable
to me, and with my father himself there could be no pleasant relation.
I could not quite pardon him for having manifested more impatience
than was reasonable at the relapse of my disease, and at my tedious
recovery; nay, for having, instead of comforting me by forbearance,
frequently expressed himself in a cruel manner, about that which lay in
no man's hand, as if it depended only on the will. And he, too, was in
various ways hurt and offended by me.

For young people bring back from the university general ideas, which,
indeed, is quite right and good; but because they fancy themselves very
wise in this, they apply them as a standard to the objects that occur,
which must then, for the most part, lose by the comparison. Thus I had
gained a general notion of architecture, and of the arrangement and
decoration of houses, and imprudently, in conversation, had applied
this to our own house. My father had designed the whole arrangement
of it, and carried through the building with great perseverance, and,
considering that it was to be exclusively a residence for himself
and his family, nothing could be objected to it; in this taste, also,
very many of the houses in Frankfort were built. An open staircase
ran up through the house, and touched upon large ante-rooms, which
might very well have been chambers themselves, as, indeed, we always
passed the tine season in them. But this pleasant, cheerful existence
for a single family--this communication from above to below--became
the greatest inconvenience as soon as several parties occupied the
house, as we had but too well experienced on the occasion of the
French quartering. For that painful scene with the king's lieutenant
would not have happened, nay, my father would even have felt all those
disagreeable matters less, if, after the Leipzig fashion, our staircase
had run close along the side of the house, and a separate door had been
given to each story. This style of building I once praised highly for
its advantages, and showed my father the possibility of altering his
staircase also; whereupon he fell into an incredible passion, which was
the more violent as, a short time before, I had found fault with some
scrolled looking-glass frames, and rejected certain Chinese hangings.
A scene ensued, which, indeed, was again hushed up and smothered, but
it hastened my journey to the beautiful Alsace, which I accomplished
in the newly-contrived comfortable diligence, without delay, and in a
short time.

I alighted at the Ghost (_Geist_) tavern, and hastened at once to
satisfy my most earnest desire and to approach the minster, which
had long since been pointed out to me by fellow-travellers, and had
been before my eyes for a great distance. When I first perceived this
Colossus through the narrow lanes, and then stood too near before it,
in the truly confined little square, it made upon me an impression
quite of its own kind, which I, being unable to analyse it on the spot,
carried with me only indistinctly for this time, as I hastily ascended
the building, so as not to neglect the beautiful moment of a high and
cheerful sun, which was to disclose to me at once the broad, rich land.

[Side-note: Arrival at Strasburg.]

And now, from the platform, I saw before me the beautiful region in
which I should for a long time live and reside: the handsome city,
the wide-spreading meadows around it, thickly set and interwoven with
magnificent trees, that striking richness of vegetation which follows
in the windings of the Rhine, marks its banks, islands, and aits. Nor
is the level ground, stretching down from the south, and watered by
the Iller, less adorned with varied green. Even westward, towards the
mountains, there are many low grounds which afford quite as charming
a view of wood and meadow-growth, just as the northern and more hilly
part is intersected by innumerable little brooks, which promote a
rapid vegetation everywhere. If one imagines, between these luxuriant
outstretched meads, between these joyously scattered groves, all land
adapted for tillage, excellently prepared, verdant, and ripening,
and the best and richest spots marked by hamlets and farm-houses,
and this great and immeasurable plain, prepared for roan, like a new
paradise, bounded far and near by mountains partly cultivated, partly
overgrown with woods; one will then conceive the rapture with which I
blessed my fate, that it had destined me, for some time, so beautiful a
dwelling-place.

Such a fresh glance into a new land in which we are to abide for a
time, has still the peculiarity, both pleasant and foreboding, that the
whole lies before us like an unwritten tablet. As yet no sorrows and
joys which relate to ourselves are recorded upon it; this cheerful,
varied, animated plain is still mute for us; the eye is only fixed on
the objects so far as they are intrinsically important, and neither
affection nor passion have especially to render prominent this or that
spot. But a presentiment of the future already disquiets the young
heart, and an unsatisfied craving secretly demands that which is to
come and may come, and which, at all events, whether for good or ill,
will imperceptibly assume the character of the spot in which we find
ourselves.

Descended from the height, I still tarried awhile before the face of
the venerable pile; but what I could not quite clearly make out, either
the first or the following time, was that I regarded this miracle as a
monster, which must have terrified me, if it had not, at the same time,
appeared to me comprehensible by its regularity, and even pleasing in
its finish. Yet I by no means busied myself with meditating on this
contradiction, but suffered a monument so astonishing quietly to work
upon me by its presence.

[Side-note: Meyer.]

I took small, but well-situated and pleasant lodgings, on the summer
side of the Fish-market, a fine long street, where the everlasting
motion came to the assistance of every unoccupied moment. I then
delivered my letters of introduction, and found among my patrons a
merchant who, with his family, was devoted to those pious opinions
sufficiently known to me, although, as far as regarded external
worship, he had not separated from the Church. He was a man of
intelligence withal, and by no means hypocritical in his actions. The
company of boarders which was recommended to me, and, indeed, I to
it, was very agreeable and entertaining. A couple of old maids had
long kept up this boarding-house with regularity and good success;
there might have been about ten persons, older and younger. Of these
latter, one named MEYER, a native of Lindau, is most vividly present
to me. From his form and face he might have been considered one of the
handsomest of men, if, at the same time, he had not had something of
the sloven in his whole appearance. In like manner his splendid natural
talents were deformed by an incredible levity, and his excellent temper
by an unbounded dissoluteness. He had an open, joyous face, more round
than oval; the organs of the senses, the eyes, nose, mouth, and ears,
could be called rich; they showed a decided fulness, without being too
large. The mouth was particularly charming, from the curling lips,
and his whole physiognomy had the peculiar expression of a rake, from
the circumstance that his eyebrows met across his nose, which, in a
handsome face, always produces a pleasant expression of sensuality. By
his jovialness, sincerity, and good-nature, he made himself beloved
by all. His memory was incredible; attention at the lectures cost him
nothing; he retained all that he heard, and was intellectual enough to
take some interest in everything, and this the more easily, as he was
studying medicine. All impressions remained lively with him, and his
waggery in repeating the lectures and mimicking the professors often
went so far, that when he had heard three different lectures in one
morning, he would, at the dinner-table, interchange the professors
with each other, paragraphwise, and often even more abruptly, which
parti-coloured lecture frequently entertained us, but often, too,
became troublesome.

The rest were more or less polite, steady, serious people. A pensioned
knight of the order of St. Louis was one of these; but the majority
were students, all really good and well-disposed, only they were not
allowed to go beyond their usual allowance of wine. That this should
not be easily done was the care of our president, one Doctor SALZMANN.
Already in the sixties and unmarried, he had attended this dinner-table
for many years, and maintained its good order and respectability. He
possessed a handsome property, kept himself close and neat in his
exterior, even belonging to those who always go in shoes and stockings,
and with their hat under their arm. To put on the hat, was with him
an extraordinary action. He commonly carried an umbrella, wisely
reflecting that the finest summer-days often bring thunderstorms and
passing showers over the country.

With this man I talked over my design of continuing to study
jurisprudence at Strasburg, so as to be able to take my degree as soon
as possible. Since he was exactly informed of everything, I asked
him about the lectures I should have to hear, and what he generally
thought of the matter. To this he replied, that it was not in Strasburg
as in the German universities, where they try to educate jurists in
the large and learned sense of the term. Here, in conformity with the
relation towards France, all was really directed to the practical, and
managed in accordance with the opinions of the French, who readily
stop at what is given. They tried to impart to every one certain
general principles and preliminary knowledge, they compressed as much
as possible, and communicated only what was most necessary. Hereupon
he made me acquainted with a man, in whom, as a _Repetent_,[1] great
confidence was entertained; which he very soon managed to gain from me
also. By way of introduction, I began to speak with him on subjects
of jurisprudence, and he wondered not a little at my swaggering; for
during my residence at Leipzig, I had gained more of an insight into
the requisites for the law than I have hitherto taken occasion to state
in my narrative, though all I had acquired could only be reckoned as a
general encyclopedical survey, and not as proper definite knowledge.
University life, even if in the course of it we may not have to boast
of our own proper industry, nevertheless affords endless advantages in
every kind of cultivation, because we are always surrounded by men who
either possess or are seeking science, so that, even if unconsciously,
we are constantly drawing some nourishment from such an atmosphere.

[Side-note: Taste for Medical Studies.]

My repetent, after he had had patience with my rambling discourse for
some time, gave me at last to understand that I must first of all
keep my immediate object in view, which was, to be examined, to take
my degree, and then, perchance, to commence practice. "In order to
stand the first," said he, "the subject is by no means investigated
at large. It is inquired how and when a law arose, and what gave the
internal or external occasion for it; there is no inquiry as to how
it has been altered by time and custom, or how far it has perhaps
been perverted by false interpretation or the perverted usage of the
courts. It is in such investigations that learned men quite peculiarly
spend their lives; but we inquire after that which exists at present,
this we stamp firmly on our memory, that it may always be ready when
we wish to employ it for the use and defence of our clients. Thus we
qualify our young people for their future life, and the rest follows in
proportion to their talents and activity." Hereupon he handed me his
pamphlets, which were written in question and answer, and in which I
could have stood a pretty good examination at once, for Hopp's smaller
law-catechism was yet perfectly in my memory; the rest I supplied with
some diligence, and, against my will, qualified myself in the easiest
manner as a candidate.

But since in this way all my own activity in the study was cut
off,--for I had no sense for anything positive, but wished to have
everything explained historically, if not intelligibly--I found for my
powers a wider field, which I employed in the most singular manner by
devoting myself to a matter of interest which was accidently presented
to me from without.

Most of my fellow-boarders were medical students. These, as is well
known, are the only students who zealously converse about their
science and profession even out of the hours of study. This lies in
the nature of the case. The objects of their endeavours are the most
obvious to the senses, and at the same time the highest, the most
simple and the most complicated. Medicine employs the whole man, for
it occupies itself with the whole man. All that the young man learns
refers directly to an important, dangerous indeed, but yet in many
respects lucrative practice. He therefore devotes himself passionately
to whatever is to be known and to be done, partly because it is
interesting in itself, partly because it opens to him the joyous
prospect of independence and wealth.

At table then I heard nothing but medical conversations, just as
formerly in the boarding-house of Hofrath Ludwig. In our walks and in
our pleasure-parties likewise not much else was talked about; for my
fellow-boarders, like good fellows, had also become my companions at
other times, and they were always joined on all sides by persons of
like minds and like studies. The medical faculty in general shone above
the others, with respect both to the celebrity of the professors and
the number of the students, and I was the more easily borne along by
the stream, as I had just so much knowledge of all these things that
my desire for science could soon be increased and inflamed. At the
commencement of the second half-year, therefore, I attended a course on
chemistry by Spielmann, another on anatomy by Lobstein, and proposed
to be right industrious, because by my singular preliminary or rather
extra knowledge, I had already gained some respect and confidence in
our society.

[Side-note: Preparations for Reception of Marie Antoinette.]

Yet this dissipation and dismemberment of my studies was not enough,
they were to be once more seriously disturbed; for a remarkable
political event set everything in motion, and procured us a tolerable
succession of holidays. Marie Antoinette, Archduchess of Austria and
Queen of France, was to pass through Strasburg on her road to Paris.
The solemnities by which the people are made to take notice that there
is greatness in the world, were busily and abundantly prepared, and
especially remarkable to me was the building which stood on an island
in the Rhine between the two bridges, erected for her reception and
for surrendering her into the hands of her husband's ambassadors. It
was but slightly elevated above the ground, had in the centre a grand
saloon, on each side smaller ones; then followed other chambers, which
extended somewhat backwards. Enough, had it been more durably built,
it might have answered very well as a pleasure-house for persons
of rank. But that which particularly interested me, and for which I
did not grudge many a _büsel_ (a little silver coin then current)
in order to procure a repeated entrance from the porter, was the
embroidered tapestry with which they had lined the whole interior.
Here, for the first time, I saw a specimen of those tapestries worked
after Raffaelle's cartoons, and this sight was for me of very decided
influence, as I became acquainted with the true and the perfect on
a large scale, though only in copies. I went and came, and came
and went, and could not satiate myself with looking; nay, a vain
endeavour troubled me, because I would willingly have comprehended what
interested me in so extraordinary a manner. I found these side-chambers
highly delightful and refreshing, but the chief saloon so much the
more shocking. This had been hung with many larger, more brilliant and
richer hangings, which were surrounded with crowded ornaments, worked
after pictures by the modern French.

Now I might perhaps have reconciled myself to this style also, as my
feelings, like my judgment, did not readily reject anything entirely;
but the subject was excessively revolting to me. These pictures
contained the history of Jason, Medea, and Creusa, and therefore an
example of the most unhappy marriage. To the left of the throne was
seen the bride struggling with the most horrible death, surrounded
by persons full of sympathizing woe; to the right was the father,
horrified at the murdered babes before his feet; whilst the Fury, in
her dragon-car, drove along into the air. And that the horrible and
atrocious should not lack something absurd, the white tail of that
magic bull flourished out on the right-hand from behind the red velvet
of the gold-embroidered back of the throne, while the fire-spitting
beast himself, and the Jason who was fighting with him, were completely
covered by the sumptuous drapery.

Here all the maxims which I had made my own in Oeser's school were
stirring within my bosom. It was without proper selection and
judgment, to begin with, that Christ and the apostles were brought
into the side-halls of a nuptial building, and doubtless the size of
the chambers had guided the royal tapestry-keeper. This, however, I
willingly forgave, because it had turned out so much to my advantage;
but a blunder like that in the grand saloon put me altogether out
of my self-possession, and with animation and vehemence I called
on my comrades to witness such a crime against taste and feeling.
"What!" cried I, without regarding the bystanders, "is it permitted
so thoughtlessly to place before the eyes of a young queen, at her
first setting foot in her dominions, the representation of the most
horrible marriage that perhaps was ever consummated! Is there then
among the French architects, decorators, upholsterers, not a single
man who understands that pictures represent something, that pictures
work upon the mind and feelings, that they make impressions, that they
excite forebodings! It is just the same as if they had sent the most
ghastly spectre to meet this beauteous and pleasure-loving lady at the
very frontiers!" I know not what I said besides; enough, my comrades
tried to quiet me and to remove me out of the house, that there might
be no offence. They then assured me that it was not everybody's concern
to look for significance in pictures; that to themselves, at least,
nothing of the sort would have occurred, while the whole population of
Strasburg and the vicinity which was to throng thither, would no more
take such crotchets into their heads than the queen herself and her
court.

I yet remember well the beauteous and lofty mien, as cheerful as it was
imposing, of this youthful lady. Perfectly visible to us all in her
glass carriage, she seemed to be jesting with her female attendants,
in familiar conversation, about the throng that poured forth to meet
her train. In the evening we roamed through the streets to look at the
various illuminated buildings, but especially the glowing spire of
the minster, with which, both near and in the distance, we could not
sufficiently feast our eyes.

The queen pursued her way; the country people dispersed, and the city
was soon quiet as ever. Before the queen's arrival, the very rational
regulation had been made, that no deformed persons, no cripples nor
disgusting invalids, should show themselves on her route. People joked
about this, and I made a little French poem in which I compared the
advent of Christ, who seemed to wander upon the world particularly on
account of the sick and the lame, with the arrival of the queen, who
scared these unfortunates away. My friends let it pass; a Frenchman, on
the contrary, who lived with us, criticised the language and metre very
unmercifully, although, as it seemed, with too much foundation, and I
do not remember that I ever made a French poem afterwards.

[Side-note: Dreadful Accident at Paris.]

Scarcely had the news of the queen's happy arrival rung from the
capital, than it was followed by the horrible intelligence that, owing
to an oversight of the police during the festal fireworks, an infinite
number of persons, with horses and carriages, had been destroyed in
a street obstructed by building materials, and that the city, in the
midst of the nuptial solemnities, had been plunged into mourning and
sorrow. They attempted to conceal the extent of the misfortune, both
from the young royal pair and from the world, by burying the dead in
secret, so that many families were convinced only by the ceaseless
absence of their members that they, too, had been swept off by this
awful event. That, on this occasion, those ghastly figures in the grand
saloon again came vividly before my mind, I need scarcely mention; for
every one knows how powerful certain moral impressions are, when they
embody themselves, as it were, in those of the senses.

This occurrence was, however, destined moreover to place my friends in
anxiety and trouble by means of a prank in which I indulged. Among us
young people who had been at Leipzig, there had been maintained ever
afterwards a certain itch for imposing on and in some way mystifying
one another. With this wanton love of mischief I wrote to a friend in
Frankfort (he was the one who had amplified my poem on the cake-baker
Hendel, applied it to _Medon_, and caused its general circulation),
a letter dated from Versailles, in which I informed him of my happy
arrival there, my participation in the solemnities, and other things
of the kind, but at the same time enjoined the strictest secrecy. I
must here remark that, from the time of that trick which had caused us
so much annoyance, our little Leipzig society had accustomed itself
to persecute him from time to time with mystifications, and this
especially as he was the drollest man in the world, and was never
more amiable than when he was discovering the cheat into which he had
deliberately been led. Shortly after I had written this letter, I went
on a little journey and remained absent about a fortnight. Meanwhile
the news of that disaster had reached Frankfort; my friend believed me
in Paris, and his affection led him to apprehend that I might have been
involved in the calamity. He inquired of my parents and other persons
to whom I was accustomed to write, whether any letters had arrived,
and as it was just at the time when my journey kept me from sending
any, they were altogether wanting. He went about in the greatest
uneasiness, and at last told the matter in confidence to our nearest
friends, who were now in equal anxiety. Fortunately this conjecture did
not reach my parents until a letter had arrived, announcing my return
to Strasburg. My young friends were satisfied to learn that I was
alive, but remained firmly convinced that I had been at Paris in the
interim. The affectionate intelligence of the solicitude they had felt
on my account affected me so much that I vowed to leave off such tricks
for ever, but, unfortunately, I have often since allowed myself to be
guilty of something similar. Real life frequently loses its brilliancy
to such a degree, that one is many a time forced to polish it up again
with the varnish of fiction.

This mighty stream of courtly magnificence had now flowed by, and had
left in me no other longing than after those tapestries of Raffaelle,
which I would willingly have gazed at, revered, nay, adored, every day
and every hour. Fortunately, my passionate endeavours succeeded in
interesting several persons of consequence in them, so that they were
taken down and packed up as late as possible. We now gave ourselves up
again to our quiet, easy routine of the university and society, and
in the latter the Actuary Salzmann, president of our table, continued
to be the general pedagogue. His intelligence, complaisance, and
dignity, which he always contrived to maintain amid all the jests, and
often even in the little extravagances which he allowed us, made him
beloved and respected by the whole company, and I could mention but few
instances where he showed his serious displeasure, or interposed with
authority in little quarrels and disputes. Yet among them all I was
the one who most attached myself to him, and he was not less inclined
to converse with me, as he found me more variously accomplished than
the others, and not so one-sided in judgment. I also followed his
directions in external matters, so that he could, without hesitation,
publicly acknowledge me as his companion and comrade: for although
he only filled an office which seems to be of little influence, he
administered it in a manner which redounded to his highest honour.
He was actuary to the Court of Wards (_Pupillen-Collegium_), and
there, indeed, like the perpetual secretary of an university, he had,
properly speaking, the management of affairs in his own hands. Now
as he had conducted this business with the greatest exactness for
many years, there was no family, from the first to the last, which
did not owe him its gratitude; as indeed scarcely any one in the
whole administration of government can earn more blessings or more
curses than one who takes charge of the orphans, or, on the contrary,
squanders or suffers to be squandered their property and goods.

[Side-note: Strasburg Manners.]

The Strasburgers are passionate walkers, and they have a good
right to be so. Let one turn one's steps as one will, one finds
pleasure-grounds, partly natural, partly adorned by art in ancient and
modern times, all of them visited and enjoyed by a cheerful, merry
little people. But what made the sight of a great number of pedestrians
still more agreeable here than in other places, was the various costume
of the fair sex. The middle class of city girls yet retained the hair
twisted up and secured by a large pin; as well as a certain close style
of dress, in which anything like a train would have been unbecoming;
and the pleasant part of it was, that this costume did not differ
violently according to the rank of the wearer; for there were still
some families of opulence and distinction, who would not permit their
daughters to deviate from this costume. The rest followed the French
fashion, and this party made some proselytes every year. Salzmann
had many acquaintances and an entrance everywhere; a very pleasant
circumstance for his companion, especially in summer, for good company
and refreshment were found in all the public gardens far and near, and
more than one invitation for this or that pleasant day was received.
On one such occasion I found an opportunity to recommend myself very
rapidly to a family which I was visiting for only the second time.
We were invited, and arrived at the appointed hour. The company was
not large; some played and some walked as usual. Afterwards, when
they were to go to supper, I saw our hostess and her sister speaking
to each other with animation, and as if in a peculiar embarrassment.
I accosted them and said: "I have indeed no right, ladies, to force
myself into your secrets; but perhaps I may be able to give you good
council, or even to serve you." Upon this they disclosed to me their
painful dilemma: namely, that they had invited twelve persons to
table, and that just at that moment a relation had returned from a
journey, who now, as the thirteenth, would be a fatal _memento mori_,
if not for himself, yet certainly for some of the guests. "The case
is very easily mended," replied I; "permit me to take my leave, and
stipulate for indemnification." As they were persons of consequence and
good-breeding, they would by no means allow this, but sent about in the
neighbourhood to find a fourteenth. I suffered them to do so, yet when
I saw the servant coming in at the garden-gate without having effected
his errand, I stole away and spent my evening pleasantly under the old
linden-trees of the Wanzenau. That this self-denial was richly repaid
me was a very natural consequence.

A certain kind of general society is not to be thought of without
card-playing. Salzmann renewed the good instructions of Madame Böhme,
and I was the more docile as I had really seen that by this little
sacrifice, if it be one, one may procure oneself much pleasure, and
even a greater freedom in society than one would otherwise enjoy. The
old piquet, which had gone to sleep, was again looked out; I learned
whist; I made myself, according to the directions of my Mentor, a
card-purse, which was to remain untouched under all circumstances; and
I now found opportunity to spend most of my evenings with my friend in
the best circles, where, for the most part, they wished me well, and
pardoned many a little irregularity, to which, nevertheless, my friend,
though kindly enough, used to call my attention.

