THOMAS CARLYLE'S

 COLLECTED WORKS. 

 LIBRARY EDITION. 

 _IN THIRTY VOLUMES. _

 VOL. V. 

 LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. 

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

[Illustration:

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

London. Chapman & Hall. ]

 THE

 LIFE OF FRIEDRICH SCHILLER

 COMPREHENDING

 AN EXAMINATION OF HIS WORKS. 

 BY

 THOMAS CARLYLE. 

 Quique pii vates et Phœbo digna locuti. VIRGIL. 

 [1825. ]

 _WITH SUPPLEMENT OF 1872. _

 LONDON: CHAPMAN AND HALL (LIMITED). 

 CONTENTS. 

 PAGE

PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION vii

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

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

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

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

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

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

SUMMARY AND INDEX 417

 PREFACE TO SECOND EDITION. 

 [1845. ]

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

There have been various new _Lives_ of Schiller since this one firstsaw the light;—great changes in our notions, informations, in ourrelations to the Life of Schiller, and to other things connectedtherewith, during that long time! Into which I could not in the leastenter on the present occasion. Such errors, one or two, as laycorrigible on the surface, I have pointed out by here and there a Noteas I read; but of errors that lay deeper there could no charge betaken: to break the surface, to tear-up the old substance, and model_it_ anew, was a task that lay far from me, —that would have beenfrightful to me. What was written remains written; and the Reader, byway of constant commentary, when needed, has to say to himself, "Itwas written Twenty years ago. " For newer instruction on Schiller'sBiography he can consult the _Schillers Leben_ of Madame von Wolzogen, which Goethe once called a _Schiller Redivivus_; the _Briefwechselzwischen Schiller und Goethe_;—or, as a summary of the whole, and thereadiest inlet to the general subject for an English reader, SirEdward Bulwer's _Sketch of Schiller's Life_, a vigorous and livelypiece of writing, prefixed to his _Translations from Schiller_. 

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

T. CARLYLE. 

_London, 7th May 1845. _

 PART I. 

 SCHILLER'S YOUTH (1759-1784). 

 PART FIRST. 

 [1759-1784. ]

Among the writers of the concluding part of the last century there isnone more deserving of our notice than Friedrich Schiller. Distinguished alike for the splendour of his intellectual faculties, and the elevation of his tastes and feelings, he has left behind himin his works a noble emblem of these great qualities: and thereputation which he thus enjoys, and has merited, excites ourattention the more, on considering the circumstances under which itwas acquired. Schiller had peculiar difficulties to strive with, andhis success has likewise been peculiar. Much of his life was deformedby inquietude and disease, and it terminated at middle age; hecomposed in a language then scarcely settled into form, or admitted toa rank among the cultivated languages of Europe: yet his writings areremarkable for their extent and variety as well as their intrinsicexcellence; and his own countrymen are not his only, or perhaps hisprincipal admirers. It is difficult to collect or interpret thegeneral voice; but the World, no less than Germany, seems already tohave dignified him with the reputation of a classic; to have enrolledhim among that select number whose works belong not wholly to any ageor nation, but who, having instructed their own contemporaries, areclaimed as instructors by the great family of mankind, and set apartfor many centuries from the common oblivion which soon overtakes themass of authors, as it does the mass of other men. 

Such has been the high destiny of Schiller. His history and characterdeserve our study for more than one reason. A natural and harmlessfeeling attracts us towards such a subject; we are anxious to know howso great a man passed through the world, how he lived, and moved, andhad his being; and the question, if properly investigated, might yieldadvantage as well as pleasure. It would be interesting to discover bywhat gifts and what employment of them he reached the eminence onwhich we now see him; to follow the steps of his intellectual andmoral culture; to gather from his life and works some picture ofhimself. It is worth inquiring, whether he, who could represent nobleactions so well, did himself act nobly; how those powers of intellect, which in philosophy and art achieved so much, applied themselves tothe every-day emergencies of life; how the generous ardour, whichdelights us in his poetry, displayed itself in the common intercoursebetween man and man. It would at once instruct and gratify us if wecould understand him thoroughly, could transport ourselves into hiscircumstances outward and inward, could see as he saw, and feel as hefelt. 

But if the various utility of such a task is palpable enough, itsdifficulties are not less so. We should not lightly think ofcomprehending the very simplest character, in all its bearings; and itmight argue vanity to boast of even a common acquaintance with onelike Schiller's. Such men as he are misunderstood by their dailycompanions, much more by the distant observer, who gleans hisinformation from scanty records, and casual notices of characteristicevents, which biographers are often too indolent or injudicious tocollect, and which the peaceful life of a man of letters usuallysupplies in little abundance. The published details of Schiller'shistory are meagre and insufficient; and his writings, like those ofevery author, can afford but a dim and dubious copy of his mind. Noris it easy to decipher even this, with moderate accuracy. The haze ofa foreign language, of foreign manners, and modes of thinking strangeto us, confuses and obscures the sight, often magnifying what istrivial, softening what is rude, and sometimes hiding or distortingwhat is beautiful. To take the dimensions of Schiller's mind were ahard enterprise, in any case; harder still with these impediments. 

Accordingly we do not, in this place, pretend to attempt it: we haveno finished portrait of his character to offer, no formal estimate ofhis works. It will be enough for us if, in glancing over his life, wecan satisfy a simple curiosity, about the fortunes and chiefpeculiarities of a man connected with us by a bond so kindly as thatof the teacher to the taught, the giver to the receiver of mentaldelight; if, in wandering through his intellectual creation, we canenjoy once more the magnificent and fragrant beauty of that fairyland, and express our feelings, where we do not aim at judging anddeciding. 

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

This mode of life was not the most propitious for educating such a boyas Friedrich; but the native worth of his parents did more thancompensate for the disadvantages of their worldly condition and theirlimited acquirements in knowledge. The benevolence, the modest andprudent integrity, the true devoutness of these good people shoneforth at an after period, expanded and beautified in the character oftheir son; his heart was nourished by a constant exposure to suchinfluences, and thus the better part of his education prospered well. The mother was a woman of many household virtues; to a warm affectionfor her children and husband, she joined a degree of taste andintelligence which is of much rarer occurrence. She is said to havebeen a lover of poetry; in particular an admiring reader of Utz andGellert, writers whom it is creditable for one in her situation tohave relished. [1] Her kindness and tenderness of heart peculiarlyendeared her to Friedrich. Her husband appears to have been a personof great probity and meekness of temper, sincerely desirous to approvehimself a useful member of society, and to do his duty conscientiouslyto all men. The seeds of many valuable qualities had been sown in himby nature; and though his early life had been unfavourable for theircultivation, he at a late period laboured, not without success, toremedy this disadvantage. Such branches of science and philosophy aslay within his reach, he studied with diligence, whenever hisprofessional employments left him leisure; on a subject connected withthe latter he became an author. [2] But what chiefly distinguished himwas the practice of a sincere piety, which seems to have diffuseditself over all his feelings, and given to his clear and honestcharacter that calm elevation which, in such a case, is its naturalresult. As his religion mingled itself with every motive and action ofhis life, the wish which in all his wanderings lay nearest his heart, the wish for the education of his son, was likely to be deeplytinctured with it. There is yet preserved, in his handwriting, aprayer composed in advanced age, wherein he mentions how, at thechild's birth, he had entreated the great Father of all, "to supply instrength of spirit what must needs be wanting in outward instruction. "The gray-haired man, who had lived to see the maturity of his boy, could now express his solemn thankfulness, that "God had heard theprayer of a mortal. "

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

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

Friedrich followed the movements of his parents for some time; and hadto gather the elements of learning from various masters. Perhaps itwas in part owing to this circumstance, that his progress, thoughrespectable, or more, was so little commensurate with what heafterwards became, or with the capacities of which even his earliestyears gave symptoms. Thoughtless and gay, as a boy is wont to be, hewould now and then dissipate his time in childish sports, forgetfulthat the stolen charms of ball and leapfrog must be dearly bought byreproaches: but occasionally he was overtaken with feelings of deeperimport, and used to express the agitations of his little mind in wordsand actions, which were first rightly interpreted when they werecalled to mind long afterwards. His schoolfellows can _now_ recollectthat even his freaks had sometimes a poetic character; that a certainearnestness of temper, a frank integrity, an appetite for things grandor moving, was discernible across all the caprices of his boyhood. Once, it is said, during a tremendous thunderstorm, his father missedhim in the young group within doors; none of the sisters could tellwhat was become of Fritz, and the old man grew at length so anxiousthat he was forced to go out in quest of him. Fritz was scarcely pastthe age of infancy, and knew not the dangers of a scene so awful. Hisfather found him at last, in a solitary place of the neighbourhood, perched on the branch of a tree, gazing at the tempestuous face of thesky, and watching the flashes as in succession they spread their luridgleam over it. To the reprimands of his parent, the whimpering truantpleaded in extenuation, "that the lightning was very beautiful, andthat he wished to see where it was coming from!"—Such anecdotes, wehave long known, are in themselves of small value: the present one hasthe additional defect of being somewhat dubious in respect ofauthenticity. We have ventured to give it, as it came to us, notwithstanding. The picture of the boy Schiller, contemplating thethunder, is not without a certain interest, for such as know the man. 

