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)