But that I might experience symbolically how much one, even in
externals, has to adapt oneself to society, and direct oneself
according to it, I was compelled to something which seemed to me the
most disagreeable thing in the world. I had really very fine hair, but
my Strasburg hair-dresser at once assured me that it was cut much too
short behind, and that it would be impossible to make a _frizure_ of
it in which I could show myself, since nothing but a few short curls
in front were decreed lawful, and all the rest, from the crown, must
be tied up in a queue or a hair-bag. Nothing was left but to put up
with false hair till the natural growth was again restored according
to the demands of the time. He promised me that nobody should ever
remark this innocent cheat (against which I objected at first very
earnestly), if I could resolve upon it immediately. He kept his word,
and I was always looked upon as the young man who had the best and the
best-dressed head of hair. But as I was obliged to remain thus propped
up and powdered from early in the morning, and at the same time to take
care not to betray my false ornament by heating myself or by violent
motions, this restraint in fact contributed much to my behaving for a
time more quietly and politely, and accustomed me to going with my hat
under my arm, and consequently in shoes and stockings also; however I
did not venture to neglect wearing understockings of fine leather, as
a defence against the Rhine gnats, which, on the fine summer evenings,
generally spread themselves over the meadows and gardens. If now, under
these circumstances, a violent bodily motion was denied me, our social
conversations certainly became more and more animated and impassioned;
indeed they were the most interesting in which I had hitherto ever
borne part.

[Side-note: Jung-Stilling]

With my way of feeling and thinking, it cost me nothing to let
every one pass for what he was, nay, for that which he wished to
pass for, and thus the frankness of a fresh youthful heart, which
manifested itself almost for the first time in its full bloom, made
me many friends and adherents. Our company of boarders increased to
about twenty persons, and as Salzmann kept up his accustomed order,
everything continued in its old routine; nay, the conversation was
almost more decorous, as every one had to be on his guard before
several. Among the new comers, was a man who particularly interested
me; his name was JUNG, the same who afterwards became known under
the name of STILLING. In spite of an antiquated dress, his form had
something delicate about it, with a certain sturdiness. A bag-wig did
not disfigure his significant and pleasing countenance. His voice
was mild, without being soft and weak; it became even melodious and
powerful as soon as his ardour was roused, which was very easily
done. On learning to know him better, one found in him a sound
common-sense, which rested on feeling, and therefore took its tone
from the affections and passions, and from this very feeling sprang
an enthusiasm for the good, the true, and the just, in the greatest
possible purity. For the course of this man's life had been very
simple, and yet crowded with events and with manifold activity. The
element of his energy was an indestructible faith in God, and in an
assistance flowing immediately from him, which evidently manifested
itself in an uninterrupted providence, and in an unfailing deliverance
out of all troubles and from every evil. Jung had made many such
experiences in his life, and they had often been repeated of late in
Strasburg, so that, with the greatest cheerfulness, he led a life
frugal indeed, but free from care; and devoted himself most earnestly
to his studies, although he could not reckon upon any certain
subsistence from one quarter to another. In his youth, when on a fair
way to become a charcoal burner, he took up the trade of a tailor,
and after he had instructed himself, at the same time, in higher
matters, his knowledge-loving mind drove him to the occupation of
schoolmaster. This attempt failed, and he returned to his trade, from
which, however, since every one felt for him confidence and affection,
he was repeatedly called away, again to take a place as private tutor.
But for his most internal and peculiar training he had to thank that
wide-spread class of men who sought out their salvation on their
own responsibility, and who, while they strove to edify themselves
by reading the Scriptures and good books, and by mutual exhortation
and confession, thereby attained a degree of cultivation which must
excite surprise. For while the interest which always accompanied
them and which maintained them in fellowship, rested on the simplest
foundation of morality, well-wishing and well-doing, the deviations
which could take place with men of such limited circumstances were of
little importance, and hence their consciences, for the most part,
remained clear, and their minds commonly cheerful; so there arose no
artificial, but a truly natural culture, which yet had this advantage
over others, that it was suitable to all ages and ranks, and was
generally social by its nature. For this reason, too, these persons
were, in their own circle, truly eloquent, and capable of expressing
themselves appropriately and pleasingly on all the tenderest and best
concerns of the heart. Now the good Jung was in this very case. Among
a few persons, who, if not exactly like-minded with himself, did not
declare themselves averse from his mode of thought, he was found not
only talkative but eloquent; in particular, he related the history of
his life in the most delightful manner, and knew how to make all the
circumstances plainly and vividly present to his listeners. I persuaded
him to write them down, and he promised he would do so. But because
in his way of expressing himself he was like a somnambulist, whom one
dare not call, lest he** should fall from his elevation, or like a
gentle stream, to which one dare oppose nothing, lest it should foam,
so was often constrained to feel uncomfortable in a more numerous
company. His faith tolerated no doubt, and his conviction no jest. And
if in friendly communication he was inexhaustible, everything came to
a standstill with him when he suffered contradiction. I usually helped
him through on such occasions, for which he repaid me with honest
affection. Since his mode of thought was nothing strange to me, but
on the contrary I had already become accurately acquainted with it in
my very best friends of both sexes, and since, moreover, it generally
interested me with its naturalness and _naïveté_, he found himself on
the very best terms with me. The bent of his intellect was pleasing
to me, and his faith in miracles, which was so useful to him, I left
unmolested. Salzmann likewise behaved towards him with forbearance,--I
say with forbearance, for Salzmann, in conformity with his character,
his natural disposition, his age and circumstances, could not but stand
and continue on the side of the rational, or rather the common-sense
Christians, whose religion properly rested on the rectitude of their
characters, and a manly independence, and who therefore did not like
to meddle or have anything to do with feelings which might easily have
led them into gloom, or with mysticism, which might easily have led
them into the dark. This class, too, was respectable and numerous; all
men of honour and capacity understood each other, and were of the like
persuasion, as well as of the same mode of life.

[Side-note: Lerse.]

LERSE, likewise our fellow-boarder, also belonged to this number; a
perfectly upright young man, and, with limited gifts of fortune, frugal
and exact. His manner of life and housekeeping was the closest I ever
knew among students. He dressed himself the neatest of us all, and
yet always appeared in the same clothes; but he managed his wardrobe
with the greatest care, kept everything about him clean, and required
all things in ordinary life to go according to his example. He never
happened to lean anywhere, or to prop his elbow on the table; he never
forgot to mark his table-napkin, and it always went ill with the maid
when the chairs were not found perfectly clean. With all this, he had
nothing Stiff in his exterior. He spoke cordially, with precise and
dry liveliness, in which a light ironical joke was very becoming. In
figure, he was well-built, slender, and of fair height, his face was
pock-pitted and homely, his little blue eyes cheerful and penetrating.
As he had cause to tutor us in so many respects, we let him be our
fencing-master besides; for he drew a very fine rapier, and it seemed
to give him sport to play off upon us, on this occasion, all the
pedantry of this profession. Moreover, we really profited by him, and
had to thank him for many sociable hours, which he induced us to spend
in good exercise and practice.

By all these peculiarities, Lerse completely qualified himself for the
office of arbitrator and umpire in all the small and great quarrels
which happened, though but rarely, in our circle, and which Salzmann
could not hush up in his fatherly way. Without the external forms,
which do so much mischief in universities, we represented a society
bound together by circumstances and good-feeling, which others might
occasionally touch, but into which they could not intrude. Now, in
his judgment of internal piques, Lerse always showed the greatest
impartiality, and when the affair could no longer be settled by words
and explanations, he knew how to conduct the desired satisfaction, in
an honourable way, to a harmless issue. In this no man was more clever
than he; indeed, he often used to say, that since heaven had destined
him for a hero neither in war nor in love, he would be content, both
in romances and fighting, with the part of second. Since he remained
the same throughout, and might be regarded as a true model of a good
and steady disposition, the conception of him stamped itself as deeply
as amiably upon me; and when I wrote _Götz von Berlichingen_, I felt
myself induced to set up a memorial of our friendship, and to give the
gallant fellow, who knew how to subordinate himself in so dignified a
manner, the name of Franz Lerse.

[Side-note: Subjugation of Natural Antipathies.]

While now, by his constant humorous dryness, he continued always to
remind us of what one owed to oneself and to others, and how one ought
to behave in order to live at peace with men as long as possible,
and thus gain a certain position towards them, I had to fight, both
inwardly and outwardly, with quite different circumstances and
adversaries, being at strife with myself, with the objects around me,
and even with the elements. I found myself in a state of health which
furthered me sufficiently in all that I would and should undertake;
only there was a certain irritability left behind, which did not
always let me be in equilibrium. A loud sound was disagreeable to
me, diseased objects awakened in me loathing and horror. But I was
especially troubled by a giddiness which came over me every time that
I looked down from a height. All these infirmities I tried to remedy,
and, indeed, as I wished to lose no time, in a somewhat violent way. In
the evening, when they beat the tattoo, I went near the multitude of
drums, the powerful rolling and beating of which might have made one's
heart burst in one's bosom. All alone I ascended the highest pinnacle
of the minster spire, and sat in what is called the neck, under the nob
or crown, for a quarter of an hour, before I would venture to step out
again into the open air, where, standing upon a platform scarce an ell
square, without any particular holding, one sees the boundless prospect
before, while the nearest objects and ornaments conceal the church,
and everything upon and above which one stands. It is exactly as if
one saw oneself carried up into the air in a balloon. Such troublesome
and painful sensations I repeated until the impression became quite
indifferent to me, and I have since then derived great advantage from
this training, in mountain travels and geological studies, and on great
buildings, where I have vied with the carpenters in running over the
bare beams and the cornices of the edifice, and even in Rome, where
one must run similar risks to obtain a nearer view of important works
of art. Anatomy, also, was of double value to me, as it taught me to
tolerate the most repulsive sights, while I satisfied my thirst for
knowledge. And thus I attended, also, the clinical course of the elder
Doctor Ehrmann, as well as the lectures of his son on obstetrics,
with the double view of becoming acquainted with all conditions, and
of freeing myself from all apprehension as to repulsive things. And I
have actually succeeded so far, that nothing of this kind could ever
put me out of my self-possession. But I sought to steel myself not
only against these impressions on the senses, but also against the
infections of the imagination. The awful and shuddering impressions of
the darkness in churchyards, solitary places, churches and chapels by
night, and whatever may be connected with them, I contrived to render
likewise indifferent; and in this, also, I went so far that day and
night, and every locality, were quite the same to me; so that even
when, in later times, a desire came over me once more to feel in such
scenes the pleasing shudder of youth, I could scarcely force this, in
any degree, by the strangest and most fearful images which I called up.

In my efforts to free myself from the pressure of the too-gloomy and
powerful, which continued to rule within me, and seemed to me sometimes
as strength, sometimes as weakness, I was thoroughly assisted by
that open, social, stirring manner of life, which attracted me more
and more, to which I accustomed myself, and which I at last learned
to enjoy with perfect freedom. It is not difficult to remark in the
world, that man feels himself most freely and most perfectly rid
of his own failings, when he represents to himself the faults of
others, and expatiates upon them with complacent censoriousness. It
is a tolerably pleasant sensation even to set ourselves above our
equals by disapprobation and misrepresentation, for which reason good
society, whether it consists of few or many, is most delighted with
it. But nothing equals the comfortable self-complacency, when we erect
ourselves into judges of our superiors, and of those who are set over
us,--of princes and statesmen, when we find public institutions unfit
and injudicious, only consider the possible and actual obstacles, and
recognise neither the greatness of the invention, nor the co-operation
which is to be expected from time and circumstances in every
undertaking.

Whoever remembers the condition of the French kingdom, and is
accurately and circumstantially acquainted with it from later writings,
will easily figure to himself how, at that time, in the Alsatian
semi-France, people used to talk about the king and his ministers,
about the court and court-favourites. These were new subjects for my
love of instructing myself, and very welcome ones to my pertness and
youthful conceit. I observed everything accurately, noted it down
industriously, and I now see, from the little that is left, that such
accounts, although only put together on the moment, out of fables and
uncertain general rumours, always have a certain value in after-times,
because they serve to confront and compare the secret made known
at last with what was then already discovered and public, and the
judgments of contemporaries, true or false, with the convictions of
posterity.

Striking, and daily before the eyes of us street-loungers, was the
project for beautifying the city; the execution of which, according
to draughts and plans, began in the strangest fashion to pass from
sketches and plans into reality. Intendant Gayot had undertaken to
new-model the angular and uneven lanes of Strasburg, and to lay the
foundations of a respectable, handsome city, regulated by line and
level. Upon this, Blondel, a Parisian architect, drew a plan, by which
an hundred and forty householders gained in room, eighty lost, and the
rest remained in their former condition. This plan accepted, but not
to be put into execution at once, now, should in course of time have
been approaching completion, and, meanwhile, the city oddly enough
wavered between form and formlessness. If, for instance, a crooked side
of a street was to be straightened, the first man who felt disposed
to build moved forward to the appointed line perhaps, too, his next
neighbour; but perhaps, also, the third or fourth resident from him,
by which projections the most awkward recesses were left, like** front
court-yards, before the houses in the background. They would not use
force, yet without compulsion they would never have got on; on which
account no man, when his house was once condemned, ventured to improve
or replace anything that related to the street. All these strange
accidental inconveniences gave to us rambling idlers the most welcome
opportunity of practising our ridicule, of making proposals, in the
manner of Behrisch, for accelerating the completion, and of constantly
doubting the possibility of it, although many a newly-erected handsome,
building should have brought us to other thoughts. How far that project
was advanced by the length of time, I cannot say.

[Side-note: Expulsion of the Jesuits.]

Another subject on which the Protestant Strasburgers liked to converse
was the expulsion of the Jesuits. These fathers, as soon as the city
had fallen to the share of the French, had made their appearance and
sought a _domicilium._ But they soon extended themselves and built a
magnificent college, which bordered so closely on the minster that the
back of the church covered a third part of its front. It was to be a
complete quadrangle, and have a garden in the middle; three sides of
it were finished. It is of stone, and solid, like all the buildings of
these fathers. That the Protestants were pushed hard, if not oppressed
by them, lay in the plan of the society which made it a duty to restore
the old religion in its whole compass. Their fall, therefore, awakened
the greatest satisfaction in the opposite party, and people saw,
not without pleasure, how they sold their wines, carried away their
books, and the building was assigned to another, perhaps less active
order. How glad are men when they get rid of an opponent, or only of a
guardian; and the herd does not reflect that where there is no dog, it
is exposed to wolves.

Now, since every city must have its tragedy, at which children and
children's children shudder, so in Strasburg frequent mention was made
of the unfortunate Prætor Klingling, who, after he had mounted the
highest step of earthly felicity, ruled city and country with almost
absolute power, and enjoyed all that wealth, rank, and influence could
afford, had at last lost the favour of the court, and was dragged up to
answer for all in which he had been indulged hitherto; nay, was even
thrown into prison, where, more than seventy years old, he died an
ambiguous death.

[Side-note: The Knight of St. Louis.]

This and other tales, that knight of St. Louis, our fellow-boarder,
knew how to tell with passion and animation, for which reason I was
fond of accompanying him in his walks, unlike the others, who avoided
such invitations, and left me alone with him. As with new acquaintances
I generally suffered myself to go on for a long time without thinking
much about them or the effect which they were exercising upon me,
so I only remarked gradually that his stories and opinions rather
unsettled and confused, than instructed and enlightened me. I never
knew what to make of him, although the riddle might easily have been
solved. He belonged to the many to whom life offers no results, and
who therefore, from first to last, exert themselves on individual
objects. Unfortunately he had, with this, a decided desire, nay, even
passion for meditating, without having any capacity for thinking; and
in such men a particular notion easily fixes itself fast, which may
be regarded as a mental disease. To such a fixed view he always came
back again, and was thus in the long-run excessively tiresome. He used
bitterly to complain of the decline of his memory, especially with
regard to the latest events, and maintained by a logic of his own, that
all virtue springs from a good memory, and all vice, on the contrary,
from forgetfulness. This doctrine he contrived to carry out with much
acuteness; as, indeed, everything can be maintained when one permits
oneself to use words altogether vaguely, and to employ and apply them
in a sense now wider, now narrower, now closer, now more remote.

At first it was amusing to hear him; nay, his persuasiveness even
astonished us. We fancied we were standing before a rhetorical sophist,
who for jest and practice knew how to give a fair appearance to the
strangest things. Unfortunately this first impression blunted itself
but too soon; for at the end of every discourse, manage the thing as
I would, the man came back again to the same theme. He was not to be
held fast to older events, although they interested him,---although he
had them present to his mind with their minutest circumstances. Indeed
he was often, by a small circumstance, snatched out of the middle of
a wild historical narrative, and thrust into his detestable favourite
thought.

One of our afternoon walks was particularly unfortunate in this
respect; the account of it may stand here instead of similar cases,
which might weary, if not vex the reader.

On the way through the city we were met by an old female mendicant, who
by her beggings and importunities disturbed him in his story. "Pack
yourself off, old witch!" said he, and walked by. She shouted after
him the well-known retort, only somewhat changed, since she saw well
that the unfriendly man was old himself,--"If you did not wish to be
old, you should have had yourself hanged in your youth!" He turned
round violently, and I feared a scene. "Hanged!" cried he, "have myself
hanged! No, that could not have been; I was too honest a fellow for
that; but hang myself--hang up my own self--that is true--that I should
have done; I should have turned a charge of powder against myself, that
I might not live to see that I am not even worth that any more." The
woman stood as if petrified; but he continued, "You have said a great
truth, witch-mother! and as they have neither drowned nor burned you
yet, you shall be paid for your proverb." He handed her a _büsel_, a
coin not usually given to a beggar.

We had crossed over the first Rhine-bridge, and were going to the
inn where we meant to stop, and I was trying to lead him back to our
previous conversation, when, unexpectedly, a very pretty girl met us
on the pleasant foot-path, remained standing before us, bowed prettily
and cried: "Eh, eh! captain, where are you going?" and whatever else
is usually said on such an occasion. "Mademoiselle," replied he,
somewhat embarrassed, "I know not----" "How?" said she, with graceful
astonishment, "do you forget your friends so soon?" The word "forget"
fretted him; he shook his head and replied, peevishly enough, "Truly,
mademoiselle, I did not know----!" She now retorted with some humour,
yet very temperately: "Take care, captain, I may mistake you another
time!" And so she hurried past, taking huge strides, without looking
round. At once my fellow-traveller struck his forehead with both his
fists: "O what an ass I am!" exclaimed he, "what an old ass I am!
Now, you see whether I am right or not." And then, in a very violent
manner, he went on with his usual sayings and opinions, in which this
case still more confirmed him. I cannot and would not repeat what a
philippic discourse he held against himself. At last he turned to me
and said: "I call you to witness! You remember that small-ware woman at
the corner, who is neither young nor pretty? I salute her every time we
pass, and often exchange a couple of friendly words with her; and yet
it is thirty years ago since she was gracious to me. But now I swear it
is not four weeks since this young lady showed herself more complaisant
to me than was reasonable, and yet I will not recognise her, but insult
her in return for her favours! Do I not always say that ingratitude is
the greatest of vices, and no man would be ungrateful if he were not
forgetful!"

"We went into the inn, and nothing but the tippling, swarming crowd
in the ante-rooms stopped the invectives which he rattled off against
himself and his contemporaries. He was silent, and I hoped pacified,
when we stepped into an upper chamber, where we found a young man
pacing up and down alone, whom the captain saluted by name. I was
pleased to become acquainted with him; for the old fellow had said much
good of him to me, and had told me that this young man, being employed
in the war-bureau, had often disinterestedly done him very good service
when the pensions were stopped. I was glad that the conversation took
a general turn, and while we were carrying it on we drank a bottle of
wine. But here, unluckily, another infirmity which my knight had in
common with obstinate men, developed itself. For as, on the whole,
he could not get rid of that fixed notion, so did he stick fast to a
disagreeable impression of the moment, and suffer his feelings to run
on without moderation. His last vexation about himself had not yet died
away, and now was added something new, although of quite a different
kind. He had not long cast his eyes here and there before he noticed on
the table a double portion of coffee and two cups, and might besides,
being a man of gallantry, have traced some other indication that the
young man had not been so solitary all the time. And scarcely had the
conjecture arisen in his mind, and ripened into a probability, that
the pretty girl had been paying a visit here, than the most outrageous
jealousy added itself to that first vexation, so as completely to
perplex him.

[Side-note: The Knight of St. Louis.]

Now before I could suspect anything, for I had hitherto been conversing
quite harmlessly with the young man, the captain, in an unpleasant
tone, which I well knew, began to be satirical about the pair of cups,
and about this and that. The young man, surprised, tried to turn it off
pleasantly and sensibly, as is the custom among men of good-breeding;
but the old fellow continued to be unmercifully rude, so that there was
nothing left for the other to do but to seize his hat and cane, and at
his departure to leave behind him a pretty unequivocal challenge. The
fury of the captain now burst out the more vehemently, as he had in the
interim drunk another bottle of wine almost by himself. He struck the
table with his fist, and cried more than once: "I strike him dead!"
It was not, however, meant quite so badly as it sounded, for he often
used this phrase when any one opposed or otherwise displeased him. Just
as unexpectedly the business grew worse on our return: for I had the
want of foresight to represent to him his ingratitude towards the young
man, and to remind him how strongly he had praised to me the ready
obligingness of this official person. No! such rage of a man against
himself I never saw again; it was the most passionate conclusion to
that beginning to which the pretty girl had given occasion. Here I
saw sorrow and repentance carried into caricature, and as all passion
supplies the place of genius, to a point really genius-like. He then
went over all the incidents of our afternoon ramble again, employed
them rhetorically for his own self-reproach, brought up the old witch
at last before him once more, and perplexed himself to such a degree,
that I could not help fearing** he would throw himself into the Rhine.
Could I have been sure of fishing him out again quickly, like Mentor
his Telemachus, he might have made the leap, and I should have brought
him home cooled down for this occasion.

I immediately confided the affair to Lerse, and we went the next
morning to the young man, whom my friend in his dry way set laughing.
We agreed to bring about an accidental meeting, where a reconciliation
should take place of itself. The drollest thing about it was, that this
time the captain too had slept off his rudeness, and found himself
ready to apologize to the young man, to whom petty quarrels were of
some consequence. All was arranged in one morning, and, as the affair
had not been kept quite secret, I did not escape the jokes of my
friends, who might have foretold me, from their own experience, how
troublesome the friendship of the captain could become upon occasion.

But now, while I am thinking what should be imparted next, there
comes again into my thoughts, by a strange play of memory, that
reverend minster-building, to which in those days I devoted particular
attention, and which, in general, constantly presents itself to the eye
both in the city and in the country.

The more I considered the _façade_, the more was that first impression
strengthened and developed, that here the sublime has entered into
alliance with the pleasing. If the vast, when it appears as a mass
before us, is not to terrify; if it is not to confuse, when we seek to
investigate its details, it must enter into an unnatural, apparently
impossible connexion, it must associate to itself the pleasing. But
now, since it will be impossible for us to speak of the impression of
the minster except by considering both these incompatible qualities as
united, so do we already see, from this, in what high value we must
hold this ancient monument, and we begin in earnest to describe how
such contradictory elements could peaceably interpenetrate and unite
themselves.

[Side-note: Strasburg Minster.]