Schiller's first teacher was Moser, pastor and schoolmaster in thevillage of Lorch, where the parents resided from the sixth to theninth year of their son. This person deserves mention for theinfluence he exerted on the early history of his pupil: he seems tohave given his name to the Priest 'Moser' in the _Robbers_; hisspiritual calling, and the conversation of his son, himself afterwardsa preacher, are supposed to have suggested to Schiller the idea ofconsecrating himself to the clerical profession. This idea, which laidhold of and cherished some predominant though vague propensities ofthe boy's disposition, suited well with the religious sentiments ofhis parents, and was soon formed into a settled purpose. In the publicschool at Ludwigsburg, whither the family had now removed, his studieswere regulated with this view; and he underwent, in four successiveyears, the annual examination before the Stuttgard Commission, towhich young men destined for the Church are subjected in that country. Schiller's temper was naturally devout; with a delicacy of feelingwhich tended towards bashfulness and timidity, there was mingled inhim a fervid impetuosity, which was ever struggling through itsconcealment, and indicating that he felt deeply and strongly, as wellas delicately. Such a turn of mind easily took the form of religion, prescribed to it by early example and early affections, as well asnature. Schiller looked forward to the sacred profession withalacrity: it was the serious daydream of all his boyhood, and much ofhis youth. As yet, however, the project hovered before him at a greatdistance, and the path to its fulfilment offered him but littleentertainment. His studies did not seize his attention firmly; hefollowed them from a sense of duty, not of pleasure. Virgil andHorace he learned to construe accurately; but is said to have taken nodeep interest in their poetry. The tenderness and meek beauty of thefirst, the humour and sagacity and capricious pathos of the last, thematchless elegance of both, would of course escape his inexperiencedperception; while the matter of their writings must have appearedfrigid and shallow to a mind so susceptible. He loved rather tomeditate on the splendour of the Ludwigsburg theatre, which hadinflamed his imagination when he first saw it in his ninth year, andgiven shape and materials to many of his subsequent reveries. [3] Underthese circumstances, his progress, with all his natural ability, couldnot be very striking; the teachers did not fail now and then to visithim with their severities; yet still there was a negligent success inhis attempts, which, joined to his honest and vivid temper, made menaugur well of him. The Stuttgard Examinators have marked him in theirrecords with the customary formula of approval, or, at worst, oftoleration. They usually designate him as 'a boy of good hope, ' _puerbonæ spei_. 

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

This good hope was not, however, destined to be realised in the waythey expected: accidents occurred which changed the direction ofSchiller's exertions, and threatened for a time to prevent the successof them altogether. The Duke of Würtemberg had lately founded a FreeSeminary for certain branches of professional education: it was firstset up at Solitude, one of his country residences; and had now beentransferred to Stuttgard, where, under an improved form, and with thename of _Karls-schule_, we believe it still exists. The Duke proposedto give the sons of his military officers a preferable claim to thebenefits of this institution; and having formed a good opinion both ofSchiller and his father, he invited the former to profit by thisopportunity. The offer occasioned great embarrassment: the young manand his parents were alike determined in favour of the Church, aproject with which this new one was inconsistent. Their embarrassmentwas but increased, when the Duke, on learning the nature of theirscruples, desired them to think well before they decided. It was outof fear, and with reluctance that his proposal was accepted. Schillerenrolled himself in 1773; and turned, with a heavy heart, fromfreedom and cherished hopes, to Greek, and seclusion, and Law. 

His anticipations proved to be but too just: the six years which hespent in this establishment were the most harassing and comfortless ofhis life. The Stuttgard system of education seems to have been formedon the principle, not of cherishing and correcting nature, but ofrooting it out, and supplying its place with something better. Theprocess of teaching and living was conducted with the stiff formalityof military drilling; every thing went on by statute and ordinance, there was no scope for the exercise of free-will, no allowance for thevarieties of original structure. A scholar might possess whatinstincts or capacities he pleased; the 'regulations of the school'took no account of this; he must fit himself into the common mould, which, like the old Giant's bed, stood there, appointed by superiorauthority, to be filled alike by the great and the little. The samestrict and narrow course of reading and composition was marked out foreach beforehand, and it was by stealth if he read or wrote any thingbeside. Their domestic economy was regulated in the same spirit astheir preceptorial: it consisted of the same sedulous exclusion of allthat could border on pleasure, or give any exercise to choice. Thepupils were kept apart from the conversation or sight of any personbut their teachers; none ever got beyond the precincts of despotism tosnatch even a fearful joy; their very amusements proceeded by the wordof command. 

How grievous all this must have been, it is easy to conceive. ToSchiller it was more grievous than to any other. Of an ardent andimpetuous yet delicate nature, whilst his discontentment devoured himinternally, he was too modest and timid to give it the relief ofutterance by deeds or words. Locked up within himself, he suffereddeeply, but without complaining. Some of his letters written duringthis period have been preserved: they exhibit the ineffectualstruggles of a fervid and busy mind veiling its many chagrins under acertain dreary patience, which only shows them more painfully. Hepored over his lexicons and grammars, and insipid tasks, with anartificial composure; but his spirit pined within him like acaptive's, when he looked forth into the cheerful world, orrecollected the affection of parents, the hopes and frolicsomeenjoyments of past years. The misery he endured in this severe andlonely mode of existence strengthened or produced in him a habit ofconstraint and shyness, which clung to his character through life. 

The study of Law, for which he had never felt any predilection, naturally grew in his mind to be the representative of all theseevils, and his distaste for it went on increasing. On this point hemade no secret of his feelings. One of the exercises, yearlyprescribed to every scholar, was a written delineation of his owncharacter, according to his own views of it, to be delivered publiclyat an appointed time: Schiller, on the first of these exhibitions, ventured to state his persuasion, that he was not made to be a jurist, but called rather by his inclinations and faculties to the clericalprofession. This statement, of course, produced no effect; he wasforced to continue the accustomed course, and his dislike for Law keptfast approaching to absolute disgust. In 1775, he was fortunate enoughto get it relinquished, though at the expense of adopting anotheremployment, for which, in different circumstances, he would hardlyhave declared himself. The study of Medicine, for which a newinstitution was about this time added to the Stuttgard school, had noattractions for Schiller: he accepted it only as a galling servitudein exchange for one more galling. His mind was bent on higherobjects; and he still felt all his present vexations aggravated by thethought, that his fairest expectations from the future had beensacrificed to worldly convenience, and the humblest necessities oflife. 

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

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

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

But if, when such sacrifices were required, it was painful to complywith the dictates of his own reason, it was still more so to endurethe harsh and superfluous restrictions of his teachers. He felt ithard enough to be driven from the enchantments of poetry by the dullrealities of duty; but it was intolerable and degrading to behemmed-in still farther by the caprices of severe and formalpedagogues. Schiller brooded gloomily over the constraints andhardships of his situation. Many plans he formed for deliverance. Sometimes he would escape in secret to catch a glimpse of the free andbusy world to him forbidden: sometimes he laid schemes for utterlyabandoning a place which he abhorred, and trusting to fortune for therest. Often the sight of his class-books and school-apparatus becameirksome beyond endurance; he would feign sickness, that he might beleft in his own chamber to write poetry and pursue his darling studieswithout hindrance. Such artifices did not long avail him; the mastersnoticed the regularity of his sickness, and sent him tasks to be donewhile it lasted. Even Schiller's patience could not brook this; hisnatural timidity gave place to indignation; he threw the paper ofexercises at the feet of the messenger, and said sternly that "_here_he would choose his own studies. "

Under such corroding and continual vexations an ordinary spirit wouldhave sunk at length, would have gradually given up its loftieraspirations, and sought refuge in vicious indulgence, or at best havesullenly harnessed itself into the yoke, and plodded throughexistence, weary, discontented, and broken, ever casting back ahankering look upon the dreams of youth, and ever without power torealise them. But Schiller was no ordinary character, and did not actlike one. Beneath a cold and simple exterior, dignified with noartificial attractions, and marred in its native amiableness by theincessant obstruction, the isolation and painful destitutions underwhich he lived, there was concealed a burning energy of soul, which noobstruction could extinguish. The hard circumstances of his fortunehad prevented the natural development of his mind; his faculties hadbeen cramped and misdirected; but they had gathered strength byopposition and the habit of self-dependence which it encouraged. Histhoughts, unguided by a teacher, had sounded into the depths of hisown nature and the mysteries of his own fate; his feelings andpassions, unshared by any other heart, had been driven back upon hisown, where, like the volcanic fire that smoulders and fuses in secret, they accumulated till their force grew irresistible. 

Hitherto Schiller had passed for an unprofitable, a discontented and adisobedient Boy: but the time was now come when the gyves ofschool-discipline could no longer cripple and distort the giant mightof his nature: he stood forth as a Man, and wrenched asunder hisfetters with a force that was felt at the extremities of Europe. Thepublication of the _Robbers_ forms an era not only in Schiller'shistory, but in the Literature of the World; and there seems no doubtthat, but for so mean a cause as the perverted discipline of theStuttgard school, we had never seen this tragedy. Schiller commencedit in his nineteenth year; and the circumstances under which it wascomposed are to be traced in all its parts. It is the production of astrong untutored spirit, consumed by an activity for which there is nooutlet, indignant at the barriers which restrain it, and grapplingdarkly with the phantoms to which its own energy thus painfullyimprisoned gives being. A rude simplicity, combined with a gloomy andoverpowering force, are its chief characteristics; they remind us ofthe defective cultivation, as well as of the fervid and harassedfeelings of its author. Above all, the latter quality is visible; thetragic interest of the _Robbers_ is deep throughout, so deep thatfrequently it borders upon horror. A grim inexpiable Fate is made theruling principle: it envelops and overshadows the whole; and underits louring influence, the fiercest efforts of human will appear butlike flashes that illuminate the wild scene with a brief and terriblesplendour, and are lost forever in the darkness. The unsearchableabysses of man's destiny are laid open before us, black and profoundand appalling, as they seem to the young mind when it first attemptsto explore them: the obstacles that thwart our faculties and wishes, the deceitfulness of hope, the nothingness of existence, are sketchedin the sable colours so natural to the enthusiast when he firstventures upon life, and compares the world that is without him to theanticipations that were within. 

