The Works of J. W. von Goethe/Volume 5/Eleventh Book

by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

 

Part the Third

Care is taken that trees do not grow into the sky.

ELEVENTH BOOK.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

However, the enjoyment of the daytime and season in this noble country was more serious and more elevating to the heart. One had only to resign one's self to the present, to enjoy the clearness of the pure sky, the brilliancy of the rich earth, the mild evenings, the warm nights, by the side of a beloved one, or in her vicinity. For months together we were favoured with pure ethereal mornings, when the sky, having watered the earth with superfluous dew, displayed all its magnificence; and, that this spectacle might not become too simple, clouds after clouds piled themselves over the distant mountains, now in this spot, now in that. They stood for days, nay, for weeks, without obscuring the pure sky; and even the transient storms refreshed the country, and gave lustre to the green, which again glistened in the sunshine before it could become dry. The double rainbow, the two-coloured borders of a dark gray and nearly black streak in the sky, were nobler, more highly coloured, more decided, but also more transient, than I had ever observed. In the midst of these objects, the desire of poetising, which I had not felt for a long time, again came forward. For Frederica I composed many songs to well-known melodies. They would have made a pretty little book: a few of them still remain, and will easily be found among my others.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Not one of us had read the book through, for we found ourselves deceived in the expectations with which we had opened it. A system of nature was announced; and therefore we hoped to learn really something of nature,—our idol. Physics and chemistry, descriptions of heaven and earth, natural history and anatomy, with much else, had now for years, and up to the last day, constantly directed us to the great, adorned world; and we would willingly have heard both particulars and generals about suns and stars, planets and moons, mountains, valleys, rivers and seas, with all that live and move in them. That, in the course of this, much must occur which would appear to the common man as injurious, to the clergy as dangerous, and to the state as inadmissible, we had no doubt; and we hoped that the little book had not unworthily stood the fiery ordeal. But how hollow and empty did we feel in this melancholy, atheistical half-night, in which earth vanished with all its images, heaven with all its stars. There was to be a matter in motion from all eternity; and by this motion, right and left and in every direction, without anything further, it was to produce the infinite phenomena of existence. Even all this we should have allowed to pass, if the author, out of his moved matter, had really built up the world before our eyes. But he seemed to know as little about nature as we did; for, having set up some general ideas, he quits them at once, for the sake of changing that which appears as higher than nature, or as a higher nature within nature, into material, heavy nature, which is moved, indeed, but without direction or form—and thus he fancies he has gained a great deal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Arrived at Mannheim, I hastened with great eagerness to see the hall of antiquities, of which a great boast was made. Even at Leipzig, on the occasion of Winckelmann's and Lessing's writings, I had heard much said of those important works of art, but so

"When I reached her my hand from my horse"

Photogravure after the drawing by W. Friedrich

much the less had I seen them: for except Laocoon, the father, and the Faun with the crotola, there were no casts in the academy; and whatever Oeser chose to say to us on the subject of those works was enigmatical enough. How can a conception of the end of art be given to beginners?

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

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

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

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

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

1. A polemic dissertation written on taking a university degree.—Trans.
2. Medicine. — Trans.
3. "Michel" is exactly to the Germans what "John Bull" is to the English.—Trans.
4. "Um den so genannten Pfaffen zu schaden." As we have not the word for a priest which exactly expresses the contempt involved in "Pfaffe," the word "priestcraft" has been introduced.—Trans.
5. "Practically clever" is put as a kind of equivalent for the difficult word "geist reich."—Trans.
6. This English word is used in the original.—Trans.
7. A complete edition of Lenz's works was published by Tieck in 1828. In that will be found the essay and play in question, to the last of which he gives the name Amor vincit omnia.—Trans.
8. The lines in Shakespeare, which the above are intended to imitate, are the following:
   
   

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

   Lenz's words, which cannot be rendered intelligibly into English, furnish an instance of Goethe's meaning, when he commends Lenz as happily catching the spirit of the original, without the slightest pretence to accuracy.— Trans.
9. The above doggerel is pretty faithful, but it is as well to give the original.
   
   
   

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

10. By this daughter he means Ottilie in the "Elective Affinities."—Trans.