First of all, without thinking of the towers, we devote our
considerations to the _façade_ alone, which powerfully strikes the eye
as an upright, oblong parallelogram. If we approach it at twilight,
in the moonshine, on a starlight night, when the parts appear more or
less indistinct and at last disappear, we see only a colossal wall,
the height of which bears an advantageous proportion to the breadth. If
we gaze on it by day, and by the power of the mind abstract from the
details, we recognise the front of a building which not only incloses
the space within, but also covers much in its vicinity. The openings
of this monstrous surface point to internal necessities, and according
to these we can at once divide it into nine compartments. The great
middle door, which opens into the nave of the church, first meets
the eye. On both sides of it lie two smaller ones, belonging to the
cross-ways. Over the chief door our glance falls upon the wheel-shaped
window, which is to spread an awe-inspiring light within the church
and its vaulted arches. At its sides appear two large, perpendicular,
oblong openings, which form a striking contrast with the middle one,
and indicate that they belong to the base of the rising towers. In
the third story are three openings in a row, which are designed for
belfries and other church necessities. Above them one sees the whole
horizontally closed by the balustrade of the gallery, instead of a
cornice. These nine spaces described, are supported, enclosed, and
separated into three great perpendicular divisions by four pillars
rising up from the ground.

Now as one cannot deny to the whole mass a fine proportion of height
to breadth, so also in the details it maintains a somewhat uniform
lightness by means of these pillars and the narrow compartments between
them.

But if we keep to our abstraction, and imagine to ourselves this
immense wall without ornaments, with firm buttresses, with the
necessary openings in it, but only so far as necessity requires
them, we even then must allow that these chief divisions are in good
proportion: thus the whole will appear solemn and noble indeed, but
always heavily unpleasant, and, being without ornament, unartistical.
For a work of art, the whole of which is conceived in great, simple,
harmonious parts, makes indeed a noble and dignified impression, but
the peculiar enjoyment which the pleasing produces can only find place
in the consonance of all developed details.

And it is precisely here that the building which we are examining
satisfies us in the highest degree: for we see all the ornaments fully
suited to every part which they adorn; they are subordinate to it, they
seem to have grown out of it. Such a manifoldness always gives great
pleasure, since it flows of its own accord from the suitable, and
therefore at the same time awakens the feeling of unity. It is only in
such cases that the execution is prized as the summit of art.

By such means, now, was a solid piece of masonry, an impenetrable wall,
which had moreover to announce itself as the base of two heaven-high
towers, made to appear to the eye as if resting on itself, consisting
in itself, but at the same time light and adorned, and, though pierced
through in a thousand places, to give the idea of indestructible
firmness.

This riddle is solved in the happiest manner. The openings in the wall,
its solid parts, the pillars, everything has its peculiar character,
which proceeds from its particular destination; this communicates
itself by degrees to the subdivisions; hence everything is adorned
in proportionate taste, the great as well as the small is in the
right place, and can be easily comprehended, and thus the pleasing
presents itself in the vast. I would refer only to the doors sinking in
perspective into the thickness of the wall, and adorned without end in
their columns and pointed arches; to the window with its rose springing
out of the round form, to the outline of its frame-work, as well as
to the slender reedlike pillars of the perpendicular compartments.
Let one represent to himself the pillars retreating step by step,
accompanied by little, slender, light-pillared, pointed structures,
likewise striving upwards, and furnished with canopies to shelter the
images of the saints, and how at last every rib, every boss, seems
like a flower-head and row of leaves, or some other natural object
transformed into stone. One may compare, if not the building itself,
yet representations of the whole and of its parts, for the purpose of
reviewing and giving life to what I have said. It may seem exaggerated
to many, for I myself, though transported into love for this work at
first sight, required a long time to make myself intimately acquainted
with its value.

Having grown up among those who found fault with Gothic architecture,
I cherished my aversion from the abundantly overloaded,complicated
ornaments which, by their capriciousness, made a religious, gloomy
character highly adverse. I strengthened myself in this repugnance,
since I had only met with spiritless works of this kind, in which
one could perceive neither good proportions nor a pure consistency.
But here I thought I saw a new revelation of it, since what was
objectionable by no means appeared, but the contrary opinion rather
forced itself upon my mind.

[Side-note: Strasburg Minster.]

But the longer I looked and considered, I all the while thought
I discovered yet greater merits beyond that which I have already
mentioned. The right proportion of the larger divisions, the
ornamental, as judicious as rich, even to the minutest, were found
out; but now I recognised the connexion of these manifold ornaments
amongst each other, the transition from one leading part to another,
the enclosing of details, homogeneous indeed, but yet greatly varying
in form, from the saint to the monster, from the leaf to the dental.
The more I investigated, the more I was astonished; the more I amused
and wearied myself with measuring and drawing, so much the more did my
attachment increase, so that I spent much time, partly in studying what
actually existed, partly in restoring, in my mind and on paper, what
was wanting and unfinished, especially in the towers.

Since now I found that this building had been based on old German
ground, and grown thus far in genuine German times, and that the name
of the master, on his modest gravestone, was likewise of native sound
and origin, I ventured, being incited by the worth of this work of art,
to change the hitherto decried appellation of "Gothic architecture,"
and to claim it for our nation as "German architecture;" nor did I fail
to bring my patriotic views to light, first orally, and afterwards in a
little treatise, dedicated to the memory of Ervinus a Steinbach.

If my biographical narrative should come down to the epoch when the
said sheet appeared in print, which Herder afterwards inserted in
his pamphlet: _Von Deutscher Art und Kunst_, (_Of German Manner and
Art_,) much more will be said on this weighty subject. But before I
turn myself away from it this time, I will take the opportunity to
vindicate the motto prefixed to the present volume, with those who may
have entertained some doubt about it. I know indeed very well, that
in opposition to this honest, hopeful old German saying: "Whatever
one wishes in youth, one has abundance in old age!" many would quote
contrary experience, and many trifling comments might be made; but much
also is to be said in its favour, and I will explain my own thoughts on
the matter.

Our wishes are presentiments of the capabilities which lie within us,
and harbingers of that which we shall be in a condition to perform.
Whatever we are able and would like to do, presents itself to our
imagination, as without us and in the future; we feel a longing
after that which we already possess in secret. Thus a passionate
anticipating grasp changes the truly possible into a dreamed reality.
Now if such a bias lies decidedly in our nature, then, with every step
of our development will a part of the first wish be fulfilled--under
favourable circumstances in the direct way, under unfavourable in
the circuitous way, from which we always come back again to the
other. Thus we see men by perseverance attain to earthly wealth; they
surround themselves with riches, splendour, and external honour. Others
strive yet more certainly after intellectual advantages, acquire for
themselves a clear survey of things, a peacefulness of mind, and a
certainty for the present and the future.

But now there is a third direction, which is compounded of both, and
the issue of which must be the most surely successful. When, namely,
the youth of a man falls into a pregnant time, when production
overweighs destruction, and a presentiment is early awakened within
him as to what such an epoch demands and promises, he will then, being
forced by outward inducements into an active interest, take hold now
here, now there, and the wish to be active on many sides will be lively
within him. But so many accidental hindrances are associated with human
limitation, that here a thing, once begun, remains unfinished, there
that which is already grasped falls out of the hand, and one wish
after another is dissipated. But had these wishes sprung out of a pure
heart, and in conformity with the necessities of the times, one might
composedly let them lie and fall right and left, and be assured that
these must not only be found out and picked up again, but that also
many kindred things, which one has never touched and never even thought
of, will come to light. If now, during our own lifetime, we see that
performed by others, to which we ourselves felt an earlier call, but
had been obliged to give it up, with much besides; then the beautiful
feeling enters the mind, that only mankind together is the true man,
and that the individual can only be joyous and happy when he has the
courage to feel himself in the whole.

[Side-note: Study of German Architecture.]

This contemplation is here in the right place: for when I reflect
on the affection which drew me to these antique edifices, when I
reckon up the time which I devoted to the Strasburg minster alone,
the attention with which I afterwards examined the cathedral at
Cologne, and that at Freyburg, and more and more felt the value of
these buildings, I could even blame myself for having afterwards lost
sight of them altogether, nay, for having left them completely in the
background, being attracted by a more developed art. But when I now,
in the latest times, see attention again turned to those objects, when
I see affection and even passion for them appearing and flourishing,
when I see able young persons seized with this passion, recklessly
devoting powers, time, care, and property, to these memorials of a past
world, then am I reminded with pleasure that what I formerly would and
wished had a value. With satisfaction I see that they not only know
how to prize what was done by our forefathers, but that from existing
unfinished beginnings they try to represent, in pictures at least, the
original design, so as thus to make us acquainted with the thought,
which is ever the beginning and end of all undertakings; and that
they strive with considerate zeal to clear up and vivify what seems
to be a confused past. Here I especially applaud the gallant Sulpiz
Boisserée, who is indefatigably employed in a magnificent series of
copper-plates to exhibit the cathedral of Cologne as the model of those
vast conceptions, the spirit of which, like that of Babel, strove up
to heaven, and which were so out of proportion to earthly means, that
they were necessarily stopped fast in their execution. If we have been
hitherto astonished that such buildings proceeded only so far, we shall
learn with the greatest wonder what was really designed to be done.

May the literary-artistical undertakings of this kind be duly
patronized by all who have power, wealth, and influence, that the
great and gigantic views of our forefathers may be presented to our
contemplation, and that we may be able to form a conception of what
they dared to desire. The insight resulting from this will not remain
fruitless, and the judgment will, for once at least, be in a condition
to exercise itself on these works with justice. Nay, this will be done
most thoroughly, if our active young friend, besides the monograph
devoted to the cathedral of Cologne, follows out in detail the history
of our mediæval architecture. When whatever is to be known about the
practical exercise of this art is further brought to light, when the
art is represented in all its fundamental features by a comparison
with the Græco-Roman and the oriental Egyptian, little can remain to
be done in this department. And I, when the results of such patriotic
labours lie before the world, as they are now known in friendly private
communications, shall be able, with true content, to repeat that motto
in its best sense: "Whatever one wishes in youth, in old age one has
abundance."

But if, in operations like these, which belong to centuries, one can
trust oneself to time, and wait for opportunity, there are, on the
contrary, other things which in youth must be enjoyed at once, fresh,
like ripe fruits. Let me be permitted, with this sudden turn, to
mention dancing, of which the ear is reminded, as the eye is of the
minster, every day and every hour in Strasburg and all Alsace. From
early youth my father himself had given my sister and me instruction
in dancing, a task which must have comported strangely enough with
so stern a man; but he did not suffer his composure to be put out by
it; he drilled us in the positions and steps in a manner the most
precise, and when he had brought us far enough to dance a minuet, he
played for us something easily intelligible in three-four time, on a
_flute-douce_, and we moved to it as well as we could. On the French
theatre, likewise, I had seen from my youth upwards, if not ballets,
yet _pas seuls_ and _pas de deux_, and had noticed in them various
strange motions of the feet, and all sorts of springs. When now we had
enough of the minuet, I begged my father for other dancing music, of
which our music-books, in their jigs and murkies,[2] offered us a rich
supply; and I immediately found out, of myself, the steps and other
motions for them, the time being quite suitable to my limbs, and, as
it were, born with them. This pleased my father to a certain degree;
indeed, he often, by way of joke for himself and us, let the "monkies"
dance in this way. After my misfortune with Gretchen, and during the
whole of my residence in Leipzig, I did not make my appearance again
on the floor; on the contrary, I still remember that when, at a ball,
they forced me into a minuet, both measure and motion seemed to have
abandoned my limbs, and I could no more remember either the steps or
the figures, so that I should have been put to disgrace and shame if
the greater part of the spectators had not maintained that my awkward
behaviour was pure obstinacy, assumed with the view of depriving the
ladies of all desire to invite me and draw me into their circle against
my will.

[Side-note: The Dancing-Master's Daughters.]

During my residence in Frankfort, I was quite cut off from such
pleasures; but in Strasburg, with other enjoyments of life, there
soon arose in my limbs the faculty of keeping time. On Sundays and
week-days, one sauntered by no pleasure-ground without finding
there a joyous crowd assembled for the dance, and for the most part
revolving in the circle. Moreover, there were private balls in the
country-houses, and people were already talking of the brilliant
masquerades of the coming winter. Here, indeed, I should have been
out of my place, and useless to the company; when a friend, who
waltzed very well, advised me to practise myself first in parties of
a lower rank, so that afterwards I might be worth something in the
highest. He took me to a dancing-master, who was well known for his
skill; this man promised me that, when I had in some degree repeated
the first elements, and made myself master of them, he would then
lead me further. He was one of the dry, ready French characters, and
received me in a friendly manner. I paid him a month in advance, and
received twelve tickets, for which he agreed to give me certain hours'
instruction. The man was strict and precise, but not pedantic; and as
I already had some previous practice, I soon gave him satisfaction and
received his commendation.

One circumstance, however, greatly facilitated the instruction of this
teacher; he had two daughters, both pretty, and both yet under twenty.
Having been instructed in this art from their youth upwards, they
showed themselves very skilful, and might have been able, as partners,
soon to help even the most clumsy scholars into some cultivation. They
were both very polite, spoke nothing but French, and I, on my part,
did my best, that I might not appear awkward or ridiculous before
them. I had the good fortune that they likewise praised me, and were
always willing to dance a minuet to their father's little violin, and,
what indeed was more difficult for them, to initiate me, by degrees,
into waltzing and whirling. Their father did not seem to have many
customers, and they led a lonely life. For this reason they often
asked me to remain with them after my hour, and to chat away the time
a little; which I the more willingly did, as the younger one pleased
me well, and generally they both altogether behaved very becomingly.
I often read aloud something from a novel, and they did the same. The
elder, who was as handsome, perhaps even handsomer, than the second,
but who did not correspond with my taste so well as the latter, always
conducted herself towards me more obligingly, and more kindly in every
respect. She was always at hand during the hour, and often protracted
it; hence I sometimes thought myself bound to offer back a couple of
tickets to her father, which, however, he did not accept. The younger
one, on the contrary, although she did nothing unfriendly towards me,
was yet rather reserved, and waited till she was called by her father
before she relieved the elder.

[Side-note: The Fortune-Teller.]

The cause of this became manifest to me one evening. For when, after
the dance was done, I was about to go into the sitting-room with the
elder, she held me back and said, "Let us remain here a little longer;
for I will confess to you that my sister has with her a woman who tells
fortunes from cards, and who is to reveal to her how matters stand with
an absent lover, on whom her whole heart hangs, and upon whom she has
placed all her hope. Mine is free," she continued, "and I must accustom
myself to see it despised." I thereupon said sundry pretty things to
her, replying that she could at once convince herself on that point
by consulting the wise woman likewise; that I would do so myself, for
I had long wished to learn something of the kind, but lacked faith.
She blamed me for this, and assured me that nothing in the world was
surer than the responses of this oracle, only it must be consulted,
not out of sport and mischief, but solely in real affairs. However, I
at last compelled her to go with me into that room, as soon as she had
ascertained that the consultation was over. We found her sister in a
very cheerful humour, and even towards me she was kinder than usual,
sportive, and almost witty; for since she seemed to be secure of an
absent friend, she may have thought it no treachery to be a little
gracious with a present friend of her sister's, which she thought me
to be. The old woman was now flattered, and good payment was promised
her, if she would tell the truth to the elder sister and to me. With
the usual preparations and ceremonies she began her business, in order
to tell the fair one's fortune first. She carefully considered the
situation of the cards, but seemed to hesitate, and would not speak out
what she had to say. "I see now," said the younger, who was already
better acquainted with the interpretation of such a magic tablet,
"you hesitate, and do not wish to disclose anything disagreeable to
my sister; but that is a cursed card!" The elder one turned pale, but
composed herself, and said, "Only speak out; it will not cost one's
head!" The old woman, after a deep sigh, showed her that she was in
love, that she was not beloved, that another person stood in the way,
and other things of like import. We saw the good girl's embarrassment.
The old woman thought somewhat to improve the affair by giving hopes
of letters and money. "Letters," said the lovely child, "I do not
expect, and money I do not desire. If it is true, as you say, that I
love, I deserve a heart that loves me in return." "Let us see if it
will not be better," replied the old woman, as she shuffled the cards
and laid them out a second time; but before the eyes of all of us, it
had only become still worse. The fair one stood not only more lonely,
but surrounded with many sorrows; her lover had moved somewhat farther,
and the intervening figures nearer. The old woman wished to try it the
third time, in hopes of a better prospect; but the beautiful girl could
restrain herself no longer, she broke out into uncontrollable weeping,
her lovely bosom heaved violently, she turned round, and rushed out
of the room. I knew not what I should do. Inclination kept me with
the one present; compassion drove me to the other; my situation was
painful enough. "Comfort Lucinda," said the younger; "go after her."
I hesitated: how could I comfort her without at least assuring her of
some sort of affection, and could I do that at such a moment in a cool,
moderate manner? "Let us go together," said I to Emilia. "I know not
whether my presence will do her good," replied she. Yet we went, but
found the door bolted. Lucinda made no answer; we might knock, shout,
entreat, as we would. "We must let her have her own way," said Emilia;
"she will not have it otherwise now!" And, indeed, when I called to
my mind her manner from our very first acquaintance, she always
had something violent and unequal about her, and chiefly showed her
affection for me by not behaving to me with rudeness. What should I do?
I paid the old woman richly for the mischief she had caused, and was
about to go, when Emilia said, "I stipulate that the cards shall now be
cut for you too." The old woman was ready. "Do not let me be present,"
cried I, and hastened down stairs.

[Side-note: Scene with the Two Sisters.]

The next day I had not courage to go there. The third day, early in the
morning, Emilia sent me word by a boy who had already brought me many
a message from the sisters, and had carried back flowers and fruits to
them in return, that I should not fail that day. I came at the usual
hour, and found the father alone, who, in many respects, improved my
paces and steps, my goings and comings, my bearing and behaviour, and,
moreover, seemed to be satisfied with me. The younger daughter came in
towards the end of the hour, and danced with me a very graceful minuet,
in which her movements were extraordinarily pleasing, and her father
declared that he had rarely seen a prettier and more nimble pair upon
his floor. After the lesson, I went as usual into the sitting-room;
the father left us alone; I missed Lucinda. "She is in bed," said
Emilia, "and I am glad of it; do not be concerned about it. Her mental
illness is first alleviated when she fancies herself bodily sick; she
does not like to die, and therefore she then does what we wish. We
have certain family medicines which she takes, and reposes; and thus,
by degrees, the swelling waves subside. She is, indeed, too good and
amiable in such an imaginary sickness, and as she is in reality very
well, and is only attacked by passion, she imagines various kinds
of romantic deaths, with which she frightens herself in a pleasant
manner, like children when we tell them ghost-stories. Thus, yesterday
evening, she announced to me with great vehemence, that this time she
should certainly die, and that only when she was really near death,
they should bring again before her the ungrateful false friend, who
had at first acted so handsomely to her, and now treated her so ill;
she would reproach him bitterly, and then give up the ghost." "I know
not that I am guilty," exclaimed I, "of having expressed any sort of
affection for her. I know somebody who can best bear me witness in this
respect." Emilia smiled and rejoined, "I understand you; and if we
are not discreet and determined, we shall all find ourselves in a bad
plight together. What will you say if I entreat you not to continue
your lessons? You have, I believe, four tickets yet of the last month,
and my father has already declared that he finds it inexcusable to take
your money any longer, unless you wish to devote yourself to the art
of dancing in a more serious manner; what is required by a young man
of the world you possess already." "And do you, Emilia, give me this
advice, to avoid your house?" replied I. "Yes, I do," said she, "but
not of myself. Only listen. When you hastened away, the day before
yesterday, I had the cards cut for you, and the same response was
repeated thrice, and each time more emphatically. You were surrounded
by everything good and pleasing, by friends and great lords, and there
was no lack of money. The ladies kept themselves at some distance. My
poor sister in particular stood always the farthest off; one other
advanced constantly nearer to you, but never came up to your side, for
a third person, of the male sex, always came between. I will confess
to you that I thought that I myself was meant by the second lady, and
after this confession you will best comprehend my well-meant counsel.
To an absent friend I have promised my heart and my hand, and, until
now, I loved him above all; yet it might be possible for your presence
to become more important to me than hitherto, and what kind of a
situation would you have between two sisters, one of whom you had made
unhappy by your affection, and the other by your coldness, and all this
ado about nothing and only for a short time? For if we had not known
already who you are and what are your expectations, the cards would
have placed it before my eyes in the clearest manner. Fare you well!"
said she, and gave me her hand. I hesitated. "Now," said she, leading
me towards the door, "that it may really be the last time that we shall
speak to each other, take what I would otherwise have denied you." She
fell upon my neck, and kissed me most tenderly. I embraced her, and
pressed her to my bosom.

At this moment the side-door flew open, and her sister, in a light
but becoming night-dress, sprang out and cried, "You shall not be the
only one to take leave of him!" Emilia let me go, and Lucinda seized
me, clasped herself fast to my heart, pressed her black locks upon my
cheeks, and remained in this position for some time. And thus I found
myself in the dilemma between two sisters which Emilia had prophesied
to me a moment before. Lucinda let me loose, and looked earnestly into
my face. I would have taken her hand and said something friendly to
her, but she turned herself away, walked with violent steps up and down
the room for some time, and then threw herself into a corner of the
sofa. Emilia went to her, but was immediately repulsed, and here began
a scene which is yet painful to me in the recollection, and which,
although really it had nothing theatrical about it, but was quite
suitable to a lively young Frenchwoman, could only be properly repeated
in the theatre by a good and feeling actress.

[Side-note: Lucinda's Curse.]

Lucinda overwhelmed her sister with a thousand reproaches. "This is
not the first heart," she cried, "that was inclining itself to me, and
that you have turned away. Was it not just so with him who is absent,
and who at last betrothed himself to you under my very eyes? I was
compelled to look on; I endured it; but I know how many thousand tears
it has cost me. This one, too, you have now taken away from me, without
letting the other go; and how many do you not manage to keep at once?
I am frank and good-natured, and every one thinks he knows me soon,
and may neglect me. You are secret and quiet, and people think wonders
of what may be concealed behind you. Yet there is nothing behind but
a cold, selfish heart that can sacrifice everything to itself; this
nobody learns so easily, because it lies deeply hidden in your breast;
and just as little do they know of my warm, true heart, which I carry
about with me as open as my face."

Emilia was silent, and had sat down by her sister, who became
constantly more and more excited in her discourse, and let certain
private matters slip out, which it was not exactly proper for me to
know. Emilia, on the other hand, who was trying to pacify her sister,
made me a sign from behind that I should withdraw; but as jealousy and
suspicion see with a thousand eyes, Lucinda seemed to have noticed this
also. She sprang up and advanced to me, but not with vehemence. She
stood before me, and seemed to be thinking of something. Then she said,
"I know that I have lost you; I make no further pretensions to you. But
neither shall you have him, sister!"