Karl von Moor is a character such as young poets always delight tocontemplate or delineate; to Schiller the analogy of their situationsmust have peculiarly recommended him. Moor is animated into action byfeelings similar to those under which his author was then sufferingand longing to act. Gifted with every noble quality of manhood inoverflowing abundance, Moor's first expectations of life, and of thepart he was to play in it, had been glorious as a poet's dream. Butthe minor dexterities of management were not among his endowments; inhis eagerness to reach the goal, he had forgotten that the course is alabyrinthic maze, beset with difficulties, of which some may besurmounted, some can only be evaded, many can be neither. Hurried onby the headlong impetuosity of his temper, he entangles himself inthese perplexities; and thinks to penetrate them, not by skill andpatience, but by open force. He is baffled, deceived, and still moredeeply involved; but injury and disappointment exasperate rather thaninstruct him. He had expected heroes, and he finds mean men; friends, and he finds smiling traitors to tempt him aside, to profit by hisaberrations, and lead him onward to destruction: he had dreamed ofmagnanimity and every generous principle, he finds that prudence isthe only virtue sure of its reward. Too fiery by nature, the intensityof his sufferings has now maddened him still farther: he is himselfincapable of calm reflection, and there is no counsellor at hand toassist him; none, whose sympathy might assuage his miseries, whosewisdom might teach him to remedy or to endure them. He is stung byfury into action, and his activity is at once blind and tremendous. Since the world is not the abode of unmixed integrity, he looks uponit as a den of thieves; since its institutions may obstruct theadvancement of worth, and screen delinquency from punishment, heregards the social union as a pestilent nuisance, the mischiefs ofwhich it is fitting that he in his degree should do his best torepair, by means however violent. Revenge is the mainspring of hisconduct; but he ennobles it in his own eyes, by giving it the colourof a disinterested concern for the maintenance of justice, —theabasement of vice from its high places, and the exaltation ofsuffering virtue. Single against the universe, to appeal to theprimary law of the stronger, to 'grasp the scales of Providence in amortal's hand, ' is frantic and wicked; but Moor has a force of soulwhich makes it likewise awful. The interest lies in the conflict ofthis gigantic soul against the fearful odds which at length overwhelmit, and hurry it down to the darkest depths of ruin. 

The original conception of such a work as this betrays theinexperience no less than the vigour of youth: its execution gives asimilar testimony. The characters of the piece, though traced inglowing colours, are outlines more than pictures: the few features wediscover in them are drawn with elaborate minuteness; but the rest arewanting. Every thing indicates the condition of a keen and powerfulintellect, which had studied men in books only; had, byself-examination and the perusal of history, detected and stronglyseized some of the leading peculiarities of human nature; but was yetignorant of all the minute and more complex principles which regulatemen's conduct in actual life, and which only a knowledge of living mencan unfold. If the hero of the play forms something like an exceptionto this remark, he is the sole exception, and for reasons alluded toabove: his character resembles the author's own. Even with Karl, thesuccess is incomplete: with the other personages it is far more so. Franz von Moor, the villain of the Piece, is an amplified copy of Iagoand Richard; but the copy is distorted as well as amplified. There isno air of reality in Franz: he is a villain of theory, who studies toaccomplish his object by the most diabolical expedients, and sootheshis conscience by arguing with the priest in favour of atheism andmaterialism; not the genuine villain of Shakspeare and Nature, whoemploys his reasoning powers in creating new schemes and devising newmeans, and conquers remorse by avoiding it, —by fixing his hopes andfears on the more pressing emergencies of worldly business. Soreflective a miscreant as Franz could not exist: his calculationswould lead him to honesty, if merely because it was the best policy. 

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

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

His skill in the art of composition surpassed his knowledge of theworld; but that too was far from perfection. Schiller's style in the_Robbers_ is partly of a kind with the incidents and feelings which itrepresents; strong and astonishing, and sometimes wildly grand; butlikewise inartificial, coarse, and grotesque. His sentences, in theirrude emphasis, come down like the club of Hercules; the stroke isoften of a crushing force, but its sweep is irregular and awkward. When Moor is involved in the deepest intricacies of the old question, necessity and free will, and has convinced himself that he is but anengine in the hands of some dark and irresistible power, he cries out:"Why has my Perillus made of me a brazen bull to roast men in myglowing belly?" The stage-direction says, 'shaken with horror:' nowonder that he shook!

Schiller has admitted these faults, and explained their origin, instrong and sincere language, in a passage of which we have alreadyquoted the conclusion. 'A singular miscalculation of nature, ' he says, 'had combined my poetical tendencies with the place of my birth. Anydisposition to poetry did violence to the laws of the institutionwhere I was educated, and contradicted the plan of its founder. Foreight years my enthusiasm struggled with military discipline; but thepassion for poetry is vehement and fiery as a first love. Whatdiscipline was meant to extinguish, it blew into a flame. To escapefrom arrangements that tortured me, my heart sought refuge in theworld of ideas, when as yet I was unacquainted with the world ofrealities, from which iron bars excluded me. I was unacquainted withmen; for the four hundred that lived with me were but repetitions ofthe same creature, true casts of one single mould, and of that verymould which plastic nature solemnly disclaimed. * * * Thuscircumstanced, a stranger to human characters and human fortunes, tohit the medium line between angels and devils was an enterprise inwhich I necessarily failed. In attempting it, my pencil necessarilybrought out a monster, for which by good fortune the world had nooriginal, and which I would not wish to be immortal, except toperpetuate an example of the offspring which Genius in its unnaturalunion with Thraldom may give to the world. I allude to the_Robbers_. '[5]

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

Yet with all these excrescences and defects, the unbounded popularityof the _Robbers_ is not difficult to account for. To every reader, theexcitement of emotion must be a chief consideration; to the mass ofreaders it is the sole one: and the grand secret of moving others is, that the poet be himself moved. We have seen how well Schiller'stemper and circumstances qualified him to fulfil this condition:treatment, not of his choosing, had raised his own mind into somethinglike a Pythian frenzy; and his genius, untrained as it was, sufficedto communicate abundance of the feeling to others. Perhaps more thanabundance: to judge from our individual impression, the perusal of the_Robbers_ produces an effect powerful even to pain; we are absolutelywounded by the catastrophe; our minds are darkened and distressed, asif we had witnessed the execution of a criminal. It is in vain that werebel against the inconsistencies and crudities of the work: itsfaults are redeemed by the living energy that pervades it. We mayexclaim against the blind madness of the hero; but there is a toweringgrandeur about him, a whirlwind force of passion and of will, whichcatches our hearts, and puts the scruples of criticism to silence. Themost delirious of enterprises is that of Moor, but the vastness of hismind renders even that interesting. We see him leagued withdesperadoes directing their savage strength to actions more and moreaudacious; he is in arms against the conventions of men and theeverlasting laws of Fate: yet we follow him with anxiety through theforests and desert places, where he wanders, encompassed with peril, inspired with lofty daring, and torn by unceasing remorse; and we waitwith awe for the doom which he has merited and cannot avoid. Nor amidall his frightful aberrations do we ever cease to love him: he is an'archangel though in ruins;' and the strong agony with which he feelsthe present, the certainty of that stern future which awaits him, which his own eye never loses sight of, makes us lenient to hiscrimes. When he pours forth his wild recollections, or still wilderforebodings, there is a terrible vehemence in his expressions, whichoverpowers us, in spite both of his and their extravagance. The sceneon the hills beside the Danube, where he looks at the setting sun, and thinks of old hopes, and times 'when he could not sleep if hisevening prayer had been forgotten, ' is one, with all itsimproprieties, that ever clings to the memory. "See, " he passionatelycontinues, "all things are gone forth to bask in the peaceful beam ofthe spring: why must I alone inhale the torments of hell out of thejoys of heaven? That all should be so happy, all so married togetherby the spirit of peace! The whole world one family, its Father above;that Father not _mine_! I alone the castaway, I alone struck out fromthe company of the just; not for me the sweet name of child, never forme the languishing look of one whom I love; never, never, theembracing of a bosom friend! Encircled with murderers; serpentshissing around me; riveted to vice with iron bonds; leaning on thebending reed of vice over the gulf of perdition; amid the flowers ofthe glad world, a howling Abaddon! Oh, that I might return into mymother's womb;—that I might be born a beggar! I would never more—OHeaven, that I could be as one of these day-labourers! Oh, I wouldtoil till the blood ran down from my temples, to buy myself thepleasure of one noontide sleep, the blessing of a single tear. There_was_ a time too, when I could weep—O ye days of peace, thou castleof my father, ye green lovely valleys!—O all ye Elysian scenes of mychildhood! will ye never come again, never with your balmy sighingcool my burning bosom? Mourn with me, Nature! They will never comeagain, never cool my burning bosom with their balmy sighing. They aregone! gone! and may not return!"

No less strange is the soliloquy where Moor, with the instrument ofself-destruction in his hands, the 'dread key that is to shut behindhim the prison of life, and to unbolt before him the dwelling ofeternal night, '—meditates on the gloomy enigmas of his futuredestiny. Soliloquies on this subject are numerous, —from the time ofHamlet, of Cato, and downwards. Perhaps the worst of them has moreingenuity, perhaps the best of them has less awfulness than thepresent. St. Dominick himself might shudder at such a question, withsuch an answer as this: "What if thou shouldst send me companionlessto some burnt and blasted circle of the universe; which thou hastbanished from thy sight; where the lone darkness and the motionlessdesert were my prospects—forever? I would people the silentwilderness with my fantasies; I should have Eternity for leisure toexamine the perplexed image of the universal woe. "

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

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

The publication of such a work as this naturally produced anextraordinary feeling in the literary world. Translations of the_Robbers_ soon appeared in almost all the languages of Europe, andwere read in all of them with a deep interest, compounded ofadmiration and aversion, according to the relative proportions ofsensibility and judgment in the various minds which contemplated thesubject. In Germany, the enthusiasm which the _Robbers_ excited wasextreme. The young author had burst upon the world like a meteor; andsurprise, for a time, suspended the power of cool and rationalcriticism. In the ferment produced by the universal discussion of thissingle topic, the poet was magnified above his natural dimensions, great as they were: and though the general sentence was loudly in hisfavour, yet he found detractors as well as praisers, and both equallybeyond the limits of moderation. 

One charge brought against him must have damped the joy of literaryglory, and stung Schiller's pure and virtuous mind more deeply thanany other. He was accused of having injured the cause of morality byhis work; of having set up to the impetuous and fiery temperament ofyouth a model of imitation which the young were too likely to pursuewith eagerness, and which could only lead them from the safe andbeaten tracks of duty into error and destruction. It has even beenstated, and often been repeated since, that a practicalexemplification of this doctrine occurred, about this time, inGermany. A young nobleman, it was said, of the fairest gifts andprospects, had cast away all these advantages; betaken himself to theforests, and, copying Moor, had begun a course of activeoperations, —which, also copying Moor, but less willingly, he hadended by a shameful death. 

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

Nothing, at any rate, could be farther from Schiller's intention thansuch a consummation. In his preface, he speaks of the moral effects ofthe _Robbers_ in terms which do honour to his heart, while they showthe inexperience of his head. Ridicule, he signifies, has long beentried against the wickedness of the times, whole cargoes of helleborehave been expended, —in vain; and now, he thinks, recourse must behad to more pungent medicines. We may smile at the simplicity of thisidea; and safely conclude that, like other specifics, the present onewould fail to produce a perceptible effect: but Schiller's vindicationrests on higher grounds than these. His work has on the wholefurnished nourishment to the more exalted powers of our nature; thesentiments and images which he has shaped and uttered, tend, in spiteof their alloy, to elevate the soul to a nobler pitch: and this is asufficient defence. As to the danger of misapplying the inspiration hecommunicates, of forgetting the dictates of prudence in our zeal forthe dictates of poetry, we have no great cause to fear it. Hitherto, at least, there has always been enough of dull reality, on every sideof us, to abate such fervours in good time, and bring us back to themost sober level of prose, if not to sink us below it. We should thankthe poet who performs such a service; and forbear to inquire toorigidly whether there is any 'moral' in his piece or not. The writerof a work, which interests and excites the spiritual feelings of men, has as little need to justify himself by showing how it exemplifiessome wise saw or modern instance, as the doer of a generous action hasto demonstrate its merit, by deducing it from the system ofShaftesbury, or Smith, or Paley, or whichever happens to be thefavourite system for the age and place. The instructiveness of theone, and the virtue of the other, exist independently of all systemsor saws, and in spite of all. 

But the tragedy of the _Robbers_ produced some inconveniences of akind much more sensible than these its theoretical mischiefs. We havecalled it the signal of Schiller's deliverance from school tyranny andmilitary constraint; but its operation in this respect was notimmediate; at first it seemed to involve him more deeply anddangerously than before. He had finished the original sketch of it in1778; but for fear of offence, he kept it secret till his medicalstudies were completed. [6] These, in the mean time, he had pursuedwith sufficient assiduity to merit the usual honours;[7] in 1780, hehad, in consequence, obtained the post of surgeon to the regiment_Augé_, in the Würtemberg army. This advancement enabled him tocomplete his project, to print the _Robbers_ at his own expense, notbeing able to find any bookseller that would undertake it. The natureof the work, and the universal interest it awakened, drew attention tothe private circumstances of the author, whom the _Robbers_, as wellas other pieces of his writing, that had found their way into theperiodical publications of the time, sufficiently showed to be nocommon man. Many grave persons were offended at the vehementsentiments expressed in the _Robbers_; and the unquestioned abilitywith which these extravagances were expressed, but made the matterworse. To Schiller's superiors, above all, such things wereinconceivable: he might perhaps be a very great genius, but wascertainly a dangerous servant for his Highness the Grand Duke ofWürtemberg. Officious people mingled themselves in the affair: nay, the graziers of the Alps were brought to bear upon it. The Grisonsmagistrates, it appeared, had seen the book: and were mortally huffedat being there spoken of, according to a Swabian adage, as _commonhighwaymen_. [8] They complained in the _Hamburg Correspondent_; and asort of Jackal, at Ludwigsburg, one Walter, whose name deserves to bethus kept in mind, volunteered to plead their cause before the GrandDuke. 

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

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

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

Informed of all these circumstances, the Grand Duke expressed hisdisapprobation of Schiller's poetical labours in the most unequivocalterms. Schiller was at length summoned to appear before him; and itthen turned out, that his Highness was not only dissatisfied with themoral or political errors of the work, but scandalised moreover at itswant of literary merit. In this latter respect, he was kind enough toproffer his own services. But Schiller seems to have received theproposal with no sufficient gratitude; and the interview passedwithout advantage to either party. It terminated in the Duke'scommanding Schiller to abide by medical subjects: or at least tobeware of writing any more poetry, without submitting it to _his_inspection. 

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

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

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

Time at length gave him the solution; circumstances occurred whichforced him to decide. The popularity of the _Robbers_ had brought himinto correspondence with several friends of literature, who wished topatronise the author, or engage him in new undertakings. Among thisnumber was the Freiherr von Dalberg, superintendent of the theatre atMannheim, under whose encouragement and countenance Schillerremodelled the _Robbers_, altered it in some parts, and had it broughtupon the stage in 1781. The correspondence with Dalberg began inliterary discussions, but gradually elevated itself into theexpression of more interesting sentiments. Dalberg loved andsympathised with the generous enthusiast, involved in troubles andperplexities which his inexperience was so little adequate to thread:he gave him advice and assistance; and Schiller repaid this favourwith the gratitude due to his kind, his first, and then almost hisonly benefactor. His letters to this gentleman have been preserved, and lately published; they exhibit a lively picture of Schiller'spainful situation at Stuttgard, and of his unskilful as well as eageranxiety to be delivered from it. [10] His darling project was thatDalberg should bring him to Mannheim, as theatrical poet, bypermission of the Duke: at one time he even thought of turning player. 

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

Neither of these projects could take immediate effect, and Schiller'sembarrassments became more pressing than ever. With the naturalfeeling of a young author, he had ventured to go in secret, andwitness the first representation of his tragedy, at Mannheim. Hisincognito did not conceal him; he was put under arrest during a week, for this offence: and as the punishment did not deter him from againtransgressing in a similar manner, he learned that it was incontemplation to try more rigorous measures with him. Dark hints weregiven to him of some exemplary as well as imminent severity: andDalberg's aid, the sole hope of averting it by quiet means, wasdistant and dubious. Schiller saw himself reduced to extremities. Beleaguered with present distresses, and the most horribleforebodings, on every side; roused to the highest pitch ofindignation, yet forced to keep silence, and wear the face ofpatience, he could endure this maddening constraint no longer. Heresolved to be free, at whatever risk; to abandon advantages which hecould not buy at such a price; to quit his step-dame home, and goforth, though friendless and alone, to seek his fortune in the greatmarket of life. Some foreign Duke or Prince was arriving at Stuttgard;and all the people were in movement, occupied with seeing thespectacle of his entrance: Schiller seized this opportunity ofretiring from the city, careless whither he went, so he got beyond thereach of turnkeys, and Grand Dukes, and commanding officers. It was inthe month of October 1782. 

This last step forms the catastrophe of the publication of the_Robbers_: it completed the deliverance of Schiller from the gratingthraldom under which his youth had been passed, and decided hisdestiny for life. Schiller was in his twenty-third year when he leftStuttgard. He says 'he went empty away, —empty in purse and hope. ' Thefuture was indeed sufficiently dark before him. Without patrons, connexions, or country, he had ventured forth to the warfare on hisown charges; without means, experience, or settled purpose, it wasgreatly to be feared that the fight would go against him. Yet hissituation, though gloomy enough, was not entirely without its brighterside. He was now a free man, free, however poor; and his strong soulquickened as its fetters dropped off, and gloried within him in thedim anticipation of great and far-extending enterprises. If, cast toorudely among the hardships and bitter disquietudes of the world, hispast nursing had not been delicate, he was already taught to look uponprivation and discomfort as his daily companions. If he knew not howto bend his course among the perplexed vicissitudes of society, therewas a force within him which would triumph over many difficulties; anda 'light from Heaven' was about his path, which, if it failed toconduct him to wealth and preferment, would keep him far from basenessand degrading vices. Literature, and every great and noble thing whichthe right pursuit of it implies, he loved with all his heart and allhis soul: to this inspiring object he was henceforth exclusivelydevoted; advancing towards this, and possessed of common necessarieson the humblest scale, there was little else to tempt him. His lifemight be unhappy, but would hardly be disgraceful. 

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

Under this hospitable roof, Schiller had leisure to examine calmly theperplexed and dubious aspect of his affairs. Happily his characterbelonged not to the whining or sentimental sort: he was not of those, in whom the pressure of misfortune produces nothing but unprofitablepain; who spend, in cherishing and investigating and deploring theirmiseries, the time which should be spent in providing a relief forthem. With him, strong feeling was constantly a call to vigorousaction: he possessed in a high degree the faculty of conquering hisafflictions, by directing his thoughts, not to maxims for enduringthem, or modes of expressing them with interest, but to plans forgetting rid of them; and to this disposition or habit, —too rare amongmen of genius, men of a much higher class than mere sentimentalists, but whose sensibility is out of proportion with their inventiveness oractivity, —we are to attribute no small influence in the fortunateconduct of his subsequent life. With such a turn of mind, Schiller, now that he was at length master of his own movements, could not longbe at a loss for plans or tasks. Once settled at Bauerbach, heimmediately resumed his poetical employments; and forgot, in theregions of fancy, the vague uncertainties of his real condition, orsaw prospects of amending it in a life of literature. By many safe andsagacious persons, the prudence of his late proceedings might be morethan questioned; it was natural for many to forbode that one who leftthe port so rashly, and sailed with such precipitation, was likely tomake shipwreck ere the voyage had extended far: but the lapse of a fewmonths put a stop to such predictions. A year had not passed since hisdeparture, when Schiller sent forth his _Verschwörung des Fiesco_ and_Kabale und Liebe_; tragedies which testified that, dangerous andarduous as the life he had selected might be, he possessed resourcesmore than adequate to its emergencies. _Fiesco_ he had commencedduring the period of his arrest at Stuttgard; it was published, withthe other play, in 1783; and soon after brought upon the Mannheimtheatre, with universal approbation. 