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

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


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

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



TENTH BOOK.


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

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

[Side-note: Klopstock.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Klopstock and Gleim.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Herder.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Herder.]

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

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

[Side-note: Herder's Sarcasms.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Herder's Departure.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Artificial Gratitude.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Zabern-Buchsweiler.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Saarbrück.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Zwey-Brücken.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Sesenheim.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Pleasures of Travelling Incognito.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: The Exchange of Clothes.]

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

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

[Side-note: Goethe's Disguise.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Goethe's Disguise.]

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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



PART THE THIRD.

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

ELEVENTH BOOK.


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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Return to Strasburg.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Return to Sesenheim.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Festival at the Parsonage.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Correspondence with Frederica.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: The Visit to Strasburg.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: The "Disputation."]

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

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

[Side-note: The "Disputation."]

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

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

[Side-note: Schöpflin.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Koch and Oberlin.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Dislike to the French.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Voltaire.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: The Encyclopedists.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: "Système de la Nature."]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Influence of Shakspeare.]

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

[Side-note: Lenz.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: The Ottilienberg.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Strasburg Minster.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Antiquities at Mannheim.]

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

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

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


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

[2] Medicine.--_Trans._

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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



TWELFTH BOOK


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

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

[Side-note: Merk.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Paper on German Architecture.]

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Study of the Bible.]

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Hamann.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Combination of young poets.]

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Skating.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Whimsical Societies at Wetzlar.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Difficulty of German patriotism.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Taste for Homer.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Æsthetic Speculations.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Young Jerusalem.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Höpfner.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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



THIRTEENTH BOOK.


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

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

[Side-note: The family Von Laroche.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Merk's influence.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Reviving Taste for Art.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Goetz von Berlichingen.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Goetz von Berlichingen.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Goetz von Berlichingen.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Weariness of Life.]

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Effect of English poetry.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    "To griefs congenial prone,
     More wounds than nature gave he knew,
     While misery's form his fancy drew
     In dark ideal hues and horrors not its own."

[Side-note: Suicide.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Jerusalem's Death.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Werther.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Effect of Werther.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Effect of Werther.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Dramatic Tendency.]

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Justus Moeser.]

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

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

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


END OF THE THIRTEENTH BOOK


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

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

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

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

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

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

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



FOURTEENTH BOOK.


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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Lenz.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Klinger.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Klinger.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Lavater.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Lavater.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Faith and Knowledge.]

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

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

[Side-note: Basedow.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Basedow.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Basedow and Lavater.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: The Brothers Jacobi.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Fritz Jacobi.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Intended Drama of Mahomet.]

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

[Side-note: Intended Drama of Mahomet.]

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

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


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

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



FIFTEENTH BOOK.


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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: The Moravians.]

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

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

[Side-note: The Wandering Jew.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: The Wandering Jew.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Prometheus.]

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: State of Weimar.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

                   A.

    Long at court is long in hell,

                   B.

    There many good folks warm them well.

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

                   B.

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

                   A.

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

                   B.

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

                   A.

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

                   B.

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

                   A.

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

                   B.

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

                   A.

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

                   B.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Zimmermann.]

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

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

[Side-note: Zimmermann.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Zimmermann.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: The Clavigo.]

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Preparations for my Wedding.]

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

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



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

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

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

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

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

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



PART THE FOURTH.


NEMO CONTRA DEUM NISI DEUS IPSE.



SIXTEENTH BOOK.


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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Spinoza - His Principles.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Influence of Spinoza.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Introduction to Lili.]

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

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

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

[Side-note: Jung or Stilling.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

    En peu d'heure
    Dieu labeure.

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

[Side-note: Stilling.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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


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



SEVENTEENTH BOOK.


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Lili's Soirées.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: My Worldly Affairs.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"SHE COMES NOT!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Intimacy with Lili.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: A Betrothal.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: The Realities of Life.]

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

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

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

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

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

I return to more personal matters.

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

[Side-note: American Revolution.]

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: State of Germany.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Ulrich Von Hutten.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Frankfort and Its Constitution.]

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

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

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

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

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


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



EIGHTEENTH BOOK.


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

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

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

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

[Side-note: Hans Sachs.]

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

       *       *       *       *       *

[Side-note: The Stolbergs.]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

If any should suspect me here of substituting, as the best historians
have done, a fictitious speech for the actual address, I can only
express my regret that no short-hand writer had taken down this
peroration at once and handed it down to us. The thoughts would be
found the same, but the flow of the language perhaps more graceful and
attractive. Above all, however, in the present sketch, as a whole,
there is a want of that diffuse eloquence and fulness of youth, which
feels itself, and knows not whither its strength and faculty will carry
it.

[Side-note: The Stolbergs.]

In a city like Frankfort, one is placed in a strange position;
strangers continually crossing each other, point to every region of
the globe, and awaken a passion for travelling. On many an occasion
before now I had shown an inclination to be moving, and now at the
very moment when the great point was to make an experiment whether I
could renounce Lili--when a certain painful disquiet unfitted me for
all regular business, the proposition of the Stolbergs, that I should
accompany them to Switzerland, was welcome. Stimulated, moreover, by
the exhortations of my father, who looked with pleasure on the idea
of my travelling in that direction, and who advised me not to omit to
pass over into Italy, if a suitable occasion should offer itself, I at
once decided to go, and soon had everything packed for the journey.
With some intimation, but without leave-taking, I separated myself
from Lili; she had so grown into my heart, that I did not believe it
possible to part myself from her.

In a few hours I found myself with my merry fellow-travellers in
Darmstadt. Even at court we should not always act with perfect
propriety; here Count Haugwitz took the lead. He was the youngest of
us all, well formed, of a delicate, but noble appearance, with soft
friendly features, of an equable disposition, sympathizing enough, but
with so much moderation, that, contrasted with us, he appeared quite
impassible. Consequently, he had to put up with all sorts of jibes and
nicknames from them. This was all very well, so long as they believed
that they might act like children of nature; but as soon as occasion
called for propriety, and when one was again obliged, not unwillingly,
to put on the reserve of a Count, then he knew how to introduce and
to smoothe over everything, so that we always came off with tolerable
credit, if not with _éclat_.

I spent my time, meanwhile, with Merck, who in his Mephistophelist
manner looked upon my intended journey with an evil eye, and described
my companions, who had also paid him a visit, with a discrimination
that listened not to any suggestions of mercy. In his way he knew me
thoroughly; the naïve and indomitable good nature of my character was
painful to him; the everlasting purpose to take things as they are,
the live and let live was his detestation. "It is a foolish trick," he
said, "your going with these Burschen;" and then he would describe them
aptly, but not altogether justly. Throughout there was a want of good
feeling, and here I could believe that I could see further than he did,
although I did not in fact do this, but only knew how to appreciate
those ideas of their character, which lay beyond the circle of his
vision.

"You will not stay long with them!" was the close of all his remarks.
On this occasion I remember a remarkable saying of his, which he
repeated to me at a later time, which I had often repeated to myself,
and frequently found confirmed in life. "Thy striving," said he, "thy
unswerving effort is to give a poetic form to the real; others seek
to give reality to the so-called poetic, to the imaginative, and of
that nothing will ever come but stupid stuff." Whoever apprehends the
immense difference between these two modes of action, whoever insists
and acts upon this conviction, has reached the solution of a thousand
other things.

Unhappily, before our party left Darmstadt, an incident happened which
tended to verify beyond dispute the opinion of Merck.

Among the extravaganzas which grew out of the notion that we should
try to transport ourselves into a state of nature, was that of bathing
in public waters, in the open air; and our friends, after violating
every other law of propriety, could not forego this additional
unseemliness. Darmstadt, situated on a sandy plain, without running
water, had, it appeared, a pond in the neighbourhood, of which I
only heard on this occasion. My friends, who were hot by nature, and
moreover kept continually heating themselves, sought refreshment in
this pond. The sight of naked youths in the clear sunshine, might well
seem something strange in this region; at all events scandal arose.
Merck sharpened his conclusions, and I do not deny that I was glad to
hasten our departure.

On the way to Mannheim, in spite of all good and noble feelings which
we entertained in common, a certain difference in sentiment and conduct
already exhibited itself. Leopold Stolberg told us with much of feeling
and passion, that he had been forced to renounce a sincere attachment
to a beautiful English lady, and on that account had undertaken so
long a journey. When he received in return the sympathising confession
that we too were not strangers to such experiences, then he gave vent
without respect to the feelings of youth, declaring that nothing in the
world could be compared with his passion, his sufferings, or with the
beauty and amiability of his beloved. If by moderate observations we
tried, as is proper among good companions, to bring him duly to qualify
his assertion, it only made matters worse; and Count Haugwitz, as well
as I, were inclined at last to let the matter drop. When we had reached
Mannheim, we occupied pleasant chambers in a respectable hotel, and
after our first dinner there during the dessert, at which the wine was
not spared, Leopold challenged us to drink to the health of his fair
one, which was done noisily enough. After the glasses were drained, he
cried out: But now, out of goblets thus consecrated, no more drinking
must be permitted; a second health would be a profanation; therefore,
let us annihilate these vessels! and with these words he dashed the
wine-glass against the wall behind him. The rest of us followed his
example; and I imagined at the moment, that Merck pulled me by the
collar.

But youth still retains this trait of childhood, that it harbors no
malice against good companions; that its unsophisticated good nature
may be brushed somewhat roughly indeed, to be sure, but cannot be
permanently injured.

[Side-note: Klopstock.]

The glasses thus proclaimed angelical had considerably swelled our
reckoning, comforting ourselves, however, and determined to be merry,
we hastened for Carlsruhe, there to enter a new circle, with all
the confidence of youth and its freedom from care. There we found
Klopstock, who still maintained, with dignity, his ancient authority
over disciples who held him in reverence. I also gladly did homage
to him, so that when bidden to his court with the others, I probably
conducted myself tolerably well for a novice. One felt, too, in a
certain manner called upon to be natural and sensible at the same time.

The reigning Margrave, highly honored among the German Sovereigns as
one of their princely seniors, but more especially on account of the
excellent aims of his government, was glad to converse about matters
of political economy. The Margravine, active and well versed in the
arts and various useful branches of knowledge, was also pleased by some
graceful speeches to manifest a certain sympathy for us; for which
we were duly grateful, though when at home we could not refrain from
venting some severe remarks upon her miserable paper-manufactory, and
the favor she showed to the piratical bookseller Macklot.

The circumstance, however, of importance for me, was, that the
young duke of Saxe-Weimar had arrived here to enter into a formal
matrimonial engagement with his noble bride, the princess Louisa
of Hesse-Darmstadt; President von Moser had already arrived on the
same business, in order to settle this important contract with the
court-tutor Count Görtz, and fully to ratify it. My conversations
with both the high personages were most friendly, and at the farewell
audience, they both made me repeated assurances that it would be
pleasant to them to see me at Weimar.

Some private conversations with Klopstock, won me by the friendliness
they showed, and led me to use openness and candour with him. I
communicated to him the latest scenes of Faust, which he seemed to
approve of. Indeed, as I afterwards learned, he had spoken of them
to others with marked commendation, a thing not usual with him, and
expressed a wish to see the conclusion of the piece.

[Side-note: My Sister.]

Our former rudeness, though sometimes as we called it, our genius-like
demeanour, was kept, in something like a chaste restraint in
Carlsruhe, which is decent and almost holy ground. I parted from
my companions, as I had resolved to take a wide round and go to
Emmendingen, where my brother-in-law was high bailiff. I looked upon
this visit to my sister as a real trial. I knew that she had not a
happy existence, while there was no cause to find fault with her, with
her husband, or with circumstances. She was of a peculiar nature, of
which it is difficult to speak; we will endeavour, however, to set down
here whatever admits of being described.

A fine form was in her favor; but not so her features, which, although
expressing clearly enough, goodness, intelligence, and sensibility,
were nevertheless wanting in regularity and grace.

Add to this, that a high and strongly arched forehead, exposed still
more by the abominable fashion of dressing the hair back on the head,
contributed to leave a certain unpleasant impression, although it
bore the best testimony to her moral and intellectual qualities. I
can fancy, that if after the modern fashion, she had surrounded the
upper part of her face with curls, and clothed her temples and cheeks
with ringlets, she would have found herself more agreeable before the
mirror, without fear of displeasing others as well as herself. Then
there was the grave fault, that her skin was seldom clean, an evil
which from her youth up, by some demoniacal fatality, was most sure to
show itself on all festal occasions, and at concerts, balls, and other
parties.

In spite of these drawbacks she gradually made her way, however, as her
better and nobler qualities showed themselves more distinctly.

A firm character not easily controlled, a soul that sympathised and
needed sympathy, a highly cultivated mind, fine acquirements and
talents; some knowledge of languages and a ready pen--all these she
possessed--so that if she had been more richly favored with outward
charms, she would have been among the women most sought after in her
day.

Besides all this there is one strange thing to be mentioned: there was
not the slightest touch of sensual passion in her nature. She had grown
up with me, and had no other wish than to continue and pass her life
in this fraternal union. Since my return from the University we had
been inseparable; with the most unreserved confidence we shared all
our thoughts, feelings, and humors, and even the most incidental and
passing impressions of every accidental circumstance. When I went to
Wetzlar, the loneliness of the house without me seemed insupportable;
my friend Schlosser, neither unknown nor repugnant to the good girl,
stepped into my place. In him, unfortunately, the brotherly affection
changed into a decided, and to judge from his strictly conscientious
character, probably a first passion. Here there was found what people
call as good a match as could be wished, and my sister, after having
stedfastly rejected several good offers, but from insignificant men,
whom she always had an aversion to, allowed herself to be, I may well
say, talked into accepting him.

I must frankly confess that I have frequently indulged in fancies about
my sister's destiny, I did not like to think of her as the mistress of
a family, but rather as an Abbess, as the Lady Superior of some noble
community. She possessed every requisite for such a high position,
while she was wanting in all that the world deems indispensable in
its members. Over feminine souls she always exercised an irresistible
influence; young minds were gently attracted towards her, and she ruled
them by the spirit of her inward superiority. As she had in common
with me an universal tolerance for the good, the human, with all its
eccentricities, provided they did not amount to perversity, there was
mo need for seeking to conceal from her any idiosyncrasy which might
mark any remarkable natural talents, or for its owner feeling any
constraint in her presence; hence our parties, as we have seen before,
were always varied, free, ingenuous, and sometimes perhaps bordering
on boldness. My habit of forming intimacies with young ladies of a
respectful and obliging nature, without allowing any closer engagement
or relations to grow out of them, was mainly owing to my sister's
influence over me. And now the sagacious reader, who is capable of
reading into these lines what does not stand written in them, but is
nevertheless implied, will be able to form some conception of the
serious feelings with which I then set foot in Emmendingen.

But at my departure, after a short visit, a heavier load lay on my
heart, for my sister had earnestly recommended not to say enjoined
me, to break off my connection with Lili. She herself had suffered
much from along-protracted engagement; Schlosser, with his spirit
of rectitude, did not betroth himself to her, until he was sure of
his appointment under the Grand Duke of Baden; indeed, if one would
take it so, until he was actually appointed. The answer to his
application, however, was delayed in an incredible manner. If I may
express my conjecture on the matter, the brave Schlosser, able man
of business as he was, was nevertheless on account of his downright
integrity, desirable neither to the prince as a servant, immediately
in contact with himself, nor to the minister, who still less liked to
have so honest a coadjutor near to him. His expected and earnestly
desired appointment at Carlsruhe was never filled up. But the delay
was explained to me, when the place of Upper Bailiff in Emmendingen
became vacant, and he was instantly selected for it. Thus an office
of much dignity and profit was now intrusted to him, for which he had
shown himself fully competent. It seemed entirely suited to his taste,
his mode of action, to stand here alone to act according to his own
conviction, and to be held responsible for everything, whether for
praise or blame.

As no objections could be raised to his accepting this place, my sister
had to follow him, not indeed to a Court-residence, as she had hoped,
but to a place which must have seemed to her a solitude, a desert; to a
dwelling, spacious to be sure, with an official dignity, and stately,
but destitute of all chance of society. Some young ladies, with whom
she had cultivated an early friendship, followed her there, and as the
Gerock family was blessed with many daughters, these contrived to stay
with her in turn, so that, in the midst of such privation, she always
enjoyed the presence of at least one long-trusted friend.

These circumstances, these experiences, made her feel justified in
recommending to me, most earnestly, a separation from Lili. She thought
it hard to take such a young lady (of whom she had formed the highest
opinion) out of the midst of a lively, if not splendid circle, and to
shut her up in our old house, which, although very passable in its way,
was not suited for the reception of distinguished society, sticking
her, as it were, between a well-disposed, but unsociable, precise, and
formal father, and a mother extremely active in her domestic matters,
who, after the household business of the day was over would not like to
be disturbed over some notable bit of work by a friendly conversation
with forward and refined young girls. On the other hand, she in a
lively manner set Lili's position before me; for, partly in my letters,
partly in a confidential but impassioned conversation, I had told her
everything to a hair.

Unfortunately her conception was only a circumstantial and well-meant
completion of what a gossiping friend, in whom, by degrees, all
confidence ceased to be placed, had contrived by mentioning a few
characteristic traits to insinuate into her mind.

I could promise her nothing, although I was obliged to confess that she
had convinced me. I went on with that enigmatic feeling in my heart,
with which passion always nourishes itself; for the Child Cupid clings
obstinately to the garment of Hope, even when she is preparing with
long steps to flee away.

[Side-note: Schaffhausen--Zurich--Lavater.]

The only thing between this place and Zurich which I now clearly
remember, is the falls of the Rhine at Schaffhausen. A mighty cascade
here gives the indication of the mountainous region which we designed
to enter; where, each step becoming steeper and more difficult, we
should have laboriously to clamber up the heights.

The view of the lake of Zurich, which we enjoyed from the gate of the
"_Sword_," is still before me; I say from the gate of the tavern,
for, without stopping to enter it, I hastened to Lavater. He gave me
a cheerful and hearty reception, and was, I must confess, extremely
gracious; confiding, considerate, kind, and elevating was his bearing,
indeed, it would be impossible to expect anything else of him. His
wife, with somewhat singular, but serene tenderly pious expression of
countenance, fully harmonized, like everything else about him, with his
way of thinking and living.

Our first, and perhaps only theme of conversation, was his system of
Physiognomy. The first part of this remarkable work, was, if I mistake
not, already printed, or, at least, near its completion. It might be
said to be at once stamped with genius and yet empirical: methodical,
but still in its instances incomplete and partial. I was strangly
connected with it, Lavater wanted all the world for co-operators
and sympathizers. During his travels up the Rhine, he had portraits
taken of a great many distinguished men, in order to excite their
personal interest in a work in which they were to appear. He proceeded
in the same way with artists; he called upon every one to send him
drawings for illustrations. The latter came, and many were not exactly
suited for his purpose. So, too, he had copperplates engraved in all
parts, which seldom tinned out characteristic copies. Much labor had
been bestowed on his part; with money and exertions of all kinds an
important work was now ready, and full honor was done to Physiognomy.
But when in a great volume, illustrated by examples, Physiognomy,
founded on doctrine, was to set up its claims to the dignity of
science, it was found that not a single picture said what it ought to
say; all the plates had to be censured or to be taken with exceptions,
none to be praised, but only tolerated; many, indeed, were quite
altered by the explanations. For me, who in all my studies sought a
firm footing before I went further, I had now to perform one of the
most painful tasks which industry could be set to. Let the reader
judge. The manuscript, with impressions of the plates inserted was sent
to me at Frankfort. I was authorized to strike out whatever displeased
me, to change and put in what I liked. However I made a very moderate
use of this liberty. In one instance he had introduced a long and
violent piece of controversy against an unjust orator, which I left
out, and substituted a cheerful poem about nature; for this he scolded
me, but afterwards, when he had cooled down, approved of what I had
done.

Whoever turns over the four volumes of Physiognomy, and (what he will
not repent of) reads them, may conceive the interest there was in our
interviews, during which, as most of the plates contained in it were
already drawn and part of them had been engraved, we examined, and
decided on those fit to be inserted in the work, and considered the
ingenious means by which those, which did not exactly tally with its
principles, might be made instructive and suitable.

Whenever at present I look through the work of Lavater, a strange
comic, merry feeling comes over me; it seems as if I saw before me the
shadows of men formerly known to me, over whom I once fretted, and in
whom I find little satisfaction now.

The possibility, however, of retaining in some sort, much that
otherwise would have been unsuitable, was owing to the fine and
decided talent of the sketcher and engraver, Lips. He was, in fact,
born for the free prosaic representation of the actual, which was
precisely the thing wanted in this case. He worked under a singularly
exacting physiognomist, and therefore was obliged to look sharp to
approximate to the demands of his master; the clever peasant-boy felt
the whole responsibility of working for a clerical gentleman from a
city so highly privileged, and gave his best care to the business.

Living in a separate house from my companions, I became every day more
of a stranger to them, without the least unpleasant feeling having
arisen; our rural excursions were no longer made together, although in
the city we still kept up some intercourse. With all the arrogance of
young counts they had honored Lavater with a visit and appeared to the
skilful physiognomist somewhat different from what they did to the rest
of the world. He spoke to me about them, and I remember quite well,
that, speaking of Leopold Stolberg, he exclaimed: "I know not what you
all mean; he is a noble, excellent youth, and full of talent; but you
have described him to me as a hero, as a Hercules, and I have never in
my life seen a softer and more sensitive young man; nor, if need be,
one more easily influenced. I am still far from having formed a clear
physiognomical judgment of him, but as for you and all the rest, you
are in a fog altogether."

Since Lavater's journey on the Lower Rhine, the public interest in him
and his physiognomical studies had greatly increased; visitors of all
sorts crowded upon him, so that he felt in some sort embarrassed at
being looked upon as the first of spiritual and intellectual men, and
the chief point of attraction for strangers. Hence, to avoid envy and
all unpleasant feelings, he managed to remind and warn his visitors
that they must treat other distinguished men with friendship and
respect.

[Side-note: Visit to Bodmer.]

In this especial regard was had to the aged BODMER, and, accordingly,
we were compelled to visit him and pay our youthful respects to him. He
lived on a hill, above the large or old town, which lay on the right
bank, where the lake contracts its waters into the Limmat. We crossed
the old town, and, by a path that became steeper and steeper, at last
ascended the height behind the walls, where, between the fortifications
and the old wall, a pleasant suburb had sprang up, partly in
continuous and partly in detached houses, with a half country look. The
house where Bodmer had passed his whole life, stood in the midst of an
open and cheerful neighbourhood, which, the day being beautiful and
clear, we often paused on our road to survey with the greatest pleasure.

We were conducted up a flight of steps into a wainscoted chamber, where
a brisk old man, of middle stature, came to meet us. He received us
with his usual greeting to young visitors; telling us that we must
consider it an act of courtesy on his part to have delayed so long his
departure from this world in order that he might receive us kindly,
form our acquaintance, refresh himself with our talents, and wish us
joy in our future career.