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

In the _Conspiracy of Fiesco_ we have to admire not only the energeticanimation which the author has infused into all his characters, butthe distinctness with which he has discriminated, without aggravatingthem; and the vividness with which he has contrived to depict thescene where they act and move. The political and personal relations ofthe Genoese nobility; the luxurious splendour, the intrigues, thefeuds, and jarring interests, which occupy them, are made visiblebefore us: we understand and may appreciate the complexities of theconspiracy; we mingle, as among realities, in the pompous and imposingmovements which lead to the catastrophe. The catastrophe itself isdisplayed with peculiar effect. The midnight silence of the sleepingcity, interrupted only by the distant sounds of watchmen, by the lowhoarse murmur of the sea, or the stealthy footsteps and disguisedvoice of Fiesco, is conveyed to our imagination by some brief butgraphic touches; we seem to stand in the solitude and deep stillnessof Genoa, awaiting the signal which is to burst so fearfully upon itsslumber. At length the gun is fired; and the wild uproar which ensuesis no less strikingly exhibited. The deeds and sounds of violence, astonishment and terror; the volleying cannon, the heavy toll of thealarm-bells, the acclamation of assembled thousands, 'the voice ofGenoa speaking with Fiesco, '—all is made present to us with a forceand clearness, which of itself were enough to show no ordinary powerof close and comprehensive conception, no ordinary skill in arrangingand expressing its results. 

But it is not this felicitous delineation of circumstances and visiblescenes that constitutes our principal enjoyment. The faculty ofpenetrating through obscurity and confusion, to seize thecharacteristic features of an object, abstract or material; ofproducing a lively description in the latter case, an accurate andkeen scrutiny in the former, is the essential property of intellect, and occupies in its best form a high rank in the scale of mentalgifts: but the creative faculty of the poet, and especially of thedramatic poet, is something superadded to this; it is far rarer, andoccupies a rank far higher. In this particular, _Fiesco_, withoutapproaching the limits of perfection, yet stands in an elevated rangeof excellence. The characters, on the whole, are imagined andportrayed with great impressiveness and vigour. Traces of old faultsare indeed still to be discovered: there still seems a want of pliancyabout the genius of the author; a stiffness and heaviness in hismotions. His sublimity is not to be questioned; but it does not alwaysdisdain the aid of rude contrasts and mere theatrical effect. Hepaints in colours deep and glowing, but without sufficient skill toblend them delicately: he amplifies nature more than purifies it; heomits, but does not well conceal the omission. _Fiesco_ has not thecomplete charm of a true though embellished resemblance to reality;its attraction rather lies in a kind of colossal magnitude, whichrequires it, if seen to advantage, to be viewed from a distance. Yetthe prevailing qualities of the piece do more than make us pardon suchdefects. If the dramatic imitation is not always entirely successful, it is never very distant from success; and a constant flow of powerfulthought and sentiment counteracts, or prevents us from noticing, thefailure. We find evidence of great philosophic penetration, greatresources of invention, directed by a skilful study of history andmen; and everywhere a bold grandeur of feeling and imagery gives lifeto what study has combined. The chief incidents have a dazzlingmagnificence; the chief characters, an aspect of majesty and forcewhich corresponds to it. Fervour of heart, capaciousness of intellectand imagination, present themselves on all sides: the general effectis powerful and exalting. 

Fiesco himself is a personage at once probable and tragicallyinteresting. The luxurious dissipation, in which he veils his daringprojects, softens the rudeness of that strength which it halfconceals. His immeasurable pride expands itself not only into adisdain of subjection, but also into the most lofty acts ofmagnanimity: his blind confidence in fortune seems almost warranted bythe resources which he finds in his own fearlessness and imperturbablepresence of mind. His ambition participates in the nobleness of hisother qualities; he is less anxious that his rivals should yield tohim in power than in generosity and greatness of character, attributesof which power is with him but the symbol and the fit employment. Ambition in Fiesco is indeed the common wish of every mind to diffuseits individual influence, to see its own activity reflected back fromthe united minds of millions: but it is the common wish acting on nocommon man. He does not long to rule, that he may sway other wills, asit were, by the physical exertion of his own: he would lead us captiveby the superior grandeur of his qualities, once fairly manifested; andhe aims at dominion, chiefly as it will enable him to manifest these. 'It is not the arena that he values, but what lies in that arena:' thesovereignty is enviable, not for its adventitious splendour, notbecause it is the object of coarse and universal wonder; but as itoffers, in the collected force of a nation, something which theloftiest mortal may find scope for all his powers in guiding. "Spreadout the thunder, " Fiesco exclaims, "into its single tones, and itbecomes a lullaby for children: pour it forth together in _one_ quickpeal, and the royal sound shall move the heavens. " His affections arenot less vehement than his other passions: his heart can be meltedinto powerlessness and tenderness by the mild persuasions of hisLeonora; the idea of exalting this amiable being mingles largely withthe other motives to his enterprise. He is, in fact, a great, andmight have been a virtuous man; and though in the pursuit of grandeurhe swerves from absolute rectitude, we still respect his splendidqualities, and admit the force of the allurements which have led himastray. It is but faintly that we condemn his sentiments, when, aftera night spent in struggles between a rigid and a more accommodatingpatriotism, he looks out of his chamber, as the sun is rising in itscalm beauty, and gilding the waves and mountains, and all theinnumerable palaces and domes and spires of Genoa, and exclaims withrapture: "This majestic city—mine! To flame over it like the kinglyDay; to brood over it with a monarch's power; all these sleeplesslongings, all these never satiated wishes to be drowned in thatunfathomable ocean!" We admire Fiesco, we disapprove of him, andsympathise with him: he is crushed in the ponderous machinery whichhimself put in motion and thought to control: we lament his fate, butconfess that it was not undeserved. He is a fit 'offering ofindividual free-will to the force of social conventions. '

Fiesco is not the only striking character in the play which bears hisname. The narrow fanatical republican virtue of Verrina, the mild andvenerable wisdom of the old Doria, the unbridled profligacy of hisNephew, even the cold, contented, irreclaimable perversity of thecutthroat Moor, all dwell in our recollections: but what, next toFiesco, chiefly attracts us, is the character of Leonora his wife. Leonora is of kindred to Amelia in the _Robbers_, but involved in morecomplicated relations, and brought nearer to the actual condition ofhumanity. She is such a heroine as Schiller most delights to draw. Meek and retiring by the softness of her nature, yet glowing with anethereal ardour for all that is illustrious and lovely, she clingsabout her husband, as if her being were one with his. She dreams ofremote and peaceful scenes, where Fiesco should be all to her, she allto Fiesco: her idea of love is, that '_her_ name should lie in secretbehind every one of his thoughts, should speak to him from everyobject of Nature; that for him, this bright majestic universe itselfwere but as the shining jewel, on which her image, only _hers_, stoodengraved. ' Her character seems a reflection of Fiesco's, but refinedfrom his grosser strength, and transfigured into a celestial form ofpurity, and tenderness, and touching grace. Jealousy cannot move herinto anger; she languishes in concealed sorrow, when she thinksherself forgotten. It is affection alone that can rouse her intopassion; but under the influence of this, she forgets all weakness andfear. She cannot stay in her palace, on the night when Fiesco'sdestiny is deciding; she rushes forth, as if inspired, to share in herhusband's dangers and sublime deeds, and perishes at last in thetumult. 

The death of Leonora, so brought about, and at such a time, isreckoned among the blemishes of the work: that of Fiesco, in whichSchiller has ventured to depart from history, is to be more favourablyjudged of. Fiesco is not here accidentally drowned; but plunged intothe waves by the indignant Verrina, who forgets or stifles thefeelings of friendship, in his rage at political apostasy. 'The natureof the Drama, ' we are justly told, 'will not suffer the operation ofChance, or of an immediate Providence. Higher spirits can discern theminute fibres of an event stretching through the whole expanse of thesystem of the world, and hanging, it may be, on the remotest limits ofthe future and the past, where man discerns nothing save the actionitself, hovering unconnected in space. But the artist has to paint forthe short view of man, whom he wishes to instruct; not for thepiercing eye of superior powers, from whom he learns. '

In the composition of _Fiesco_, Schiller derived the main part of hisoriginal materials from history; he could increase the effect bygorgeous representations, and ideas preëxisting in the mind of hisreader. Enormity of incident and strangeness of situation lent him asimilar assistance in the _Robbers_. _Kabale und Liebe_ is destituteof these advantages; it is a tragedy of domestic life; its means ofinteresting are comprised within itself, and rest on very simplefeelings, dignified by no very singular action. The name, _Court-Intriguing and Love_, correctly designates its nature; it aimsat exhibiting the conflict, the victorious conflict, of politicalmanœuvering, of cold worldly wisdom, with the pure impassionedmovements of the young heart, as yet unsullied by the tarnish ofevery-day life, inexperienced in its calculations, sick of its emptyformalities, and indignantly determined to cast-off the meanrestrictions it imposes, which bind so firmly by their number, thoughsingly so contemptible. The idea is far from original: this is aconflict which most men have figured to themselves, which many men ofardent mind are in some degree constantly waging. To make it, in thissimple form, the subject of a drama, seems to be a thought ofSchiller's own; but the praise, though not the merit of hisundertaking, considerable rather as performed than projected, has beenlessened by a multitude of worthless or noxious imitations. The sameprimary conception has been tortured into a thousand shapes, andtricked out with a thousand tawdry devices and meretricious ornaments, by the Kotzebues, and other 'intellectual Jacobins, ' whoseproductions have brought what we falsely call the 'German Theatre'into such deserved contempt in England. Some portion of the gall, dueonly to these inflated, flimsy, and fantastic persons, appears to haveacted on certain critics in estimating this play of Schiller's. AugustWilhelm Schlegel speaks slightingly of the work: he says, 'it willhardly move us by its tone of overstrained sensibility, but may wellafflict us by the painful impressions which it leaves. ' Our ownexperience has been different from that of Schlegel. In the charactersof Louisa and Ferdinand Walter we discovered little overstraining;their sensibility we did not reckon very criminal; seeing it unitedwith a clearness of judgment, chastened by a purity of heart, andcontrolled by a force of virtuous resolution, in full proportion withitself. We rather admired the genius of the poet, which could elevatea poor music-master's daughter to the dignity of a heroine; couldrepresent, without wounding our sense of propriety, the affection oftwo noble beings, created for each other by nature, and divided byrank; we sympathised in their sentiments enough to feel a properinterest in their fate, and see in them, what the author meant weshould see, two pure and lofty minds involved in the meshes of vulgarcunning, and borne to destruction by the excess of their own goodqualities and the crimes of others. 

Ferdinand is a nobleman, but not convinced that 'his patent ofnobility is more ancient or of more authority than the primeval schemeof the universe:' he speaks and acts like a young man entertainingsuch persuasions: disposed to yield everything to reason and truehonour, but scarcely anything to mere use and wont. His passion forLouisa is the sign and the nourishment rather than the cause of such atemper: he loves her without limit, as the only creature he has evermet with of a like mind with himself; and this feeling exalts intoinspiration what was already the dictate of his nature. We accompanyhim on his straight and plain path; we rejoice to see him fling asidewith a strong arm the artifices and allurements with which a worthlessfather and more worthless associates assail him at first in vain:there is something attractive in the spectacle of native integrity, fearless though inexperienced, at war with selfishness and craft;something mournful, because the victory will seldom go as we wouldhave it. 

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

The innocence, the enthusiasm, the exalted life and stern fate ofLouisa and Ferdinand give a powerful charm to this tragedy: it iseverywhere interspersed with pieces of fine eloquence, and sceneswhich move us by their dignity or pathos. We recollect few passages ofa more overpowering nature than the conclusion, where Ferdinand, beguiled by the most diabolical machinations to disbelieve the virtueof his mistress, puts himself and her to death by poison. There is agloomy and solemn might in his despair; though overwhelmed, he seemsinvincible: his enemies have blinded and imprisoned him in theirdeceptions; but only that, like Samson, he may overturn hisprison-house, and bury himself, and all that have wronged him, in itsruins. 

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

The production of three such pieces as the _Robbers_, _Fiesco_, and_Kabale und Liebe_, already announced to the world that another greatand original mind had appeared, from whose maturity, when such was thepromise of its youth, the highest expectations might be formed. Thesethree plays stand related to each other in regard to their nature andform, as well as date: they exhibit the progressive state ofSchiller's education; show us the fiery enthusiasm of youth, exasperated into wildness, astonishing in its movements rather thansublime; and the same enthusiasm gradually yielding to the sway ofreason, gradually using itself to the constraints prescribed by soundjudgment and more extensive knowledge. Of the three, the _Robbers_ isdoubtless the most singular, and likely perhaps to be the most widelypopular: but the latter two are of more real worth in the eye oftaste, and will better bear a careful and rigorous study. 

With the appearance of _Fiesco_ and its companion, the first period ofSchiller's literary history may conclude. The stormy confusions of hisyouth were now subsiding; after all his aberrations, repulses, andperplexed wanderings, he was at length about to reach his truedestination, and times of more serenity began to open for him. Twosuch tragedies as he had lately offered to the world made it easierfor his friend Dalberg to second his pretensions. Schiller was at lastgratified by the fulfilment of his favourite scheme; in September1783, he went to Mannheim, as poet to the theatre, a post ofrespectability and reasonable profit, to the duties of which heforthwith addressed himself with all his heart. He was not longafterwards elected a member of the German Society established forliterary objects in Mannheim; and he valued the honour, not only as atestimony of respect from a highly estimable quarter, but also as ameans of uniting him more closely with men of kindred pursuits andtempers: and what was more than all, of quieting forever hisapprehensions from the government at Stuttgard. Since his arrival atMannheim, one or two suspicious incidents had again alarmed him onthis head; but being now acknowledged as a subject of the ElectorPalatine, naturalised by law in his new country, he had nothing moreto fear from the Duke of Würtemberg. 

Satisfied with his moderate income, safe, free, and surrounded byfriends that loved and honoured him, Schiller now looked confidentlyforward to what all his efforts had been a search and hitherto afruitless search for, an undisturbed life of intellectual labour. Whateffect this happy aspect of his circumstances must have produced uponhim may be easily conjectured. Through many years he had been inuredto agitation and distress; now peace and liberty and hope, sweet inthemselves, were sweeter for their novelty. For the first time in hislife, he saw himself allowed to obey without reluctance the rulingbias of his nature; for the first time inclination and duty went handin hand. His activity awoke with renovated force in this favourablescene; long-thwarted, half-forgotten projects again kindled intobrightness, as the possibility of their accomplishment becameapparent: Schiller glowed with a generous pride when he felt hisfaculties at his own disposal, and thought of the use he meant to makeof them. 'All my connexions, ' he said, 'are now dissolved. The publicis now all to me, my study, my sovereign, my confidant. To the publicalone I henceforth belong; before this and no other tribunal will Iplace myself; this alone do I reverence and fear. Something majestichovers before me, as I determine now to wear no other fetters but thesentence of the world, to appeal to no other throne but the soul ofman. '

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

 PART II. 

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

 PART SECOND. 

 [1783-1790. ]

If to know wisdom were to practise it; if fame brought true dignityand peace of mind; or happiness consisted in nourishing the intellectwith its appropriate food and surrounding the imagination with idealbeauty, a literary life would be the most enviable which the lot ofthis world affords. But the truth is far otherwise. The Man of Lettershas no immutable, all-conquering volition, more than other men; tounderstand and to perform are two very different things with him aswith every one. His fame rarely exerts a favourable influence on hisdignity of character, and never on his peace of mind: its glitter isexternal, for the eyes of others; within, it is but the aliment ofunrest, the oil cast upon the ever-gnawing fire of ambition, quickening into fresh vehemence the blaze which it stills for amoment. Moreover, this Man of Letters is not wholly made of spirit, but of clay and spirit mixed: his thinking faculties may be noblytrained and exercised, but he must have affections as well as thoughtsto make him happy, and food and raiment must be given him or he dies. Far from being the most enviable, his way of life is perhaps, amongthe many modes by which an ardent mind endeavours to express itsactivity, the most thickly beset with suffering and degradation. Lookat the biography of authors! Except the Newgate Calendar, it is themost sickening chapter in the history of man. The calamities of thesepeople are a fertile topic; and too often their faults and vices havekept pace with their calamities. Nor is it difficult to see how thishas happened. Talent of any sort is generally accompanied with apeculiar fineness of sensibility; of genius this is the most essentialconstituent; and life in any shape has sorrows enough for hearts soformed. The employments of literature sharpen this natural tendency;the vexations that accompany them frequently exasperate it into morbidsoreness. The cares and toils of literature are the business of life;its delights are too ethereal and too transient to furnish thatperennial flow of satisfaction, coarse but plenteous and substantial, of which happiness in this world of ours is made. The most finishedefforts of the mind give it little pleasure, frequently they give itpain; for men's aims are ever far beyond their strength. And theoutward recompense of these undertakings, the distinction they confer, is of still smaller value: the desire for it is insatiable even whensuccessful; and when baffled, it issues in jealousy and envy, andevery pitiful and painful feeling. So keen a temperament with solittle to restrain or satisfy, so much to distress or tempt it, produces contradictions which few are adequate to reconcile. Hence theunhappiness of literary men, hence their faults and follies. 

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

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

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

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

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

Schiller lived in more peaceful times than Milton; his history is lessdistinguished by obstacles surmounted, or sacrifices made toprinciple; yet he had his share of trials to encounter; and theadmirers of his writings need not feel ashamed of the way in which hebore it. One virtue, the parent of many others, and the most essentialof any, in his circumstances, he possessed in a supreme degree; he wasdevoted with entire and unchanging ardour to the cause he had embarkedin. The extent of his natural endowments might have served, with aless eager character, as an excuse for long periods of indolence, broken only by fits of casual exertion: with him it was but a newincitement to improve and develop them. The Ideal Man that lay withinhim, the image of himself as he _should_ be, was formed upon a strictand curious standard; and to reach this constantly approached andconstantly receding emblem of perfection, was the unwearied effort ofhis life. This crowning principle of conduct, never ceasing to inspirehis energetic mind, introduced a consistency into his actions, a firmcoherence into his character, which the changeful condition of hishistory rendered of peculiar importance. His resources, his place ofresidence, his associates, his worldly prospects, might vary as theypleased; this purpose did not vary; it was ever present with him tonerve every better faculty of his head and heart, to invest thechequered vicissitudes of his fortune with a dignity derived fromhimself. The zeal of his nature overcame the temptations to thatloitering and indecision, that fluctuation between sloth and consumingtoil, that infirmity of resolution, with all its tormenting andenfeebling consequences, to which a literary man, working as he doesat a solitary task, uncalled for by any pressing tangible demand, andto be recompensed by distant and dubious advantage, is especiallyexposed. Unity of aim, aided by ordinary vigour of character, willgenerally insure perseverance; a quality not ranked among the cardinalvirtues, but as essential as any of them to the proper conduct oflife. Nine-tenths of the miseries and vices of mankind proceed fromidleness: with men of quick minds, to whom it is especiallypernicious, this habit is commonly the fruit of many disappointmentsand schemes oft baffled; and men fail in their schemes not so muchfrom the want of strength as from the ill-direction of it. The weakestliving creature, by concentrating his powers on a single object, canaccomplish something: the strongest, by dispersing his over many, mayfail to accomplish anything. The drop, by continual falling, bores itspassage through the hardest rock; the hasty torrent rushes over itwith hideous uproar, and leaves no trace behind. Few men have appliedmore steadfastly to the business of their life, or been moreresolutely diligent than Schiller. 

The profession of theatrical poet was, in his present circumstances, particularly favourable to the maintenance of this wholesome state ofmind. In the fulfilment of its duties, while he gratified his owndearest predilections, he was likewise warmly seconded by theprevailing taste of the public. The interest excited by the stage, andthe importance attached to everything connected with it, are greaterin Germany than in any other part of Europe, not excepting France, oreven Paris. Nor, as in Paris, is the stage in German towns consideredmerely as a mental recreation, an elegant and pleasant mode of fillingup the vacancy of tedious evenings: in Germany, it has the advantageof being comparatively new; and its exhibitions are directed to aclass of minds attuned to a far higher pitch of feeling. The Germansare accused of a proneness to amplify and systematise, to admire withexcess, and to find, in whatever calls forth their applause, anepitome of a thousand excellencies, which no one else can discover init. Their discussions on the theatre do certainly give colour to thischarge. Nothing, at least to an English reader, can appear moredisproportionate than the influence they impute to the stage, and thequantity of anxious investigation they devote to its concerns. 