We, on the other hand, congratulated him that, as a poet belonging to
the patriarchal world, he had yet in the neighbourhood of the most
highly cultivated city, possessed during his whole life a truly idyllic
dwelling, and, in the high free air, had enjoyed for so many long years
such a wide and beautiful prospect to feed his eyes with unfading
delight.

It seemed anything but displeasing to the old man when we asked
permission to take a view from his window of the neighbouring scenery;
and truly the prospect in the cheerful sunshine, and in the best season
of the year, appeared quite incomparable. The prospect commanded much
of the slope, from the great town down to the water's edge, as well
as the smaller town across the Limmat, and the whole of the fertile
Sihl-feld, towards the west. Behind us, on the left, was a part of
the lake of Zurich, with its bright rippled surface, and its shores
endlessly varying with alternating hill and valley and height after
height in greater variety than the eye could take in, which, dazzled
by this splendour, delighted to rest on the blue range of the loftier
mountains in the distance, whose snowy summits man has been so far
intimate with as to give names to.

The rapture of us young men at sight of the marvellous beauty which,
for so many years, had daily been before him, appeared to please the
old poet; he became, so to speak, ironically sympathizing, and we
parted the best of friends, but rot before a yearning for those blue
mountain heights had taken possession of our souls.

Now I am on the point of leaving our worthy patriarch, I remark,
for the first time, that I have as yet said nothing of his form and
countenance, of his movements, and his carriage and bearing.

In general, I do not think it quite right for travellers to describe
every distinguished man, whom they visit, as if they wanted to furnish
materials for advertising a runaway. No one sufficiently considers that
he has only looked at the great man during the moment of introduction,
and then only in his own way; and that according to the circumstances
of the moment the host may or not be what he seemed, proud or meek,
silent and talkative, cheerful or morose. In this particular case,
however, I may excuse myself from the attempt, by saying that no verbal
description of Bodmer's venerable person would convey an adequate
impression. Fortunately there exists a picture of him by Graff, of
Bause, which perfectly represents the man as he appeared to us, and,
indeed, exactly preserves his peculiar penetrating and reflective look.

[Side-note: Passavant--Lavater.]

A great, not indeed unexpected, but still highly coveted gratification
awaited me in Zurich, where I met my young friend, Passavant. Of a
respectable family of the reformed persuasion, and born in my native
city, he lived in Switzerland, at the fountain-head of the doctrine
which he was afterwards to proclaim as a preacher. With a frame not
large, but active, his face and his whole manner promised a quick and
agreeable resoluteness of character. His hair and beard were black, his
eyes lively. On the whole, you saw in him a man of some sensitiveness,
but of moderate energy.

Scarcely had we embraced one another and exchanged the first greeting,
when he immediately proposed to me to visit the smaller cantons. Having
himself already walked through them with great delight, he wished, with
the sight of them, to awaken my rapture and enthusiasm.

While I was talking over, with Lavater, the most interesting and
important points of our common business, until we had nearly exhausted
them, my lively fellow-travellers had already sallied forth in various
directions, and, in their own fashion, had examined the country.
Passavant, receiving and welcoming me with hearty friendship, believed
that he had gained thereby a right to the exclusive possession of my
society, and, therefore, in the absence of my companions, contrived
to entice me to the mountains, the more easily, since I was decidedly
inclined to accomplish the long desired ramble in quiet and at liberty
to follow my own whims. Without further deliberation, therefore, we
stepped into a boat and sailed up the glorious lake, on a fine clear
morning.

A poem inserted here may give the reader some intimation of those happy
moments:

    New draughts of strength and youthful blood,
      From this free world I've press'd;
    Here nature is so mild, so good--
      Who clasps me to her breast.
    The billows rock our little boat,
      The oars in measure beat,
    The hills, while clouds around them float,
      Approach our barque to meet.

    Eye, mine eye, why sink'st thou mourning?
    Golden dreams, are ye returning?
    Though thou'rt gold, thou dream, farewell;
    Here, too, life and love can dwell.

    Countless stars are blinking,
      In the waters here,
    On the mountains drinking
      Clouds of mist appear;
    Round the cool bay flying,
      Morning breezes wake,
    Ripen'd fruits are lying
      Mirror'd in the lake.

We landed in Richterswyl, where we had an introduction from Lavater to
Doctor HOTZE. As a physician, and a highly intelligent and benevolent
man, he enjoyed great esteem in his immediate neighbourhood and in the
whole country, and we can do no better honor to his memory than by
referring to a passage in Lavater's Physiognomy, which describes him.

After a very hospitable entertainment, which he relieved with a
highly agreeable and instructive conversation, describing to us the
next halting-places in our journey, we ascended the mountains which
lay before us. When we were about to descend again into the vale of
Schindellegi, we turned round to take in once more the charming
prospect over the lake of Zurich.

Of my feelings at that moment some idea may be gathered from the
following lines, which, just as I wrote them down, are still preserved
in a little memorandum book:

    Dearest Lili, if I did not love thee,
      I should revel in a scene like this!
    Yet, sweet Lili, if I did not love thee,
      What were any bliss?

This little impromptu seems to me more expressive in its present
context, than as it stands by itself in the printed collection of my
poems.

[Side-note: St. Mary's Hermitage.]

The rough roads, which led to St. Mary's hermitage, did not wear out
our good spirits. A number of pilgrims, whom we had remarked below
upon the lake, now overtook us and asked the aid of our prayers in
behalf of their pious object. We saluted them and let them pass,
and as they moved regularly with their hymns and prayers, they lent
a characteristic graceful animation to the dreary heights. We saw
livingly marked out the serpentine path which we too had to travel,
and seemed to be joyously following. The customs of the Romish church
are altogether significant and imposing to the Protestant, inasmuch
as he only recognises the inmost principle, by which they were first
called forth, the human element by which they are propagated from race
to race; thus penetrating at once to the kernel, without troubling
himself, just at the moment with the shell, the rind, or even with the
tree itself, its twigs, leaves, bark, and roots.

We now saw rising a dreary, treeless vale, the splendid church, the
cloister, of broad and stately compass, in the midst of a neat place of
sojourn for a large and varied assembly of guests.

The little church within the church, the former hermitage of the saint,
incrusted with marble, and transformed as far as possible into a
regular chapel, was something new to me; something that I had not seen,
this little vessel, surrounded and built over with pillars and vaults.
It could not but excite sober thoughts to reflect how a single spark of
goodness, and of the fear of God, had here kindled a bright and burning
flame, so that troops of believers, never ceased to make painful
pilgrimages in order to light their little tapers at this holy fire.
However the fact is to be explained, it plainly points at least to an
unbounded craving in man, for equal light, for equal warmth, with that
which this old hermit cherished and enjoyed in the deepest feeling and
the most secure conviction. We were shewn into the treasure chamber,
which was rich and imposing enough, and offered to the astonished eye
busts of the size of life, not to say colossal, of the saints and
founders of different orders.

A very different sort of feeling was awakened at the sight of a closet
opening upon this. It was filled with antique valuables here dedicated
and honored. My attention was fixed by various golden crowns of
remarkable workmanship, out of which I contemplated one exclusively. It
was a pointed crown, in the style of former days, such as one may have
seen in pictures on the heads of ancient queens, but of a most tasteful
design and of highly elaborate execution. The colored stones with which
it was studded were distributed over it or set opposite to each other,
with great effect and judgment; it was, in short, a work of that kind
which one would pronounce perfect at the first glance, without waiting
to bring out this impression by an appeal to the laws of art.

In such cases, where the art is not recognised, but felt, heart and
soul are turned towards the object, one would like to possess the
jewel, that one might impart pleasure to others with such a gift. I
begged permission to handle the little crown, and as I held it up
respectfully in my hand, I could not help thinking that I should like
to press it upon the bright, glittering locks of Lili, lead her before
the mirror, and witness her own joy in it, and the happiness which she
spread around her. I have often thought since, that this scene, if
realized by a skilful painter, would be highly touching and full of
meaning. It were worth one's while to be the young king to receive a
bride and a new kingdom in this way.

In order to show us all the treasures of the cloister, they led us into
a cabinet of natural and artificial curiosities. I had then but little
idea of the value of such things; at that time geognosy, which is so
commendable in itself, but which fritters away the impression produced
by the earth's beautiful surface on the mind's eye, had not begun to
entice me, still less had a fantastic geology entangled me in its
labyrinths. Nevertheless, the monk who acted as our guide, compelled
me to bestow some attention on a fossil, much prized as he said by
connoisseurs, a small wild boar's head well preserved in a lump of blue
fuller's clay, which, black as it was, has dwelt in my imagination ever
since. They had found it in the country of Rapperswyl, a district which
ever since the memory of man was so full of morasses, that it could
well receive and keep such mummies for posterity.

Far different attractions was presented to me by a copperplate
engraving of Martin Schön, which was kept under a glass frame, and
represented the Assumption of the Virgin. True, only a perfect specimen
could give an idea of the art of such a master; but then we are so
affected by it, as with the perfect in every branch of art, that we
cannot get rid of the wish to possess something in some way like it,
to be able constantly to repeat the sight of it, however long a time
may intervene. Why should I not anticipate and confess here, that
afterwards I could not rest until I had succeeded in obtaining an
excellent copy of this plate.

[Side-note: The Schwyzer-Haken.]

On the 16th of July, 1775 (for here I find a date first set down),
we entered upon a toilsome journey; wild stony heights were to be
surmounted, and that, too, in a perfect solitude and wilderness.
At a quarter before eight in the evening, we stood before the
Schwyzer-Haken, two mountain peaks which jut out boldly, side by side,
into the sky. For the first time we found snow upon our path, where
on the lagged rocks it had been hanging since the winter. A primeval
forest, with its solemn awe, filled the immense valleys, into which
we were about to descend. Refreshed, after a short rest, we sprang,
with bold and light step, from cliff to cliff, from ledge to ledge,
down the precipitous foot-path, and arrived by ten o'clock at Schwyz.
We had become at once weary yet cheerful, exhausted yet excited; we
eagerly quenched our violent thirst, and felt ourselves still more
inspired. Imagine the young man who but two years before had written
_Werther_, and his still younger friend who still earlier had read that
remarkable work in manuscript, and had been strangely excited by it,
had transported in some respect without their knowing it or wishing it,
into a state of nature, end there in the consciousness of rich powers,
vividly recalling past passions, clinging to those of the present,
shaping fruitless plans, rioting through the realm of fancy, and you
will be able to form some conception of our situation then, which I
should not know how to describe, if it did not stand written in my
journal: "Laughing and shouting lasted until midnight."

On the morning of the 17th, we saw the Schwyzer-Haken from our windows.
Around these vast and irregular natural pyramids, clouds rose upon
clouds. At one in the afternoon we left Schwyz, on our way to the Rigi;
at two we were on the Lawerzer lake, the sun shining brilliantly on it
and on us all the while. For sheer delight we saw nothing. Two stout
maidens guided the boat; that looked pretty, and we made no objection.
We arrived upon the island, on which they say once lived the former
lord of the castle; be this as it may, the hut of the anchorite has now
planted itself amidst the ruins.

We climbed the Rigi; at half-past seven we stood at the foot of the
"Mother of God" covered in snow; then passed the chapel and the
nunnery, and rested at the hotel of the Ox.

On the 18th, Sunday morning early, we took a sketch of the chapel
from the Ox. At twelve we went to Kaltenbad, or the fountain of the
Three Sisters. By a quarter after two we had reached the summit; we
found ourselves in the clouds, this time doubly disagreeable to us,
since they both hindered the prospect and drenched us with mist. But
when, here and there, they opened and showed us, framed as it were by
their ever-varying outline, a clear, majestic sun-lit world, with the
changing scenes of a diorama, we no longer lamented these accidents;
for it was a sight we had never seen before and should never behold
again, and we lingered long in this somewhat inconvenient position, to
catch, through the chinks and crevices of the ever-shifting masses of
cloud, some little point of sunny earth, some little strip of shore, or
pretty nook of the lake.

By eight in the evening we were back again at the door of the inn, and
refreshed ourselves with baked fish and eggs, and plenty of wine.

As the twilight and the night gradually came on, our ears were filled
with mysteriously harmonizing sounds; the twinkling of the chapel
bells, the splashing of the fountain, the rustling of changeful
breezes, with the horns of the foresters in the distance;--these were
blest, soothing, tranquillising moments.

[Side-note: William Tell.]

At half-past six, on the morning of the 19th, first ascending then
going down by the Waldstätter Lake we came to Fitznau; from thence, by
water, to Gersau. At noon, we were in the hotel on the lake. About two
o'clock we were opposite to Grütli, where the three Tells conspired;
then upon the flat rock where the hero sprang from his boat, and where
the legend of his life and deeds is recorded and immortalized by a
painting. At three we were at Flüelen, where he embarked; and at four
in Altorf, where he shot the apple.

Aided by this poetic thread one winds conveniently through the
labyrinth of these rocky walls which, descending perpendicularly to
the water, stand silently before us. They, the immovable, stand there
as quietly as the side-scenes of a theatre; success or failure, joy
or sorrow, merely pertain to the persons who for the day successively
strut upon the stage.

Such reflections, however, were wholly out of the circle of the vision
of the youths who then looked upon them; what had recently passed
had been dismissed from their thoughts, and the future lay before
them as strangely inscrutable, as the mountain region which they were
laboriously penetrating.

On the 20th, we breakfasted at Amstäg, where they cooked us a savoury
dinner of baked fish. Here now, on this mountain ledge, where the
Reuss, which was at all times wild enough, was rushing from rugged
clefts, and dashing the cool snow-water over the rocky channels, I
could not help enjoying the longed-for opportunity and refreshing
myself in the foaming waves.

At three o'clock we proceeded onwards; a row of sumpter-horses went
before us, we marched with them over a broad mass of snow, and did not
learn till afterwards, that it was hollow underneath. The snows of
winter, that had deposited themselves here in a mountain gorge, which
at other seasons it was necessary to skirt circuitously, now furnished
us with a shorter and more direct road. But the waters which forced
their way beneath had gradually undermined the snowy mass, and the mild
summer had melted more and more of the lower side of the vault, so
that now, like a broad arched bridge, it formed a natural connection
between the opposite sides. We convinced ourselves of this strange
freak of nature by venturing more than half way down into the broader
part of the gorge. As we kept ascending, we left pine forests in the
chasm, through which the Reuss from time to time appeared, foaming and
dashing over rocky precipices.

At half-past seven we arrived at Wasen, where, to render palatable the
red, heavy, sour Lombardy wine, we were forced to have recourse to
water, and to supply, by a great deal of sugar, the ingredient which
nature had refused to elaborate in the grape. The landlord showed us
some beautiful crystals; but I had, at that time, so little interest in
the study of nature and such specimens, that I did not care to burden
myself with these mountain products, however cheaply they might be
bought.

On the 21st, at half-past six, we were still ascending; the rocks grew
more and more stupendous and awful; the path to the _Teufelstein_
(Devil's Stone), from which we were to gain a view of the Devil's
Bridge, was still more difficult. My companion being disposed for a
rest, proposed me to sketch the most important views. My outlines were,
perhaps, tolerably successful, but nothing seemed to stand out, nothing
to retire into the distance; for such objects I had no language. We
toiled on further; the horrors of the wilderness seemed continually
to deepen, planes became hills, and hollows chasms. And so my guide
conducted me to the cave of Ursern, through which I walked in somewhat
of an ill humor; what we had seen thus far was, at any rate, sublime,
this darkness took everything away.

But the roguish guide anticipated the joyful astonishment which would
overwhelm me on my egress. There the moderately foaming stream wound
mildly through a level vale surrounded by mountains, but wide enough
to invite habitation. Above the clean little village of Ursern and its
church, which stood opposite to us on a level plot, rose a pine-grove
which was held sacred, because it protected the inhabitants at its
foot from the rolling of the avalanches. Here we enjoyed the sight of
long-missed vegetation. The meadows of the valley, just beginning to
look green, were adorned along the river side with short willows The
tranquillity was great; upon the level paths we felt our powers revive
again, and my fellow-traveller was not a little proud of the surprise
which he had so skilfully contrived.

The meadows produce the celebrated Ursern cheese, and the youthful
travellers, high in spirits, pronounced very tolerable wine not to be
surpassed in order to heighten their enjoyment, and to give a more
fantastic impulse to their projects.

On the 22nd, at half-past three, we left our quarters, that from the
smooth Ursern valley we might enter upon the stony valley of Liviner.
Here, too, we at once missed all vegetation; nothing was to be seen or
heard but naked or mossy rocks covered with snow, fitful gusts blowing
the clouds backwards and forwards, the rustling of waterfalls, the
tinkling of sumpter-horses in the depth of solitude, where we saw none
coming and none departing. It did not cost the imagination much to
see dragons' nests in the clefts. But, nevertheless, we felt inspired
and elevated by one of the most beautiful and picturesque waterfalls,
sublimely various in all its rocky steps, which, being at this time of
the year enriched by melted snows, and now half hidden by the clouds,
now half revealed, chained us for some time to the spot.

[Side-note: The Hospice.]

Finally, we came to little mist-lakes, as I might call them, since
they were scarcely to be distinguished from the atmospheric streaks.
Before long, a building loomed towards us out of the vapour: it was the
Hospice, and we felt great satisfaction at the thoughts of sheltering
ourselves under its hospitable roof.


[1] Hanswurst is the old German buffoon, whose name answers to the
English "Jack Pudding."--Tr.



NINETEENTH BOOK.


Announced by the low barking of a little dog which ran out to meet us,
we were cordially received at the door by an elderly but active female.
She apologised for the absence of the Pater, who had gone to Milan,
but was expected home that evening; and immediately, without any more
words, set to work to provide for our comfort and wants. We were shown
into a warm and spacious room, where bread, cheese, and some passable
wine were set before us, with the promise of a more substantial meal
for our supper. The surprise of the day was now talked over, and my
friend was not a little proud that all had gone off so well, and that
we had passed a day the impressions of which neither poetry nor prose
could ever reproduce.

At length with the twilight, which did not here come on till late, the
venerable father entered the room, greeted his guests with dignity
but in a friendly and cordial manner, and in a few words ordered the
cook to pay all possible attention to our wishes. When we expressed
the wonder we could not repress, that he could like to pass his life
up here, in the midst of such a perfect wilderness, out of the reach
of all society, he assured us that society was never wanting, as our
own welcome visit might testify. A lively trade, he told us, was kept
up between Italy and Germany. This continual traffic brought him into
relation with the first mercantile houses. He often went down to Milan,
and also to Lucerne, though not so frequently, from which place,
however, the houses which had charge of the posting on the main route,
frequently sent young people to him, who, here at the point of passage
between the two countries, required to be made acquainted with all the
circumstances and events connected with such affairs.

Amid such varied conversation the evening passed away, and we slept a
quiet night on somewhat short sleeping-places, fastened to the wall,
and more like shelves than bedsteads.

[Side-note: Distant View of Italy.]

Rising early, I soon found myself under the open sky, but in a narrow
space surrounded by tall mountain-tops. I sat down upon the foot-path
which led to Italy, and attempted, after the manner of dilettanti,
to draw what could not be drawn, still less make a picture, namely,
the nearest mountain-tops, whose sides, with their white furrows and
black ridges, were gradually made visible by the melting of the snow.
Nevertheless, that fruitless effort has impressed the image indelibly
on my memory.

My companion stepped briskly up to me, and began: "What say you of the
story of our spiritual host, last evening? Have not you as well as
myself, felt a desire to descend from this dragon's height into those
charming regions below? A ramble through these gorges must be glorious
and not very toilsome; and when it ends with Bellinzona, what a
pleasure that must be! The words of the good father have again brought
a living image before my soul of the isles of the Lago Maggiore. We
have heard and seen so much of them since Keyssler's travels, that I
cannot resist the temptation."

"Is it not so with you too?" he resumed; "you are sitting on exactly
the right spot; I stood there once, but had not the courage to jump
down. You can go on without ceremony, wait for me at Airolo, I will
follow with the courier when I have taken leave of the good father and
settled everything."

"Such an enterprise," I replied, "so suddenly undertaken, does not suit
me." "What's the use of deliberating so much?" cried he; "we have money
enough to get to Milan, where we shall find credit; through our fair, I
know more than one mercantile friend there." He grew still more urgent.
"Go!" said I, "and make all ready for the departure, then we will
decide."

In such moments it seems to me as if a man feels no resolution in
himself, but is rather governed and determined by earlier impressions.
Lombardy and Italy lay before me, altogether foreign land; while
Germany, as a well-known dear home, full of friendly, domestic scenes,
and where, let me confess it,--was that which had so long entirely
enchained me, and on which my existence was centred, remained even
now the most indispensable element, beyond the limits of which I felt
afraid to step. A little golden heart, which in my happiest hours, I
had received from her, still hung love-warmed about my neck, suspended
by the same ribbon to which she had tied it. Snatching it from my
bosom, I loaded it with kisses. This incident gave rise to a poem,
which I here insert:--

    Round my neck, suspended, as a token
    Of those joys, that swiftly pass'd away,
    Art thou here that thou may'st lengthen love's short day,
    Still binding, when the bond of souls is broken?

    Lili, from thee I fly; yet I am doom'd to feel
    Thy fetters still,
    Though to strange vales and mountains I depart,
    Yes, Lili's heart must yet remain
    Attached to _my_ fond heart.

    Thus the bird, snapping his string in twain,
    Seeks his wood,--his own,
    Still a mark of bondage bearing,
    Of that string a fragment wearing.
    The old--the free-born bird--he cannot be again,
    When once a master he has known.

Seeing my Mend with the guide, who carried our knapsack, come storming
up the heights, I rose hastily and removed from the precipice, where
I had been watching his return, lest he should drag me down into the
abyss with him. I also saluted the pious father, and turned, without
saying a word, to the path by which we had come. My friend followed
me, somewhat hesitating, and in spite of his love and attachment to
me, kept for a long time at a distance behind, till at last a glorious
waterfall brought us again together for the rest of our journey, and
what had been once decided, was from henceforth looked upon as the
wisest and the best.

Of our descent I will only remark that we now found the snow-bridge,
over which we had securely travelled with a heavy-laden train a
few days before, all fallen in, and that now, as we had to make a
circuit round the opened thicket, we were filled with astonishment
and admiration by the colossal fragments of that piece of natural
architecture.

My friend could not quite get over his disappointment at not returning
into Italy; very likely he had thought of the plan some time before,
and with amiable cunning had hoped to surprise me on the spot. On this
account our return did not proceed so merrily as our advance; but I was
occupied all the more constantly on my silent route, with trying to
fix, at least in its more comprehensible and characteristic details,
that sense of the sublime and vast, which, as time advances, usually
grows contracted in our minds.