With us, the question about the moral tendency of theatricalamusements is now very generally consigned to the meditation ofdebating clubs, and speculative societies of young men under age; withour neighbours it is a weighty subject of inquiry for minds of almostthe highest order. With us, the stage is considered as a harmlesspastime, wholesome because it occupies the man by occupying hismental, not his sensual faculties; one of the many departments offictitious representation; perhaps the most exciting, but also themost transitory; sometimes hurtful, generally beneficial, just as therest are; entitled to no peculiar regard, and far inferior in itseffect to many others which have no special apparatus for theirapplication. The Germans, on the contrary, talk of it as of some neworgan for refining the hearts and minds of men; a sort of lay pulpit, the worthy ally of the sacred one, and perhaps even better fitted toexalt some of our nobler feelings; because its objects are much morevaried, and because it speaks to us through many avenues, addressingthe eye by its pomp and decorations, the ear by its harmonies, and theheart and imagination by its poetical embellishments, and heroic actsand sentiments. Influences still more mysterious are hinted at, if notdirectly announced. An idea seems to lurk obscurely at the bottom ofcertain of their abstruse and elaborate speculations, as if the stagewere destined to replace some of those sublime illusions which theprogress of reason is fast driving from the earth; as if itspageantry, and allegories, and figurative shadowing-forth of things, might supply men's nature with much of that quickening nourishmentwhich we once derived from the superstitions and mythologies of darkerages. Viewing the matter in this light, they proceed in the managementof it with all due earnestness. Hence their minute and painfulinvestigations of the origin of dramatic emotion, of its various kindsand degrees; their subdivisions of romantic and heroic andromantico-heroic, and the other endless jargon that encumbers theircritical writings. The zeal of the people corresponds with that oftheir instructors. The want of more important public interestsnaturally contributes still farther to the prominence of this, thediscussion of which is not forbidden, or sure to be without effect. Literature attracts nearly all the powerful thought that circulates inGermany; and the theatre is the great nucleus of German literature. 

It was to be expected that Schiller would participate in a feeling souniversal, and so accordant with his own wishes and prospects. Thetheatre of Mannheim was at that period one of the best in Germany; hefelt proud of the share which he had in conducting it, and exertedhimself with his usual alacrity in promoting its various objects. Connected with the duties of his office, was the more personal duty ofimproving his own faculties, and extending his knowledge of the artwhich he had engaged to cultivate. He read much, and studied more. Theperusal of Corneille, Racine, Voltaire, and the other French classics, could not be without advantage to one whose exuberance of power, anddefect of taste, were the only faults he had ever been reproachedwith; and the sounder ideas thus acquired, he was constantly busy inexemplifying by attempts of his own. His projected translations fromShakspeare and the French were postponed for the present: indeed, except in the instance of _Macbeth_, they were never finished: his_Conradin von Schwaben_, and a second part of the _Robbers_, werelikewise abandoned: but a number of minor undertakings sufficientlyevinced his diligence: and _Don Carlos_, which he had now seriouslycommenced, was occupying all his poetical faculties. 

Another matter he had much at heart was the setting forth of aperiodical work, devoted to the concerns of the stage. In thisenterprise, Schiller had expected the patronage and coöperation of theGerman Society, of which he was a member. It did not strike him thatany other motive than a genuine love of art, and zeal for itsadvancement, could have induced men to join such a body. But the zealof the German Society was more according to knowledge than that oftheir new associate: they listened with approving ear to his vividrepresentations, and wide-spreading projects, but declined taking anypart in the execution of them. Dalberg alone seemed willing to supporthim. Mortified, but not disheartened by their coldness, Schillerreckoned up his means of succeeding without them. The plan of his workwas contracted within narrower limits; he determined to commence it onhis own resources. After much delay, the first number of the_Rheinische Thalia_, enriched by three acts of _Don Carlos_, appearedin 1785. It was continued, with one short interruption, till 1794. Themain purpose of the work being the furtherance of dramatic art, andthe extension and improvement of the public taste for suchentertainments, its chief contents are easy to be guessed at;theatrical criticisms, essays on the nature of the stage, its historyin various countries, its moral and intellectual effects, and the bestmethods of producing them. A part of the publication was open topoetry and miscellaneous discussion. 

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

In particular, the _Philosophische Briefe_, written about this period, exhibits Schiller in a new, and to us more interesting point of view. Julius and Raphael are the emblems of his own fears and his own hopes;their _Philosophic Letters_ unfold to us many a gloomy conflict thathad passed in the secret chambers of their author's soul. Scepticaldoubts on the most important of all subjects were natural to such anunderstanding as Schiller's; but his heart was not of a temper to restsatisfied with doubts; or to draw a sorry compensation for them fromthe pride of superior acuteness, or the vulgar pleasure of producingan effect on others by assailing their dearest and holiestpersuasions. With him the question about the essence of our being wasnot a subject for shallow speculation, charitably named scientific;still less for vain jangling and polemical victories: it was a fearfulmystery, which it concerned all the deepest sympathies and mostsublime anticipations of his mind to have explained. It is no idlecuriosity, but the shuddering voice of nature that asks: 'If ourhappiness depend on the harmonious play of the sensorium; if ourconviction may waver with the beating of the pulse?' What Schiller'sultimate opinions on these points were, we are nowhere speciallyinformed. That his heart was orthodox, that the whole universe was forhim a temple, in which he offered up the continual sacrifice of devoutadoration, his works and life bear noble testimony; yet, here andthere, his fairest visions seem as if suddenly sicklied over with apale cast of doubt; a withering shadow seems to flit across his soul, and chill it in his loftiest moods. The dark condition of the man wholongs to believe and longs in vain, he can represent with averisimilitude and touching beauty, which shows it to have beenfamiliar to himself. Apart from their ingenuity, there is a certainsevere pathos in some of these passages, which affects us with apeculiar emotion. The hero of another work is made to express himselfin these terms:

'What went before and what will follow me, I regard as two blackimpenetrable curtains, which hang down at the two extremities of humanlife, and which no living man has yet drawn aside. Many hundreds ofgenerations have already stood before them with their torches, guessing anxiously what lies behind. On the curtain of Futurity, manysee their own shadows, the forms of their passions enlarged and put inmotion; they shrink in terror at this image of themselves. Poets, philosophers, and founders of states, have painted this curtain withtheir dreams, more smiling or more dark, as the sky above them wascheerful or gloomy; and their pictures deceive the eye when viewedfrom a distance. Many jugglers too make profit of this our universalcuriosity: by their strange mummeries, they have set the outstretchedfancy in amazement. A deep silence reigns behind this curtain; no oneonce within it will answer those he has left without; all you can hearis a hollow echo of your question, as if you shouted into a chasm. Tothe other side of this curtain we are all bound: men grasp hold of itas they pass, trembling, uncertain who may stand within it to receivethem, _quid sit id quod tantum morituri vident_. Some unbelievingpeople there have been, who have asserted that this curtain did butmake a mockery of men, and that nothing could be seen because nothing_was_ behind it: but to convince these people, the rest have seizedthem, and hastily pushed them in. '[11]

 [Footnote 11: _Der Geisterseher_, Schillers Werke, B. Iv. P 350. ]

The _Philosophic Letters_ paint the struggles of an ardent, enthusiastic, inquisitive spirit to deliver itself from the harassinguncertainties, to penetrate the dread obscurity, which overhangs thelot of man. The first faint scruples of the Doubter are settled by themaxim: 'Believe nothing but thy own reason; there is nothing holierthan truth. ' But Reason, employed in such an inquiry, can do but halfthe work: she is like the Conjuror that has pronounced the spell ofinvocation, but has forgot the counter-word; spectres and shadowyforms come crowding at his summons; in endless multitudes they pressand hover round his magic circle, and the terror-struck Black-artistcannot lay them. Julius finds that on rejecting the primary dictatesof feeling, the system of dogmatical belief, he is driven to thesystem of materialism. Recoiling in horror from this dead andcheerless creed, he toils and wanders in the labyrinths of pantheism, seeking comfort and rest, but finding none; till, baffled and tired, and sick at heart, he seems inclined, as far as we can judge, torenounce the dreary problem altogether, to shut the eyes of his tookeen understanding, and take refuge under the shade of Revelation. Theanxieties and errors of Julius are described in glowing terms; hisintellectual subtleties are mingled with the eloquence of intensefeeling. The answers of his friend are in a similar style; intendednot more to convince than to persuade. The whole work is full ofpassion as well as acuteness; the impress of a philosophic and poeticmind striving with all its vast energies to make its poetry and itsphilosophy agree. Considered as exhibiting the state of Schiller'sthoughts at this period, it possesses a peculiar interest. In otherrespects there is little in it to allure us. It is short andincomplete; there is little originality in the opinions it expresses, and none in the form of its composition. As an argument on eitherside, it is too rhetorical to be of much weight; it abandons theinquiry when its difficulties and its value are becoming greatest, andbreaks off abruptly without arriving at any conclusion. Schiller hassurveyed the dark Serbonian bog of Infidelity: but he has, made nocauseway through it: the _Philosophic Letters_ are a fragment. 

Amid employments so varied, with health, and freedom from the coarserhardships of life, Schiller's feelings might be earnest, but couldscarcely be unhappy. His mild and amiable manners, united to suchgoodness of heart, and such height of accomplishment, endeared him toall classes of society in Mannheim; Dalberg was still his warm friend;Schwann and Laura he conversed with daily. His genius was fastenlarging its empire, and fast acquiring more complete command of it;he was loved and admired, rich in the enjoyment of present activityand fame, and richer in the hope of what was coming. Yet in proportionas his faculties and his prospects expanded, he began to view hisactual situation with less and less contentment. For a season afterhis arrival, it was natural that Mannheim should appear to him as landdoes to the shipwrecked mariner, full of gladness and beauty, merelybecause it is land. It was equally natural that, after a time, thissentiment should abate and pass away; that his place of refuge shouldappear but as other places, only with its difficulties and discomfortsaggravated by their nearness. His revenue was inconsiderable here, anddependent upon accidents for its continuance; a share in directing theconcerns of a provincial theatre, a task not without its irritations, was little adequate to satisfy the wishes of a mind like his. Schillerlonged for a wider sphere of action; the world was all before him; helamented that he should still be lingering on the mere outskirts ofits business; that he should waste so much time and effort incontending with the irascible vanity of players, or watching the ebbsand flows of public taste; in resisting small grievances, andrealising a small result. He determined upon leaving Mannheim. Ifdestitute of other holds, his prudence might still have taught him tosmother this unrest, the never-failing inmate of every human breast, and patiently continue where he was: but various resources remained tohim, and various hopes invited him from other quarters. The produce ofhis works, or even the exercise of his profession, would insure him acompetence anywhere; the former had already gained him distinctionand goodwill in every part of Germany. The first number of his_Thalia_ had arrived at the court of Hessen-Darmstadt while the Dukeof Sachsen-Weimar happened to be there: the perusal of the first actsof _Don Carlos_ had introduced the author to that enlightened prince, who expressed his satisfaction and respect by transmitting him thetitle of Counsellor. A less splendid but not less truthful or pleasingtestimonial had lately reached him from Leipzig. 