[Side-note: Küssnacht--Tell.]

Not without many both new and renewed emotions and reflections did we
pass over the remarkable heights about the Vierwaldstätter Lake, on
our way to Küssnacht, where having landed and pursued our ramble, we
had to greet Tell's chapel, which lay on our route, and to reflect
upon that assassination which, in the eyes of the whole world, is so
heroical, patriotic, and glorious. So, too, we sailed over the Zuger
Lake, which we had seen in the distance as we looked down from Rigi.
In Zug, I only remember some painted glass, inserted into the casement
of a chamber of the inn, not large to be sure, but excellent in its
way. Our route then led over the Albis into the Sihl valley, where, by
visiting a young Hanoverian, Von Lindau, who delighted to live there
in solitude, we sought to mitigate the vexation which he had felt some
time before in Zurich, at our declining the offer of his company not
in the most friendly or polite manner. The jealous friendship of the
worthy Passavant was really the reason of my rejecting the truly dear,
but inconvenient presence of another.

But before we descend again from these glorious heights, to the lake
and to the pleasantly situated city, I must make one more remark
upon my attempts to carry away some idea, of the country by drawing
and sketching. A habit from youth upward of viewing a landscape as
a picture, led me, whenever I observed any picturesque spot in the
natural scenery, to try and fix it, and so to preserve a sure memorial
of such moments. But having hitherto only exercised myself on confined
scenes, I soon felt the incompetency of my art for such a world.

The haste I was in at once compelled me to have recourse to a singular
expedient: scarcely had I noticed an interesting object, and with
light and very sketchy strokes drawn the outlines on the paper, than
I noted down, in words, the particular objects which I had no time to
catch and fill up with the pencil, and, by this means, made the scenes
so thoroughly present to my mind, that every locality, whenever I
afterwards wanted it for a poem or a story, floated at once before me
and was entirely at my command.

On returning to Zurich, I found the Stolbergs were gone; their stay in
this city had been cut short in a singular manner.

It must be confessed that travellers upon removing to a distance from
the restraints of home, are only too apt to think they are stepping
not only into an unknown, but into a perfectly free world; a delusion
which it was the more easy to indulge in at this time, as there was
not as yet any passports to be examined by the police, or any tolls
and suchlike checks and hindrances on the liberty of travellers, to
remind men that abroad they are subject to still worse and more painful
restraints than at home.

If the reader will only bear in mind this decided tendency to realize
the freedom of nature, he will be able to pardon the young spirits who
regarded Switzerland as the very place in which to "Idyllize" the fresh
independence of youth. The tender poems of Gessner, as well as his
charming sketches, seemed decidedly to justify this expectation.

In fact, bathing in wide waters, seems to be one of the best
qualifications for expressing such poetic talents. Upon our journey
thus far, such natural exercises had not seemed exactly suitable to
modern customs, and we had, in some degree, abstained from them. But,
in Switzerland, the sight of the cool stream,--flowing, running,
rushing, then gathering on the plain, and gradually spreading out to a
lake,--presented a temptation that was not to be resisted. I can not
deny that I joined my companions in bathing in the clear lake, but we
chose a spot far enough, as we supposed, from all human eyes. But naked
bodies shine a good way, and whoever chanced to see us doubtless took
offence.

[Side-note: Anecdote of the Stolbergs.]

The good innocent youths who thought it nowise shocking to see
themselves half naked, like poetic shepherds, or entirely naked, like
heathen deities, were admonished by their friends to leave off all
such practices. They were given to understand that they were living
not in primeval nature, but in a land where it was esteemed good and
salutary to adhere to the old institutions and customs which had
been handed down from the middle ages. They were not disinclined to
acknowledge the propriety of all this, especially as the appeal was
made to the middle ages, which, to them, seemed venerable as a second
nature. Accordingly, they left the more public lake shores, but when
in their walks through the mountains, they fell in with the clear,
rustling, refreshing streams, it seemed to them impossible, in the
middle of July, to abstain from the refreshing exercise. Thus, on
their wide sweeping walks, they came also to the shady vale, where the
Sihl, streaming behind the Albis, shoots down to empty itself into
the Limmat below Zurich. Far from every habitation, and even from all
trodden foot-paths, they thought there could be no objection here to
their throwing off their clothes and boldly meeting the foaming waves.
This was not indeed done without a shriek, without a wild shout of joy,
excited partly by the chill and partly by the satisfaction, by which
they thought to consecrate these gloomy, wooded rocks into an Idyllic
scene.

But, whether persons previously ill-disposed had crept after them,
or whether this poetic tumult called forth adversaries even in the
solitude, cannot be determined. Suffice it to say, stone after stone
was thrown at them from the motionless bushes above, whether by one or
more, whether accidentally or purposely, they could not tell; however,
they thought it wisest to renounce the quickening element and look
after their clothes.

No one got hit; they sustained no injury but the moral one of surprise
and chagrin, and full of young life as they were, they easily shook off
the recollection of this awkward affair.

But the most disagreeable consequences fell upon Lavater, who was
blamed for having given so friendly a welcome to such saucy youths, as
even to have arranged walks with them, and otherwise to shew attention
to persons whose wild, unbridled, unchristian, and even heathenish
habits, had caused so much scandal to a moral and well-regulated
neighbourhood.

Our clever friend, however, who well knew how to smooth over such
unpleasant occurrences, contrived to hush up this one also, and after
the departure of these meteoric travellers, we found, on our return,
peace and quiet restored.

In the fragment of Werther's travels, which has lately been reprinted
in the sixteenth volume of my works, I have attempted to describe this
contrast of the commendable order and legal restraint of Switzerland,
with that life of nature which youth in its delusions so loudly
demands. But, as people generally are apt to take all that the poet
advances without reserve for his decided opinions, or even didactic
censure, so the Swiss were very much offended at the comparison, and
I, therefore, dropped the intended continuation, which was to have
represented, more or less in detail, Werther's progress up to the
epoch of his sorrows, and which, therefore, would certainly have been
interesting to those who wish to study mankind.

Arrived at Zurich, I devoted my time almost exclusively to Lavater,
whose hospitality I again made use of. The Physiognomy, with all its
portraits and monstrous caricatures, weighed heavily and with an
ever-increasing load on the shoulders of the worthy man. We arranged
all as well as we could under the circumstances, and I promised him, on
my return home, to continue my assistance.

I was led to give this promise by a certain youthful unlimited
confidence in my own quickness of comprehension, and still more by a
feeling of my readiness of adaptation to any subject; for, in truth,
the way in which Lavater dissected physiognomies was not at all in my
vein. The impression which at our first meeting, he had made upon me,
determined, in some degree, my relation to him; although a general wish
to oblige which was always strong, joined to the light-heartedness of
youth, had a great share in all my actions by causing me to see things
in a certain twilight atmosphere.

Lavater's mind was altogether an imposing one; in his society it
was impossible to resist his decided influence, and I had no choice
but to submit to it at once and set to work observing foreheads and
noses, eyes and mouths, in detail, and weighing their relations and
proportions. My fellow observer did this from necessity, as he had to
give a perfect account of what he himself had discerned so clearly; but
to me it always seemed like a trick, a piece of espionage, to attempt
to analyse a man into his elements before his face, and so to get upon
the track of his hidden moral peculiarities. I had more pleasure in
listening to his conversation, in which he unveiled himself at will.
And yet, I must confess, I always felt a degree of constraint in
Lavater's presence; for, while by his art of physiognomy, he possessed
himself of our peculiarities, he also made himself, by conversation,
master of our thoughts, which, with a little sagacity, he would easily
guess from our variety of phrases.

He who feels a pregnant synthesis in himself, has peculiarly a right to
analyse, since by the outward particulars he tests and legitimizes his
inward whole. How Lavater managed in such cases, a single example will
suffice to show.

[Side-note: Lavater--His Character and Works.]

On Sundays, after the sermon, it was his duty, as an ecclesiastic,
to hold the short-handled, velvet, alms-bag before each one who went
out, and to bless as he received the pious gift. Now, on a certain
Sunday he proposed to himself, without looking at the several persons
as they dropped in their offerings, to observe only their hands, and
by them, silently, to judge of the forms of their owner. Not only the
shape of the finger, but its peculiar action in dropping the gift,
was attentively noted by him, and he had much to communicate to me on
the conclusions he had formed. How instructive and exciting must such
conversations have been to one, who also was seeking to qualify himself
for a painter of men!

Often in my after life had I occasion to think of Lavater, who was
one of the best and worthiest men that I ever formed so intimate
a relation with. These notices of him that I have introduced in
this work were accordingly written at various times. Following our
divergent tendencies, we gradually became strangers to each other,
and yet I never could bring myself to part with the favorable idea
which his worth had left upon my mind. In thought I often brought him
before me, and thus arose these leaves, which, as they were written
without reference to and independently of each other, may contain some
repetitions, but, it is hoped, no contradictions.

       *       *       *       *       *

By his cast of mind, Lavater was a decided realist, and knew of nothing
ideal except in a moral form; by keeping this remark steadily in mind,
you will most readily understand this rare and singular man.

His _Prospects of Eternity_ look merely for a continuance of the
present state of existence, under easier conditions than those which we
have now to endure. His _Physiognomy_ rests on the conviction that the
sensible corresponds throughout with the spiritual, and is not only an
evidence of it, but indeed its representative.

The ideals of art found little favor with him, because with his sharp
look he saw too clearly the impossibility of such conceptions ever
being embodied in a living organization, and he therefore banished them
into the realm of fable, and even of monstrosity.

His incessant demand for a realization of the ideal gained him the
reputation of a visionary, although he maintained and felt convinced
that no man insisted more strongly on the actual than he did;
accordingly, he never could detect the error in his mode of thinking
and acting.

Seldom has there been a man who strove more passionately than he did
for public recognition, and thus he was particularly fitted for a
teacher; but if all his labors tended to the intellectual and moral
improvement of others, this was by no means their ultimate aim.

To realize the character of Christ was what he had most at heart;
hence that almost insane zeal of his to have pictures of Christ drawn,
copied, moulded, one after another; none of which, however, as to be
expected, ever satisfied him.

His writings are hard to understand, even now, for it is far from easy
to penetrate into his precise meaning. No one ever wrote so much of
the times, and for the times, as Lavater; his writings are veritable
journals, which in an especial manner require to be explained by the
history of the day; they, moreover, are written in the language of a
coterie, which one must first acquaint oneself with, before we can
hold communion with them, otherwise many things will appear stupid and
absurd even to the most intelligent reader. Indeed, objections enough
of the kind have been made against this author, both in his lifetime
and since.

Thus, for example, with our rage for dramatizing and representing under
this form all that struck us, and caring for no other, we once so
warmed his brain with a dramatic ardour, that, in his _Pontius Pilate_,
he labored very hard to show that there is no more dramatic work than
the Bible; and, especially, that the history of Christ's Passion must
be regarded as the drama of all dramas.

In this chapter, and indeed throughout the work, Lavater appears
greatly to resemble Father Abraham of Santa Clara; for into this manner
every richly gifted mind necessarily falls who wishes to work upon his
contemporaries. He must acquaint himself with existing tendencies and
passions, with the speech and terminology of the day, and adapt them
to his ends, in order to approach the mass whom he seeks to influence.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Side-note: Lavater--His Character and Works.]

Since Lavater took Christ literally,--as described by the Scriptures,
and by most commentators,--he let this representation serve so far
for the supplement of his own being, that he ideally incorporated the
God-man into his own individual humanity, until he finally was able to
imagine himself melted into one and united with him, and, indeed, to
have become the same person.

This decidedly literal faith had also worked in him a perfect
conviction that miracles can be wrought to-day as well as heretofore.
Accordingly, since in some important and trying emergencies of his
earlier days, he had by means of earnest and indeed violent prayer,
succeeded in procuring an instantaneous and favorable turn of the
impending calamity, no mere cold objections of the reasoning intellect
would make him for a moment waver in this faith. Penetrated, moreover,
by the idea of the greatness and excellence of Humanity as restored by
Christ, and through Him destined to a blissful immortality, but, at
the same time, fully sensible of the manifold requisitions of man's
heart and mind, and of his insatiable yearnings after knowledge, and,
moreover, feeling in himself that desire of expanding himself into the
infinite to which the starry heavens seem so sensibly to invite us, he
wrote under these feelings Iris "_Prospects of Eternity_," which must
have appeared a very strange book indeed to the greater part of his
contemporaries.

All this striving, however, all wishes, all undertakings, were
overborne by the genius for physiognomy, which nature had bestowed upon
him. For, as the touchstone, by its blackness and peculiar roughness of
surface, is eminently fitted to distinguish between the metals which
are applied to it; so that pure idea of humanity, which Lavater carried
within himself, and that sharp yet delicate gift of observation, which
at first he exercised from natural impulse occasionally only and
accidentally, but afterwards with deliberate reflection and regularly,
qualified him in the highest degree to note the peculiarities of
individual men, and to understand, distinguish, and express them.

Every talent which rests on a decided natural gift, seems from our
inability to subordinate either it or its operations to any idea to
have something of magic about it. And, in truth, Lavater's insight into
the characters of individuals surpassed all conception; one was utterly
amazed at his remarks, when in confidence we were talking of this or
that person; nay, it was frightful to live near a man who clearly
discerned the nicest limits by which nature had been pleased to modify
and distinguish our various personalities.

Every one is apt to believe that what he possesses himself may be
communicated to others; and so Lavater was not content to make use of
this great gift for himself alone, but insisted that it might be found
and called forth in others, nay that it might even be imparted to the
great mass. The many dull and malicious misinterpretations, the stupid
jests in abundance, and detracting railleries, this striking doctrine
gave rise to, may still be remembered by some men; however, it must be
owned that the worthy man himself was not altogether without blame in
the matter. For though a high moral sense preserved the unity of his
inner being, yet, with his manifold labors, he was unable to attain
to outward unity, since he did not possess the slightest capacity for
philosophical method, nor for artistic talent.

He was neither Thinker nor Poet; indeed, not even an orator, in the
proper sense of the term. Utterly unable to take a comprehensive
and methodical view, he nevertheless formed an unerring judgment of
individual cases and these he noted down boldly side by side. His great
work on Physiognomy is a striking proof and illustration of this. In
himself, the idea of the moral or of the sensual man might form a
whole; but out of himself he could not represent this idea, except
practically by individual cases, in the same way as he himself had
apprehended them in life.

That very work sadly shows us how in the commonest matter of experience
so sharp-sighted a man, may go groping about him. For after spending
an immense sum and employing every artist and botcher living, he
procured at last drawings and engravings, which were so far without
character, that he is obliged in his work to say after each one that
it is more or less a failure, unmeaning and worthless. True, by this
means, he sharpened his own judgment, and the judgment of others; but
it also proves that his mental bias led him rather to heap up cases of
experience, than to draw from them any clear and sober principle. For
this reason he never could come to results, though I often pressed him
for them. What in later life he confided as such to his friends, were
none to me; for they consisted of nothing more than a collection of
certain lines and features, nay, warts and freckles, with which he had
seen certain moral, and frequently immoral, peculiarities associated.
There were certainly some remarks among them that surprised and
riveted your attention; but they formed no series, one thing followed
another accidentally, there was no gradual advance towards any general
deductions and no reference to any principles previously established.
And indeed there was just as little of literary method or artistic
feeling to be found in his other writings, which invariably contained
passionate and earnest expositions of his thoughts and objects, and
supplied by the most affecting and appropriate instances, what they
could not accomplish by the general conception.

       *       *       *       *       *

[Side-note: Abuse of the Term--Genius.]

The following reflections, as they refer to those circumstances, may be
aptly introduced here.

No one willingly concedes superiority to another, so long as he can
in any way deny it. Natural gifts of every kind can the least be
denied, and yet by the common mode of speaking in those times, genius
was ascribed to the poet alone. But another world seemed all at once
to rise up; genius was looked for in the physician, in the general,
in the statesman, and before long, in all men, who thought to make
themselves eminent either in theory or practice. Zimmerman, especially,
had advanced these claims. Lavater, by his views of Physiognomy, was
compelled to assume a more general distribution of mental gifts by
nature; the word genius became a universal symbol, and because men
heard it uttered so often, they thought that what was meant by it, was
habitually at hand. But then, since every one felt himself justified
in demanding genius of others, he finally believed that he also must
possess it himself. The time was yet far distant when it could be
affirmed, that genius is that power of man which by its deeds and
actions gives laws and rules. At this time it was thought to manifest
itself only, by overstepping existing laws, breaking established
rules, and declaring itself above all restraint. It was, therefore,
an easy thing to be a genius, and nothing was more natural than that
extravagance both of word and deed should provoke all orderly men to
oppose themselves to such a monster.

When anybody rushed into the world on foot, without exactly knowing why
or whither, it was called a pass of genius; and when any one undertook
an aimless and useless absurdity, it was a stroke of genius. Young
men, of vivacious and true talents, too often lost themselves in the
limitless; and then older men of understanding, wanting perhaps in
talent and in soul, found a most malicious gratification in exposing to
the public gaze, their manifold and ludicrous miscarriages.

For my part, in the development and the expression of my own ideas,
I perhaps experienced far more hindrance and checks from the false
co-operation and interference of the like-minded, than by the
opposition of those whose turn of mind was directly contrary to my own.

With a strange rapidity, words, epithets, and phrases, which have once
been cleverly employed to disparage the highest intellectual gifts,
spread by a sort of mechanical repetition among the multitude, and in
a short time they are to be heard everywhere, even in common life, and
in the mouths of the most uneducated; indeed before long they even
creep into dictionaries. In this way the word genius had suffered so
much from misrepresentation, that it was almost desired to banish it
entirely from the German language.

And so the Germans, with whom the common voice is more apt to prevail
than with other nations, would perhaps have sacrificed the fairest
flower of speech, the word which, though apparently foreign, really
belongs to every people, had not the sense for what is highest and best
in man, been happily restored and solidly established by a profounder
philosophy.

       *       *       *       *       *

In the preceding pages mention has been frequently made of the youthful
times of two men, whose memory will never hide from the history of
German literature and morals. At this period, however, we came to
know them as it were only by the errors into which they were misled
by a false maxim which prevailed among their youthful contemporaries.
Nothing, therefore, can be more proper than with due appreciation and
respect to paint their natural form, their peculiar individuality, just
as it appeared at that time, and as their immediate presence exhibited
itself to the penetrating eye of Lavater. Consequently, since the heavy
and expensive volumes of the great work on Physiognomy are probably
accessible to a few only of our readers, I have no scruple in inserting
here the remarkable passages of that work, which refer to both the
Stolbergs, in the second part and its thirtieth fragment, page 224:

[Side-note: Lavater's Sketch of the Stolbergs.]

"The young men, whose portraits and profiles we have here before us,
are the first men who ever sat and stood to me for physiognomical
description, as another would sit to a painter for his portrait.

"I knew them before, the noble ones--and I made the first attempt, in
accordance with nature and with all my previous knowledge, to observe
and to describe their character.

"Here is the description of the whole man.--

FIRST, OF THE YOUNGER.

"See the blooming youth of 25! the lightly-floating, buoyant, elastic
creature! it does not lie; it does not stand; it does not lean; it does
not fly; it floats or swims. Too full of life, to rest; too supple to
stand firm; too heavy and too weak, to fly.

"A floating thing, then, which does not touch the earth! In its whole
contour not a single slack line; but on the other hand no straight one,
no tense one, none firmly arched or stiffly curved; no sharp entering
angles, no rock-like projection of the brow; no hardness; no stiffness;
no defiant roughness; no threatening insolence; no iron will--all
is elastic, winning, but nothing iron; no stedfast and searching
profundity; no slow reflection, or prudent thoughtfulness; nowhere the
reasoner with the scales held firmly in the one hand, and the sword in
the other; and yet not the least formality in look or judgment! but
still the most perfect straight-forwardness of intellect, or rather
the most immaculate sentiment of truth! Always the inward feeler,
never the deep thinker; never the discoverer, the testing unfolder of
truth so quickly seen, so quickly known, so quickly loved, and quickly
grasped.... Perpetual soarer, a seer; idealizer; beautifier;--that
gives a shape and form, to all his ideas! Ever the half-intoxicated
poet, seeing only what he will see;--not the sorrowfully languishing;
not the sternly crushing; but the lofty, noble, powerful! who with
'thirst for the sun' (_Sonnendurst_), hovers to and fro in the regions
of air, strives aloft, and again--_sinks_ not to earth! but throws
himself headlong to earth, bather in the floods of the 'Rock-stream'
(_Felsenstrom_), and cradles himself 'in the thunder of the echoing
rocks around' (_Im Donner der hallenden Felsen umher_). His glance--not
the fire-glance of the eagle! His brow and nose--not the courage of the
lion! his breast--not the stedfastness of the steed that neighs for
battle! In the whole, however, there is much of the tearing activity of
the elephant....

"The projecting upper lip slightly drawn up towards the over-hanging
nose, which is neither sharply cut, nor angular, evinces, with such a
closing of the mouth, much taste and sensibility; while the lower part
of the face bespeaks much sensuality, indolence, and thoughtlessness.
The whole outline of the profile shows openness, honesty, humanity,
but at the same tune a liability to be led astray, and a high degree
of that good-hearted indiscretion, which injures no one but himself.
The middle line of the mouth bespeaks in its repose, a downright,
planless, weak, good-natured disposition; when in motion, a tender,
finely-feeling, exceedingly susceptible, benevolent, noble man. In the
arch of the eyelids, and in the glance of the eyes, there sits not
Homer, but the deepest, most thorough, and most quick feeling, and
comprehension of Homer; not the epic, but the lyric poet; genius, which
fuses, moulds, creates, glorifies, hovers, transforms all into a heroic
form--which deifies all. The half-closed eyelids, from such an arch,
indicate the keenly sensitive poet, rather than the slowly laboring
artist, who creates after a plan; the whimsical rather than the severe.
The full face of the youth is much more taking and attractive, than
the somewhat too loose, too protracted half-face; the fore-part of the
face in its slightest motion, tells of a highly sensitive, thoughtful,
inventive, untaught, inward goodness, of a softly tremulous,
wrong-abhorring love of liberty--an eager vivacity. It cannot conceal
from the commonest observer the slightest impression which it receives
for the moment, or adopts for ever. Every object, which nearly concerns
or interests him, drives the blood into the cheeks and nose; where
honor is concerned, the most maidenly blush of shame spreads like
lightning over the delicately sensitive skin.

[Side-note: Lavater's Sketch of the Stolbergs.]

"The complexion is not the pale one of all-creating, all-consuming
genius; not the wildly glowing one of the contemptuous destroyer;
not the milk-white one of the blond; not the olive one of the strong
and hardy; not the brownish one of the slowly plodding peasant; but
the white, the red, and the violet, running one into another, and so
expressively, and so happily, blended together like the strength and
weakness of the whole character. The soul of the whole and of each
single feature is freedom, and elastic activity, which springs forth
easily and is as easily repulsed. The whole fore-face and the way
the head is carried, promise magnanimity and upright cheerfulness.
Incorruptible sensibility, delicacy of taste, purity of mind, goodness
and nobleness of soul, active power, a feeling of strength and of
weakness, shine out so transparently through the whole face, that what
were otherwise a lively self-complacency dissolves itself into a noble
modesty, and most artlessly and unconstrainedly the natural pride and
vanity of youth melt with the loveliness of twilight into the easy
majesty of the whole man. The whitish hair, the length and awkwardness
of form, the softness and lightness of step, the hesitating gait, the
flatness of the breast, the fair unfurrowed brow, and various other
features spread over the whole man a certain feminine air, by which
the inward quickness of action is moderated, and every intentional
offence and every meanness made for ever impossible to the heart; but
at the same time clearly evincing that the spirited and fiery poet,
with all his unaffected thirst for freedom and for emancipation, is
neither destined to be a man of business, thoroughly persistent, who
steadily and resolutely carries out his plans, or to become immortal
in the bloody strife. And now, in conclusion, I remark, for the first
time, that I have as yet said nothing of the most striking trait--the
noble simplicity, free from all affectation! Nothing of his childlike
openness of heart! Nothing of the entire unconsciousness of his outward
nobility! Nothing of the inexpressible _bonhommie_ with which he
accepts and bears reproaches or warnings, nay, even accusations and
wrongful charges.

"But who can find an end, who will undertake to tell all that he sees
or feels in a good man, in whom there is so much pure humanity?"

DESCRIPTION OF THE ELDER STOLBERG.

"What I have said of the younger brother--how much of it may be
said also of the elder! The principal thing I have to remark is the
following:--

"This figure and this character are more compact and less diffuse
than the former. There all was longer or flatter; here all is
shorter, broader, more arched, and rounded; there all was vague; here
everything is more precise and sharply defined. So the brow; so the
nose; so the breast: more compressed, more active, less diffuse, more
of concentrated life and power! For the rest, the same amiableness
and _bonhommie!_ Not that striking openness, rather more of reserve,
but in principle, or rather in deed, the same honorable tone. The
same invincible abhorrence of injustice and baseness; the same
irreconcilable hatred of all that is called cunning and trickery; the
same unyielding opposition to tyranny and despotism; the same pure,
incorruptible sensibility to all that is noble, and great, and good;
the same need of friendship and of freedom, the same sensitiveness
and noble thirst for glory; the same catholicity of heart for all
good, wise, sincere, and energetic men, renowned or unrenowned, known
or misunderstood,--and the same light-hearted inconsiderateness. No!
not exactly the same. The face is sharper, more contracted, firmer;
has more inward, self-developing capacity for business and practical
counsels; more of enterprising spirit--which is shown especially by
the strongly prominent and fully rounded bones of the eye-sockets.
Not the all-blending, rich, pure, lofty poet's feeling--not the ease
and rapidity of the productive, power which marks the other--but yet
he is, and that in profounder depths, vivacious, upright, ardent.
Not the airy genius of light floating away in the morning red of
heaven, and fashioning huge shapes therein--but more of inward power,
though perhaps less of expression! more powerful and terrible--less
of elegance and finish; though his pencil nevertheless wants neither
coloring nor enchantment. More wit and riotous humor; droll satire;
brow, nose, look--all so downward, so over-hanging--decidedly what
it should be for original and all-enlivening wit, which does not
gather from without, but brings forth from within. Above all in this
character every trait more prominent, more angular, more aggressive,
more storming! No passive dullness, no relaxation, except in the sunken
eyes, where, as well as in the brow and nose, pleasure evidently
sits. In all besides--and even in this very brow, this concentration
of all--in this look indeed--there is an unmistakable expression of
natural, unacquired greatness; strength, impetuosity of manliness;
constancy, simplicity, precision!"

       *       *       *       *       *

After having in Darmstadt conceded to Merck the justice of his
opinions and allowed him to triumph, in his having predicted my
speedy separation from these gay companions, I found myself again in
Frankfort, well received by every one, including my father, although
the latter could not conceal his disappointment that I had not
descended by the pass to Airolo, and announced to him from Milan my
arrival in Italy. All this was expressed by his silence rather than his
words; but above all he did not show the slightest sympathy with those
wild rocks, those lakes of mist, and dragons' nests.

At last, however, by an incidental remark, by no means intended for
a reproach, he gave me to understand how little all such sights were
worth: he who has not seen Naples, he observed, has lived to no end.

[Side-note: My Meeting again with Lili.]

On my return I did not, I could not, avoid seeing Lili; the position
we maintained towards each other was tender and considerate. I was
informed that they had fully convinced her in my absence, that she must
break off her intimacy with me, and that this was the more necessary
and indeed more practicable, since by my journey and voluntary absence,
I had given a sufficiently clear intimation of my own intentions.
Nevertheless, the same localities in town and country, the same
friends, confidentially acquainted with all the past, could scarcely
be seen without emotion by either of us--still and for ever lovers,
although drawn apart in a mysterious way. It was an accursed state,
which in a certain sense resembled Hades, or the meeting of the happy
with the unhappy dead.

There were moments when departed days seemed to revive, but instantly
vanished again, like ghosts.

Some kind people had told me in confidence, that Lili, when all the
obstacles to, our union were laid before her, had declared that for my
love she was ready to renounce all present ties and advantages, and to
go with me to America. America was then perhaps, still more than now,
the Eldorado of all who found themselves crossed in the wishes of the
moment.

But the very thing which should have animated my hopes, only depressed
them the more. My handsome paternal house, only a few hundred steps
from hers, offered certainly a more tolerable and more attractive
habitation than an uncertain and remote locality beyond the ocean;
still I do not deny, that in her presence all hopes, all wishes sprang
to life again, and irresolution was stirring within me.

True, the injunctions of my sister were very peremptory and precise;
not only had she, with all the shrewd penetration of which she was
mistress, explained the situation of things to me, but she had also,
with painfully cogent letters, harped upon the same text still more
powerfully. "It were very well," said she, "if you could not help it,
then you would have to put up with it; such things one must _suffer_
but not _choose._" Some months passed away in this most miserable of
all conditions; every circumstance had conspired against the union; in
her alone I felt, I knew, lay the power which could have overcome every
difficulty.

Both the lovers, conscious of their position, avoided all solitary
interviews; but, in company, they could not help meeting in the usual
formal way. It was now that the strongest trial was to be gone through,
as every noble and feeling soul will acknowledge, when I have explained
myself more fully.

It is generally allowed, that in a new acquaintance, in the formation
of a new attachment, the lover gladly draws a veil over the past.
Growing affection troubles itself about no antecedents, and as it
springs up like genius with the rapidity of lightning, it knows nothing
either of past or future. It is true, my closer intimacy with Lili had
begun by her telling me the story of her early youth: how, from a child
up, she had excited in many both a liking and devotion to herself,
especially in strangers visiting her father's gay and lively house, and
how she had found her pleasure in all this, though it had been attended
with no further consequences and had lead to no permanent tie.

[Side-note: Lili's Old Lovers.]

True, lovers consider all that they have felt before only as
preparation for their present bliss, only as the foundation on which
the structure of their future life is to be reared. Past attachments
seem like spectres of the night, which glide away before the break of
day.

But what occurred! The fair came on, and with it appeared the whole
swarm of those spectres in their reality; all the mercantile friends
of the eminent house came one by one, and it was soon manifest
that not a man among them was willing or able wholly to give up a
certain claim to the lovely daughter. The younger ones, without being
obtrusive, still seemed to claim the rights of familiar friends; the
middle-aged, with a certain obliging dignity, like those who seek to
make themselves beloved, and who in all probability might come forward
with higher claims. There were fine men among them, with the additional
recommendation of a substantial fortune.

The older gentlemen, with their _uncle's_ ways and manners, were
altogether intolerable; they could not bridle their hands, and in the
midst of their disagreeable twaddle would demand a kiss, for which the
cheek was not refused. It was so natural to her, gracefully to satisfy
every one. The conversation, too, excited many a painful remembrance.
Allusion was constantly made to pleasure parties by water and by land,
to perils of all kinds with their happy escapes, to balls and evening
promenades, to the amusement afforded by ridiculous wooers, and to
whatever could excite an uncomfortable jealousy in the heart of an
inconsolable lover, who had, as it were, for a long time drawn to
himself the sum of so many years. But amid all this crowd and gaiety,
she did not push aside her friend, and when she turned to him, she
contrived, in a few words, to express all the tenderness which seemed
allowable to their present position.

But let us turn from this torture, of which the memory even is almost
intolerable, to poesy, which afforded, at least, an intellectual and
heartfelt alleviation of my sufferings.

"_Lili's Menagerie_" belongs somewhere to this period; I do not adduce
the poem here, because it does not reveal the softer sentiment, but
seeks only, with genial earnestness, to exaggerate the disagreeable,
and by comical, and provoking images, to change renunciation into
despair.

The _following song_ expresses rather the sweeter side of that misery,
and on that account is here inserted:

    Sweetest roses, ye are drooping,
      By my love ye were not worn;
    Bloom for one, who past all hoping,
      Feels his soul by sorrow torn.

    Oh, the days still live in thought, love,
      When to thee, my angel, bound;
    I my garden early sought, love,
      And for thee the young buds found.

    All the flowers and fruits I bore thee,
      And I cast them at thy feet;
    As I proudly stood before thee,
      Then my heart with hope would beat!

    Sweetest roses, ye are drooping,
      By my love ye were not worn;
    Bloom for one, who past all hoping,
      Feels his soul by sorrow torn.

The opera of "_Erwin and Elvira_" was suggested by the pretty
little romaunt or ballad introduced by Goldsmith in his "_Vicar of
Wakefield_," which had given us so much pleasure in our happiest days,
when we never dreamed that a similar fate awaited us.

I have already introduced some of the poetical productions of
this epoch, and I only wish they had all been preserved. A never
failing excitement in the happy season of love, heightened by the
beginning of care, gave birth to songs, which throughout expressed
no overstrained emotion, but always the sincere feeling of the
moment. From social songs for festivals, down to the most trifling of
presentation-verses--all was living and real and what a refined company
had sympathized in; first glad, then sorrowful, till finally there was
no height of bliss, no depth of woe, to which a strain was not devoted.

All these internal feelings and outward doings, so far as they were
likely to vex and pain my father, were by my mother's bustling prudence
skilfully kept from him. Although his hope of seeing me lead into
his house, that first one (who had so fully realised his ideas of a
daughter-in-law) had died away, still this "state-lady," as he used to
call her in his confidential conversations with ms wife, would never
suit him.

Nevertheless he let matters take their course, and diligently occupied
himself with his little Chancery. The young juristic friend, as well as
the dexterous amanuensis, gained continually more and more of influence
under his firm. As the absentee was now no longer missed there, they
let me take my own way, and sought to establish themselves firmly upon
a ground on which I was not destined to thrive.

Fortunately my own tendencies corresponded with the sentiments and
wishes of my father. He had so great an idea of my poetic talents, and
felt so personal a pleasure in the applause which my earliest efforts
had obtained, that he often talked to me on the subject of new and
further attempts. On the other hand, I did not venture to communicate
to him any of these social effusions and poems of passion.

[Side-note: Plan of Egmont.]

As, in _Götz von Berlichingen_, I had in my own way mirrored forth the
image of an important epoch of the world, I now again carefully looked
round for another crisis in political history of similar interest.
Accordingly the Revolt of the Netherlands attracted my attention. In
Götz, I had depicted a man of parts and energy, sinking under the
delusion that, in times of anarchy, ability and honesty of purpose must
have their weight and influence. The design of Egmont was to shew that
the most firmly established institutions cannot maintain themselves
against a powerful and shrewdly calculating Despotism. I had talked so
earnestly with my father about what the piece ought to be, and what I
wanted to do, that it inspired him with an invincible desire to see
the plan which I had already worked out in my head, fairly set down on
paper, in order to its being printed and admired.

In earlier times, while I still hoped to gain Lili's hand, I had
applied myself with the utmost diligence to the study and practice
of legal business, but now I sought to fill the fearful gulf which
separated me from her, with occupations of more intellect and soul. I
therefore set to work in earnest with the composition of Egmont. Unlike
the first _Götz von Berlichingen_, however, it was not written in
succession and in order; but immediately after the first introduction
I went at once to the main scenes without troubling myself about the
various connecting links. I made rapid progress, because my father,
knowing my fitful way of working, spurred me on (literally and without
exaggeration) day and night, and seemed to believe that the plan, so
easily conceived, might as easily be executed.



TWENTIETH BOOK.


And so I got on rapidly with my "_Egmont_;" and while I found in this
some alleviation of my wounded passion, the society of a clever artist
also helped me through many wearisome hours. And thus, as had often
before been the case, a vague desire of practical improvement brought
me a secret peace of mind, at a time when it could scarcely be hoped
for.

GEORGE MELCHIOR KRAUS, who had been born at Frankfort, but educated in
Paris, having just returned from a short tour to the north of Germany,
paid me a visit, and I immediately felt an impulse and a need to attach
myself to him. He was a cheerful merry fellow, whose light joyous
disposition had found its right sphere in Paris.

At that time Paris promised a pleasant welcome for Germans; PHILIP
HACKERT was residing there in credit and opulence; the true German
style in which, both in oil and water-colors, he faithfully executed
landscapes after nature, met with great favor, as contrasted with the
formal _mannerism_ into which the French had fallen. WILLE, in high
esteem as a copperplate engraver, supported and made German excellence
more widely known. GRIMM, already an artist of some influence, rejoiced
to help his countrymen. Pleasant excursions, in order to take original
sketches from nature were constantly undertaken, in which much of
undoubted excellence was either executed or designed.

BOUCHER and WATTEAU, both of them artists born, whose works, though
fluttering in the style and spirit of the time, were always highly
respectable, were favorably inclined to the new school, and even
took an active part in their excursions, though only for the sake of
amusement and experiment. GREUZE, living quietly by himself in his
family circle, and fond of representing such domestic scenes, seemed
delighted with his own works, held an honored and easy pencil.

All these several styles our townsman KRAUS was able to take up and
blend with his own particular talent; he formed himself in school
after school, and was skilful in his portrait-like delineations of
family and friendly gatherings; equally happy was he in his landscape
sketches, which cordially commended themselves to the eye by their
clear outlines, massive shadows, and agreeable coloring. The inward
sense was satisfied by a certain naïve truth, while the admirer of
artistic skill was especially pleased with the tact by which he
arranged and grouped into a picture what he had copied singly from
nature.

He was a most agreeable companion; a cheerful equanimity never failed
him; obliging without obsequiousness, reserved without pride, he was
everywhere at home, everywhere beloved, the most active, and, at the
same time, the most manageable of all mortals. With such talents and of
such a disposition, he soon won the favor of the higher circles; but he
was especially well received at the castle of the Baron von Stein, at
Nassau on the Lahn, whose accomplished and lovely daughter he assisted
in her artistic studies, and in many ways enlivened the whole circle.

Upon the marriage of this excellent lady to the Count von Werther,
the newly wedded couple took the artist with them to Thuringia, where
the Count possessed a large estate, and thus he got to Weimar. His
acquaintance was immediately sought, his talents were appreciated--and
a wish expressed that he would fix his permanent abode there.

Obliging as he was to everybody, upon his return at this time to
Frankfort, he stimulated my love of art, which had been contented with
merely collecting, and to making practical essays. The neighbourhood of
the artist is indispensable to the Dilettante, for the latter sees all
that is wanting in himself supplied by the former; the wishes of the
amateur are fulfilled in the artist.

By a certain natural talent, assisted by practice, I succeeded pretty
well in an outline, and I could give the shape of all that I saw before
me in nature; but I wanted the peculiar plastic power, the skilful
industry, which lends a body to the outline by well-graduated light and
shade. My copies were rather remote suggestions of the real form, and
my figures like those light airy beings in Dante's Purgatory, which,
casting no shadow themselves, fled affrighted at the shadows of actual
bodies.

Lavater's fishing for physiognomical treasures--for so we may well
designate the importunate urgency with which he called upon all men,
not only to observe physiognomies, but also practically to make, be it
artistic or most bungling attempts at copying faces, led me into the
habit of taking the portraits of all my friends on grey paper, with
black and white chalk. The likeness was not to be mistaken, but it
required the hand of my artistic friend to make them stand out from the
dark background.

[Side-note: Kraus the Artist.]

In turning over and looking through the rich portfolio of drawings
which the good Kraus had taken during his travels, we had most pleasant
talk together when he came to the sketches of scenes and persons in and
about Weimar. On such paintings I, too, was glad to dwell, and you may
imagine that it must have been flattering to the young man, to see in
so many pictures only the text which was to lead to a circumstantially
repeated exclamation: they would be glad to see _him_ there. With much
grace he would imitate the different persons whose portraits he had
taken and impersonate the greetings and invitations he had received.
One very successful oil-painting represented the musical director,
Wolf, at the piano, with his wife behind him preparing to sing; and
this gave the artist opportunity to assure me in earnest terms, of the
warm welcome this worthy pair would give me. Among his sketches were
several of the wood and mountain scenery around Bürgel. Here an honest
forester, more perhaps to please his pretty daughters than himself,
had by means of bridges, railings, and mossy paths, opened pleasant
and sociable walks through the rough masses of rocks, thickets, and
plantations. In one of these beautiful promenades he had painted
the fair damsels in white dresses, and not without their attendant
cavaliers. In one of these you immediately recognized Bertuch, whose
serious designs upon the oldest daughter were openly avowed; and Kraus
was not offended if you ventured to refer a second youth to himself,
and guessed his growing attachment to the sister.

BERTUCH, as the pupil of Wieland, had so distinguished himself in
science and in business, that already appointed private secretary
of the Duke, he had the best possible prospects before him. From
him we passed to Wieland and talked at length of his rectitude, and
cheerfulness, and kindly disposition; his fine literary and poetical
designs were dwelt upon, and allusions were made to the influence
of the _Merkur_ throughout Germany; many other names of literary,
political, or social distinction were also mentioned, and among them.
Musæus, Kirms, Berendis, and Ludecus. Of women, the wife of Wolf, and
a widow Kotzebue, with a lovely daughter and a bright boy, were, among
many others, characterized and extolled. Everything seemed to point to
a fresh and active life of literature and art.

And so, by degrees, were exhibited all the various elements upon
which the young Duke was, on his return, to work. His mother and
guardian had prepared this state of things, while, as regarded the
introduction of more important measures, all that, in accordance with
the duty of such provisional governments, was left to the judgment and
decision of the future sovereign. The sad ruin caused by the burning
of the palace was already looked upon as furnishing occasion for new
improvements. The mines at Ilmenau, which had stopped working, but
which, it was asserted, might again be made profitable by going to the
great expense of repairing the deep shaft;--the university at Jena,
which was somewhat behind the spirit of the age, and was consequently
threatened with the loss of some of its most able teachers,--and many
other matters, roused a noble common interest. Already were looks cast
around for persons, who, in the upward struggle of Germany, might be
qualified to further such various designs for good, and the prospect
seemed as fresh as the vivacity and energy of youth could desire.
And if it seemed sad to bring a young princess not to a home, of a
suitable princely dignity, but to a very ordinary dwelling built for
quite a different object; still such beautifully situated and well
contrived country-houses as Ettenburg, Belvedere, and other delightful
pleasure-seats, gave enjoyment for the present, and also a hope that
the life of nature thus rendered necessary, might lead to profitable
and agreeable occupations.

In the course of this biography, we have circumstantially exhibited the
child, the boy, the youth, seeking by different ways to approach to
the Suprasensible first, looking with strong inclination to a religion
of nature; then, clinging with love to a positive one; and, finally,
concentrating himself in the trial of his own powers, and joyfully
giving himself up to the general faith. Whilst he wandered to and fro,
space which lay intermediate between the sensible and suprasensible
regions, seeking and looking about him, much came in his way which did
not appear to belong to either, and he seemed to see, more and more
distinctly, that it is better to avoid all thought of the immense and
incomprehensible.

He thought he could detect in nature--both animate and inanimate,
with soul or without soul--something which manifests itself only in
contradictions, and which, therefore, could not be comprehended under
any idea, still less under one word. It was not godlike, for it seemed
unreasonable; not human, for it had no understanding; nor devilish,
for it was beneficent; nor angelic, for it often betrayed a malicious
pleasure. It resembled chance, for it evolved no consequences; it was
like Providence, for it hinted at connexion. All that limits us it
seemed to penetrate; it seemed to sport at will with the necessary
elements of our existence; it contracted time and expanded space. In
the impossible alone did it appear to find pleasure, while it rejected
the possible with contempt.

[Side-note: The Daemonic--Egmont.]

To this principle, which seemed to come in between all other principles
to separate them, and yet to link them together, I gave the name of
Daemonic, after the example of the ancients and of those who, at any
rate, had perceptions of the same kind. I sought to screen myself from
this fearful principle, by taking refuge, according to my usual habits,
in an imaginary creation.

Among the parts of history which I had particularly studied with some
care, were the events which have made the United Netherlands so famous.
I had diligently examined the original sources, and had endeavoured,
as far as possible, to get my facts at first hand, and to bring the
whole period vividly before my mind's eye. The situations it presented
appeared to me to be in the highest degree dramatic, while, for a
principal figure, around whom the others might be grouped with the
happiest effect, there was Count Egmont, whose greatness as a man and a
hero was most captivating.

But for my purpose it was necessary to convert him into a character
marked by such peculiarities as would grace a youth better than a man
in years, and an unmarried man better than the father of a family;
and one independent, rather than one, who, however freely disposed,
nevertheless restrained by the various relations of life.

Having thus, in my conception of Egmont's character, made him youthful,
and set him free from all domestic restraints, I ascribed to him
unlimited enjoyment of life and its pleasures, boundless self-reliance,
a gift of drawing all men to himself, and consequently also of winning
the favor of the people, and which, while it inspired a princess with a
silent, and a young child of nature with an avowed passion, won for him
the sympathy of a shrewd statesman, and even the loving admiration of
the son of his great adversary.

[Side-note: The Daemonic Influence in Life.]

The personal courage which distinguishes the hero is the foundation
upon which his whole character rests, the ground and soil from which
it sprung. He knows no danger, and willingly is blind to the greatest
when it is close at hand. Surrounded by enemies, we may, at any rate,
cut our way through them; the meshes of state policy are harder to
break through. The Daemonic element, which is in play on both sides,
and in conflict with which the lovely falls while the hated triumphs;
and, above all, the prospect that out of this conflict will spring a
third element, which will answer to the wishes of all men this perhaps
is what has gained for the piece (not, indeed, immediately on its first
appearance, but later and at the right time), the favor which it now
enjoys. Here, therefore, for the sake of many beloved readers, I will
anticipate myself, and as I know not whether I shall soon have another
opportunity, will express a conviction which, however, I did not form
till a considerable period subsequent to that of which I am now writing.

Although this Daemonic element can manifest itself in all corporeal
and incorporeal things, and even expresses itself most distinctly in
animals, yet, with man, especially does it stand in a most wonderful
connexion, forming in him a power which, if it be not opposed to the
moral order of the world, nevertheless does often so cross it that one
may be regarded as the warp, and the other as the woof.

For the phenomena which it gives rise to there are innumerable names:
for all philosophies and religions have sought in prose and poetry
to solve this enigma and to read once for all the riddle which,
nevertheless, remains still unriddled by them.

But the most fearful manifestation of the Daemonical, is when it is
seen predominating in some individual character. During my life I have
observed several instances of this, either more closely or remotely.
Such persons are not always the most eminent men, either morally or
intellectually, and it is seldom that they recommend themselves to
our affections by goodness of heart; a tremendous energy seems to be
seated in them, and they exercise a wonderful power over all creatures,
and even over the elements; and, indeed, who shall say how much
farther such influence may extend? All the moral powers combined are
of no avail against them; in vain does the more enlightened portion
of mankind attempt to throw suspicion upon them as deceived if not
deceivers--the mass is still drawn on by them. Seldom if ever do the
great men of an age find their equals among their contemporaries, and
they are to be overcome by nothing but by the universe itself; and it
is from observation of this fact that the strange, but most striking,
proverb must have risen: _Nemo contra Deum nisi Deus ipse._

From these lofty reflections I return to the littleness of my own
life, for which strange events, clothed at least with a daemonical
appearance, were in store. From the summit of Mont Gotthard, I had
turned my back upon Italy, and returned home, because I could not
make up my mind to go to a distance from Lili. An affection, which is
grounded on the hope of possessing for life one dearly beloved, in
an intimate and cordial union, does not die away all at once; on the
contrary, it is nourished by a consideration of the reasonable desires
and honest hopes we are conscious of cherishing.

It lies in the nature of the thing, that in such cases the maiden
should be consoled before the youth. To these beautiful children, as
descendants of Pandora, is granted the enviable gift to charm, attract,
and (more through nature and of half purpose, than through design or of
malice) to gather admirers around them; and thus, like the Magician's
Apprentice, they are often in danger of being frightened by the crowd
of their adorers. And then at last a choice must be made from among
them all; one must be exclusively preferred; one must lead home the
bride.

And how often does accident determine the choice and sway the mind
of her who has to make the selection! I had renounced Lili from
conviction, but love made me suspect my own reason. Lili had taken
leave of me with the same feelings, and I had set out on a beautiful
tour in order to distract my mind, but it had produced the opposite
effect.

As long as I was absent I believed in the separation, but did not
believe in the renunciation. Recollections, hopes and wishes, all had
free play. Now I came back, and as the re-union of those whose happy
love is unopposed, is a heaven so the meeting again of two lovers
who are kept apart by cold calculations of reason, is an intolerable
purgatory, a forecourt of hell. When I again entered the circle in
which Lili still moved, all the dissonances which tended to oppose
our union, seemed to have gained double force; when I stood once more
before her, the conviction that she was lost to me, fell heavy upon my
heart.

Accordingly I resolved at once on flight, and under this impression
there was nothing which I desired more, than that the young ducal
pair of Weimar should come from Carlsruhe to Frankfort, in order
that, complying with old and new imitations, I might follow them to
Weimar. Their Highnesses had always maintained towards me a gracious
and confidential manner, for which I on my part returned the warmest
thanks. My attachment to the Duke from the first moment I saw him;
my respect for the princess whom by reputation I had so long known;
a desire to render personally some friendly service to Wieland,
whose conduct had been so liberal, and to atone upon the spot for my
half-wilful, half-unintentional improprieties, were motives enough
to induce and even to force the assent of a youth, who now had no
attachment to detain him. Moreover, from Lili I must fly, whether to
the South, where my Father's enthusiasm was daily depicting to me a
most glorious heaven of Art and Nature, or to the North, whither so
distinguished a circle of eminent men invited me.

The young princely pair now reached Frankfort on their way home. The
Duke of Meiningen's suite was there at the same time, and by him, as
well as by the Privy Counsellor von Dürkheim, who accompanied the young
prince, I was received in the most friendly manner possible. But now,
to keep up the fashion of my youth, a strange incident was not wanting:
a little misunderstanding arose to throw me into an incredible but
rather laughable perplexity.

[Side-note: A Little Perplexity.]

Their Highnesses of Weimar and Meiningen were living in the same hotel.
I received one day an invitation to dinner. My mind was so preoccupied
with the Court of Weimar, that I did not think it necessary more
particularly to inform myself, especially as I had not the presumption
to imagine that any notice would be taken of me by the Duke of
Meiningen. Accordingly I go full dressed to the "Roman Emperors," and
making my way to the apartments of the Weimar family find them empty;
being informed that the Duke and his suite are with his Highness of
Meiningen, I betake myself thither, and am kindly received. Supposing
that this is only a morning visit, or that perhaps the two Dukes are to
dine together, I await the issue. Suddenly, however, the Weimar suite
sets itself in motion, and I of course follow; but instead of returning
to their own apartments they go straight down stairs and into their
chariots, and I am left alone in the street.

Now, instead of inquiring into the matter, and adroitly and prudently
seeking some solution of it, I, with my usual precipitancy, went
straight home, where I found my parents at supper. My father shook his
head, while my mother made every possible excuse for me. In the evening
she told me in confidence, that after I had left the table, my father
had said, that he wondered very much how I, generally acute enough,
could not see that in that quarter they only wished to make a fool of
me and to laugh at me. But this did not move me: for meanwhile I had
met with Herr von Dürkheim, who in his mild way brought me to book
with sundry graceful and humorous reproaches. I was now awakened from
my dream, and had an opportunity to express my most sincere thanks for
the favor intended me contrary to my hope and expectation, and to ask
forgiveness for my blunder.

After I had on good grounds determined to accept their friendly offers,
the following arrangement was made. A gentleman of the Duke's suite who
had stayed behind in Carlsruhe, to wait for a landau which was building
in Strasburg, was to be by a certain day in Frankfort, and I was to
hold myself in readiness to set off directly with him for Weimar. The
hearty and gracious farewell with which the young sovereigns took their
leave of me, the friendly behaviour of the courtiers, made me look
forward most anxiously to this journey, for which the road seemed so
pleasantly to smoothe itself.

But here, too, accidents came in to complicate so simple an
arrangement, which through my passionate impatience became still more
confused, and was almost quite frustrated. Having announced the day
of my departure, I had taken leave of everybody, and after packing
up in haste my chattels, not forgetting my unprinted manuscripts, I
waited anxiously for the hour which was to bring the aforesaid friend
in the new landau, and to carry me into a new country, and into new
circumstances. The hour passed, and the day also; and I since, to avoid
a second leave-taking and the being overrun with visits, I had given
out that I was to depart early in the morning, I was obliged to keep
close to the house, and to my own room, and had thus placed myself in a
peculiar situation.

But since solitude and a narrow space were always favorable to me,
and I was now compelled to find some employment for these hours, I
set to work on my "Egmont," and brought it almost to a close. I read
over what I wrote to my father who had acquired a peculiar interest
in this piece, and wished nothing more than to see it finished and
in print, since he hoped that it would add to his son's reputation.
He needed something of this sort to keep him quiet, and to make him
contented; for he was inclined to make very grave comments on the
non-arrival of the carriage. He maintained that the whole affair was
a mere fiction, would not believe in any new landau, and pronounced
the gentleman who stayed behind to be a phantom of the air. It was,
however, only indirectly that he gave me to understand all this; but
he only tormented himself and my mother the more openly; insisting
that the whole thing was a mere piece of court pleasantry, which they
had practised upon me in consequence of my former escapades, and in
order to sicken and to shame me, had put upon me a disgraceful mockery
instead of the expected honor.

As to myself, I held fast to my first faith, and congratulated myself
upon these solitary hours, disturbed by neither friends nor strangers,
nor by any sort of social distraction. I therefore wrote on vigorously
at "Egmont," though not without inward mortification. And this frame of
mind perhaps suited well with the piece itself, which, agitated by so
many passions, could not very well have been written by one entirely
passionless.

[Side-note: A Disappointment.]

Thus passed eight days, and I know not how many more, when such perfect
imprisonment began to prove irksome. Accustomed for many years to live
under the open sky, and to enter into society on the most frank and
familiar terms, in the neighbourhood too of one dearly beloved, from
whom indeed I had resolved to part, but from whom, so long as I was
within the circle of her attraction, I found it difficult to absent
myself--all this begun to make me so uneasy, that there was danger
lest the interest of my tragedy should suffer, and my inventive powers
be suspended through my impatience. Already for several evenings
I had found it impossible to remain at home. Disguised in a large
mantle, I crept round the city, passing the houses of my friends and
acquaintances, and not forbearing to walk up to Lili's window. Her
house was a corner one, and the room she usually spent her evenings
in was on the ground floor; the green shades were down, but I could
easily remark that the lights stood in their usual places. Soon I heard
her singing at the piano; it was the song, _Ah! why resistless dost
thou press me?_ which I had written for her hardly a year before. She
seemed to me to sing with more expression than ever; I could make out
every word distinctly; for I had placed my ear as close as the convex
lattice would permit. After she had sung it through, I saw by the
shadow which fell upon the curtain that she got up and walked backwards
and forwards, but I sought in vain to catch the outline of her lovely
person through the thick curtains. Nothing but the firm resolve to tear
myself away, and not to afflict her with my presence, but actually to
renounce her, and the thought of the strange impression which would be
made by my re-appearance, could have determined me to leave so dear a
neighbourhood.

Several more days passed away, and my father's suggestion seemed daily
to become more probable, since not even a letter arrived from Carlsruhe
to explain the reasons of the delay. I was unable to go on with my
poetic labors, and now, in the uneasiness with which I was internally
distracted, my father had the game to himself. He represented to me,
that it was now too late to change matters, that my trunk was packed,
and he would give me money and credit to go to Italy; but I must
decide quickly. In such a weighty affair, I naturally doubted and
hesitated. Finally, however, I agreed that if, by a certain hour,
neither carriage nor message came, I would set off, directing my steps
first of all to Heidelberg and from there over the Alps, not, however,
going through Switzerland again, but rather taking the route through
the Grisons, or the Tyrol.

Strange things indeed must happen, when a planless youth who of himself
is so easily misled, is also driven into a false step by a passionate
error of age. But so it is both with youth and the whole of life. It is
not till the campaign is over that we learn to see through its tactics.
In the ordinary course of things such an accident were easy enough
to be explained; but we are always too ready to conspire with error
against what is naturally probable, just as we shuffle the cards before
we deal them round, in order that chance may not be deprived of its
full share in the game. It is precisely thus that the element arises
in and upon which the Daemonical so loves to work; and it even sports
with us the more fearfully, the clearer are the inklings we have of its
approach.

The last day for my waiting had arrived, and the next morning was fixed
for my setting out on my travels; and now I felt extremely anxious to
see my friend Passavant again, who had just returned from Switzerland,
and who would really have had cause to be offended if, by keeping
my plans entirely to myself I had violated the intimate confidence
which subsisted between us. I therefore sent him an anonymous note,
requesting a meeting by night at a certain spot, where I was the
first to arrive enveloped in my mantle; but he was not long after me,
and if he wondered at the appointment, he must have been still more
surprised to meet the person he did. His joy, however, was equal to the
astonishment; conversation and counsel were not to be thought of, he
could only wish me well through my Italian journey, and so we parted.
The next day I saw myself by good time advancing along the mountain
road.

[Side-note: Heidelberg--Mademoiselle Delf.]

I had several reasons for going to Heidelberg; one was very sensible
and prudent, for I had heard that my missing Weimar friend must
pass through Heidelberg from Carlsruhe; and so, when we reached the
post-house, I left a note which was to be handed to a cavalier who
should pass through in the carriage described; the second reason was
one of passion, and bad reference to my late attachment to Lili. In
short. Mademoiselle Delf, who had been the confidante of our love, and
indeed the mediator with our respective parents for their approval of
our marriage, lived there; and I prized it as the greatest happiness to
be able, before I left Germany, to talk over those happy times with a
worthy, patient, and indulgent friend.

I was well received, and introduced into many families; among others,
the family of the high warden of the forests, Von W------, particularly
pleased me. The parents were dignified and easy in their manners, and
one of the daughters resembled Frederica. It was just the time of
vintage, the weather beautiful, and all my Alsacian feelings revived
in the beautiful valley of the Rhine. At this time, however, my
experience, both of myself and others seemed very strange; it was as
yet quite vague and undigested in my mind, no deliberate judgment upon
life had shaped itself before me, and whatever sense of the infinite
had been awakened within me served only to confuse and perplex me the
more. In society, nevertheless, I was as agreeable and entertaining as
ever, and possibly even still more so. Here, under this free air of
heaven, among joyous men, I sought again the old sports which never
lose their novelty and charm for youth. With an earlier and not yet
extinguished love in my heart, I excited sympathy without seeking it,
even though it sought no utterance of itself, and thus I soon became at
home in this circle, and indeed necessary to it, and I forgot that I
had resolved, after talking away a couple of evenings, to continue my
journey.

Mademoiselle Delf was one of those persons who, without exactly
intriguing, always like to have some business in hand, and to keep
others employed, and to carry through some object or other. She had
conceived a sincere friendship for me; and prevailed the more easily on
me to prolong my visit as I lived in her house, where she suggested all
manner of inducements for my stay, and raised all manner of obstacles
to my journey. When, however, I wanted to turn the conversation to
Lili, she was not so well pleased or so sympathizing as I had hoped.
On the contrary, she said that, under the circumstances, nothing could
be wiser than our resolution to part, and maintained that one must
submit to what is unavoidable, banish the impossible from the mind, and
look around for some new object of interest in life. Full of plans as
she always was, she had not intended to leave this matter to accident,
but had already formed a project for my future conduct, from which I
clearly saw that her recent invitation to Heidelberg had not been so
disinterested as it sounded.

She reminded me that the Electoral Prince, Charles Theodore, who had
done so much for the arts and sciences, resided still at Mannheim, and
that as the court was Roman Catholic while the country was Protestant
the latter party was extremely anxious to strengthen itself by
enlisting the services of able and hopeful men. I must now go, in God's
name, to Italy, and there mature my views of Art; meanwhile they would
work for me. It would, on my return, soon be seen whether the budding
affection of Fraülein von W------ had expanded or had been nipped, and
whether it would be politic, through an alliance with a respectable
family, to establish myself and my fortunes in a new home.

All these suggestions I did not, to be sure, reject; but my planless
nature could not wholly harmonize with the scheming spirit of my
friend; I was gratified, however, with the kind intentions of the
moment, while Lili's image floated before me, waking and dreaming, and
mingled with everything else which afforded me pleasure or distraction.
But now I summoned before my soul the serious import of my great
travelling plan, and I resolved to set myself free, gently and with
propriety, and in a few days to make known to her my determination of
taking leave of her, and to resume my route.

One night Mademoiselle Delf had gone on until late unfolding to me
her plans, and all that certain parties were disposed to do for me,
and I could not but feel grateful for such sentiments, although the
scheme of strengthening a certain circle, through me and my possible
influence at court, was manifest enough. It was about one o'clock when
we separated. I soon fell into a sound sleep, but before very long I
was awakened by the horn of a postilion who was stopping and blowing it
before the house. Very soon Mademoiselle Delf appeared with a light,
and a letter in her hands, and coming up to my bed-side, she exclaimed,
"Here's the letter; read and tell me what it says. Surely it comes from
the Weimar people. If it is an invitation do not follow it, but call
to mind our conversation." I asked her to give me a light and leave me
for a quarter of an hour to myself. She went away very reluctantly.
I remained thinking for some time without opening the letter. The
express then has come from Frankfort, I know both the seal and hand;
the friend then has arrived there; he is still true to his invitation,
and our own want of faith and incredulity had made us act prematurely.
Why could one not wait, in a quiet civilized place, for a man who had
been announced distinctly, but whose arrival might be delayed by so
many accidents? The scales fell from my eyes. All the kindness, the
graciousness, the confidence of the past came up livingly before me,
and I was almost ashamed of the strange wilful step I had taken. I
opened the letter, and found all that had happened explained naturally
enough. My missing guide had waited for the new landau which was to
come from Strasburg, day after day, hour after hour, as we had waited
for him; then for the sake of some business he had gone round by way
of Mannheim to Frankfort, and to his dismay had not found me there. He
sent the hasty letter by express, proposing that now the mistake was
explained I should instantly return, and save him the shame of going to
Weimar without me.

[Side-note: Departure for Weimar.]

Much as my understanding and my feeling inclined me to this side, there
was still no lack of weighty arguments in favour of my new route.
My father had laid out for me a fine plan of travel, and had given
me a little library, which might prepare me for the scenes I was to
visit, and also guide me on the spot. In my leisure hours I had had
no other entertainment than to reflect on it, and, indeed, during my
last short journey I had thought of nothing else in the coach. Those
glorious objects which, from my youth up, I had become acquainted with,
histories and all sorts of tales, gathered before my soul, and nothing
seemed to me so desirable as to visit them, while I was parting from
Lili for ever.

As these thoughts passed through my mind I had dressed myself and was
walking up and down my chamber. My anxious hostess entered. "What am
I to hope?" she cried. "Dearest madam," I answered;" say no more on
the subject; I have made up my mind to return: the grounds of that
conclusion I have well weighed, and to repeat them to you would be
wasting time. A resolution must be taken sooner or later, and who
should take it but the person whom it most concerns?"

I was moved, and so was she; and we had an excited scene, which I cut
short by ordering my servant to engage a post-coach. In vain I begged
my hostess to calm herself, and to turn the mock-departure which I
took of the company the evening before into a real one; to consider
that it was only a temporary visit, a postponement for a short time;
that my Italian journey was not given up, and my return that way was
not precluded. She would listen to nothing, and she disquieted her
friend, already deeply excited, still more. The coach was at the door;
everything was packed, and the postilion gave the usual signs of
impatience; I tore myself away; she would not let me go, and with so
much art brought up all the arguments of the present, that finally,
impassioned and inspired, I shouted out the words of Egmont:

"Child! child! no more! The coursers of time, lashed, as it were, by
invisible spirits, hurry on the light car of our destiny, and all that
we can do is in cool self-possession to hold the reins with a firm
hand, and to guide the wheels, now to the left, now to the right,
avoiding a stone here, or a precipice there. Whither it is hurrying
who can tell? and who, indeed, can remember the point from which it
started?"


END OF THE AUTOBIOGRAPHY.



List of illustrations


List of illustrations

Frontispiece: Johan Wolfgang von Goethe par Eugène Delacroix (Source:
Faust, tragédie de M. de Goethe, traduite en français par M. Albert
Stapfer. C. Motte (Paris) 1828, Gallica Bnf.) Pl. 1

Goethe umgeben von Illustrationen seiner Dramen (Franz Heister, nach
1840, Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 2

Goethe und seine Muse. Titelvignette von Lovis Corinth (Frankfurter
Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 3

"Götz von Berlichingen mit der eisernen Hand". Brustbild des Götz von
Lovis Corinth (1920-1921, Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 4

.... De temps en temps j'aime à voir le vieux Père, Et je me garde
bien de lui rompre en Misiere... par Eugène Delacroix (Source: Faust,
tragédie de M. de Goethe, traduite en français par M. Albert Stapfer.
C. Motte (Paris) 1828, Gallica Bnf.) Pl. 5

Pauvre crane vide, que me veux tu dire avec ton grincement hideux? par
Eugène Delacroix (Détail. Source: Faust, tragédie de M. de Goethe,
traduite en français par M. Albert Stapfer. C. Motte (Paris) 1828,
Gallica Bnf.) Pl. 6

Iphigenie am Wasser stehend, in nachdenklicher Pose vor dem
Sonnenuntergang. Im Hintergrund der Tempel Dianas auf einem Felsen.
Von Marie Rehsener (1913, Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches
Hochstift.) Pl. 7

Vor dem Tempel der Diana links Thoas, ihm gegenüber Iphigenie und
Orest im Begriff sich zu verabschieden. Von Marie Rehsener (1913,
Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 8

Götz von Berlichingen

"Götz von Berlichingen bei den Zigeunern". Von Moritz von Beckerath
(1868, Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 9

Die Gefangennahme des jungen Götz. Von Lovis Corinth (1919, Frankfurter
Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 10

Götz und Elisabeth. Von Lovis Corinth (1921, Frankfurter Goethehaus,
Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 11

Götz bei den Hauptleuten. Von Lovis Corinth (1919, Frankfurter
Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 12

Faust

Meph. Pourquoi tout ce vacarme? que demande Monsieur? qu'y a-t-il pour
son service? Par Eugène Delacroix. Pl. 13

Faust. Ma Belle Demoiselle, oseraisje vous offrir mon bras et vous
reconduire chez vous? Par Eugène Delacroix. Pl. 14

Meph. Laisse cet objet, on ne se trouve jamais bien de le regarder ...
tu as bien entendu raconter l'histoire de méduse? Faust. Assurément
ce sont là les yeux d'un mort qu'une main amie n'a point fermés. c'est
là le sein que Marguerite m'a livré, c'est le corps charmant que j'ai
possédé. Par Eugène Delacroix. Pl. 15

(Source: Faust, tragédie de M. de Goethe, traduite en français par
M. Albert Stapfer. C. Motte (Paris) 1828, Gallica Bnf.)

Méphistophélès et Siebel. Sorcellerie! tombez sur lui, le drôle est
condamné. Pl. 16

Faust. O prodige! elle grandit entre mes mains, elle s'enflamme,... Pl. 17

Source: Le Faust de Goethe, traduction revue et complète, précédée d'un essai
sur Goethe par M. Henri Blaze; édition illustrée par M. Tony Johannot,
Dutertre, Paris, 1847.)

Faust und Mephisto im Studierzimmer. Von Gabriel Cornelius von Max
(1880, Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 18

Mephisto nach dem Pakt. Von Gabriel Cornelius von Max (1880,
Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 19

Werther

Werther arrive chez Charlotte, et la voit toute entourée d'enfants. Pl. 20

La mort de Werther. Pl. 21

Source: Werther par Goethe; traduction nouvelle, précédée de considérations sur
Werther et en général sur la poésie de notre époque, par Pierre Leroux;
accompagnée d'une préface par George Sand; dix eaux-fortes par Tony
Johannot, J. Hetzel, Paris, 1845.)

Braun der Bär fängt sich in Reinekes Falle. Von Lovis Corinth (1921,
Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 22

Isegrim der Wolf vor König Nobel und der Königin. Von Lovis Corinth
(1921, Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 23

Goethe-Bildnis, von Fuchsen gerahmt. Von Lovis Corinth (1921,
Frankfurter Goethehaus, Freies Deutsches Hochstift.) Pl. 24


INDEX
(Not retained for the text file)





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