'Some days ago, ' he writes, 'I met with a very flattering andagreeable surprise. There came to me, out of Leipzig, from unknownhands, four parcels, and as many letters, written with the highestenthusiasm towards me, and overflowing with poetical devotion. Theywere accompanied by four miniature portraits, two of which are of verybeautiful young ladies, and by a pocket-book sewed in the finesttaste. Such a present, from people who can have no interest in it, butto let me know that they wish me well, and thank me for some cheerfulhours, I prize extremely; the loudest applause of the world couldscarcely have flattered me so agreeably. '

Perhaps this incident, trifling as it was, might not be without effectin deciding the choice of his future residence. Leipzig had the moresubstantial charm of being a centre of activity and commerce of allsorts, that of literature not excepted; and it contained some moreeffectual friends of Schiller than these his unseen admirers. Heresolved on going thither. His wishes and intentions are minutelydetailed to Huber, his chief intimate at Leipzig, in a letter writtenshortly before his removal. We translate it for the hints it gives usof Schiller's tastes and habits at that period of his history. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

'Our journey hither, of which Herr Götz will give you a circumstantialdescription, was the most dismal you can well imagine; Bog, Snow andRain were the three wicked foes that by turns assailed us; and thoughwe used an additional pair of horses all the way from Vach, yet ourtravelling, which should have ended on Friday, was spun-out tillSunday. It is universally maintained that the Fair has visiblysuffered by the shocking state of the roads; at all events, even in myeyes, the crowd of sellers and buyers is far _beneath_ the descriptionI used to get of it in the Empire. 

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

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

'From various quarters I have had some alluring invitations to Berlinand Dresden; which it will be difficult for me to withstand. It isquite a peculiar case, my friend, to have a literary name. The few menof worth and consideration who offer you their intimacy on that score, and whose regard is really worth coveting, are too disagreeablycounterweighed by the baleful swarm of creatures who keep humminground you, like so many flesh-flies; gape at you as if you were amonster, and condescend moreover, on the strength of one or twoblotted sheets, to present themselves as colleagues. Many peoplecannot understand how a man that wrote the _Robbers_ should look likeanother son of Adam. Close-cut hair, at the very least, andpostillion's boots, and a hunter's whip, were expected. 

'Many families are in the habit here of spending the summer in someof the adjacent villages, and so enjoying the pleasures of thecountry. I mean to pass a few months in Gohlis, which lies only aquarter of a league from Leipzig, with a very pleasant walk leading toit, through the Rosenthal. Here I purpose being very diligent, workingat _Carlos_ and the _Thalia_; that so, which perhaps will please youmore than anything, I may gradually and silently return to my medicalprofession. I long impatiently for that epoch of my life, when myprospects may be settled and determined, when I may follow my darlingpursuits merely for my own pleasure. At one time I studied medicine_con amore_; could I not do it now with still greater keenness?

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

'Yet two short years and my whole fortune will be determined. I feelhow _much_ I ask, how boldly, and with how little right I ask it. Ayear is past since this thought took possession of my soul; but myesteem for you and your excellent daughter was too high to allow roomfor a wish, which at that time I could found on no solid basis. I madeit a duty with myself to visit your house less frequently, and todissipate such feelings by absence; but this poor artifice did notavail me. 

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

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

'FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. '

Concerning this proposal, we have no farther information tocommunicate; except that the parties did not marry, and did not ceasebeing friends. That Schiller obtained the permission he concludes withrequesting, appears from other sources. Three years afterwards, inwriting to the same person, he alludes emphatically to his eldestdaughter; and what is more ominous, _apologises_ for his silence toher. Schiller's situation at this period was such as to preclude theidea of present marriage; perhaps, in the prospect of it, _Laura_ andhe commenced corresponding; and before the wished-for change offortune had arrived, both of them, attracted to other objects, hadlost one another in the vortex of life, and ceased to regard theirfinding one another as desirable. 

Schiller's medical project, like many which he formed, never came toany issue. In moments of anxiety, amid the fluctuations of his lot, the thought of this profession floated through his mind, as of adistant stronghold, to which, in time of need, he might retire. Butliterature was too intimately interwoven with his dispositions and hishabits to be seriously interfered with; it was only at brief intervalsthat the pleasure of pursuing it exclusively seemed overbalanced byits inconveniences. He needed a more certain income than poetry couldyield him; but he wished to derive it from some pursuit less alien tohis darling study. Medicine he never practised after leavingStuttgard. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The story of Don Carlos seems peculiarly adapted for dramatists. Thespectacle of a royal youth condemned to death by his father, of whichhappily our European annals furnish but another example, is among themost tragical that can be figured; the character of that youth, theintermixture of bigotry and jealousy, and love, with the other strongpassions, which brought on his fate, afford a combination ofcircumstances, affecting in themselves, and well calculated for thebasis of deeply interesting fiction. Accordingly they have not beenneglected: Carlos has often been the theme of poets; particularlysince the time when his history, recorded by the Abbé St. Réal, wasexposed in more brilliant colours to the inspection of every writer, and almost of every reader. 

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

Schiller's _Carlos_ is the first of his plays that bears the stamp ofanything like full maturity. The opportunities he had enjoyed forextending his knowledge of men and things, the sedulous practice ofthe art of composition, the study of purer models, had not beenwithout their full effect. Increase of years had done something forhim; diligence had done much more. The ebullience of youth is nowchastened into the steadfast energy of manhood; the wild enthusiast, that spurned at the errors of the world, has now become theenlightened moralist, that laments their necessity, or endeavours tofind out their remedy. A corresponding alteration is visible in theexternal form of the work, in its plot and diction. The plot iscontrived with great ingenuity, embodying the result of much study, both dramatic and historical. The language is blank verse, not prose, as in the former works; it is more careful and regular, less ambitiousin its object, but more certain of attaining it. Schiller's mind hadnow reached its full stature: he felt and thought more justly; hecould better express what he felt and thought. 

The merit we noticed in _Fiesco_, the fidelity with which the scene ofaction is brought before us, is observable to a still greater degreein _Don Carlos_. The Spanish court in the end of the sixteenthcentury; its rigid, cold formalities; its cruel, bigoted, butproud-spirited grandees; its inquisitors and priests; and Philip, itshead, the epitome at once of its good and its bad qualities, in allhis complex interests, are exhibited with wonderful distinctness andaddress. Nor is it at the surface or the outward movements alone thatwe look; we are taught the mechanism of their characters, as well asshown it in action. The stony-hearted Despot himself must have been anobject of peculiar study to the author. Narrow in his understanding, dead in his affections, from his birth the lord of Europe, Philip hasexisted all his days above men, not among them. Locked up withinhimself, a stranger to every generous and kindly emotion, his gloomyspirit has had no employment but to strengthen or increase its ownelevation, no pleasure but to gratify its own self-will. Superstition, harmonising with these native tendencies, has added to their force, but scarcely to their hatefulness: it lends them a sort of sacrednessin his own eyes, and even a sort of horrid dignity in ours. Philip isnot without a certain greatness, the greatness of unlimited externalpower, and of a will relentless in its dictates, guided by principles, false, but consistent and unalterable. The scene of his existence ishaggard, stern and desolate; but it is all his own, and he seemsfitted for it. We hate him and fear him; but the poet has taken careto secure him from contempt. 

The contrast both of his father's fortune and character are those ofCarlos. Few situations of a more affecting kind can be imagined, thanthe situation of this young, generous and ill-fated prince. Fromboyhood his heart had been bent on mighty things; he had looked uponthe royal grandeur that awaited his maturer years, only as the meansof realising those projects for the good of men, which his beneficentsoul was ever busied with. His father's dispositions, and the temperof the court, which admitted no development of such ideas, had giventhe charm of concealment to his feelings; his life had been inprospect; and we are the more attached to him, that deserving to beglorious and happy, he had but expected to be either. Bright days, however, seemed approaching; shut out from the communion of the Albasand Domingos, among whom he lived a stranger, the communion of anotherand far dearer object was to be granted him; Elizabeth's love seemedto make him independent even of the future, which it painted withstill richer hues. But in a moment she is taken from him by the mostterrible of all visitations; his bride becomes his mother; and thestroke that deprives him of her, while it ruins him forever, is moredeadly, because it cannot be complained of without sacrilege, andcannot be altered by the power of Fate itself. Carlos, as the poetrepresents him, calls forth our tenderest sympathies. His soul seemsonce to have been rich and glorious, like the garden of Eden; but thedesert-wind has passed over it, and smitten it with perpetual blight. Despair has overshadowed all the fair visions of his youth; or if hehopes, it is but the gleam of delirium, which something sterner thaneven duty extinguishes in the cold darkness of death. His energysurvives but to vent itself in wild gusts of reckless passion, oraimless indignation. There is a touching poignancy in his expressionof the bitter melancholy that oppresses him, in the fixedness ofmisery with which he looks upon the faded dreams of former years, orthe fierce ebullitions and dreary pauses of resolution, which nowprompts him to retrieve what he has lost, now withers intopowerlessness, as nature and reason tell him that it cannot, must notbe retrieved. 

Elizabeth, no less moving and attractive, is also depicted withmasterly skill. If she returns the passion of her amiable and oncebetrothed lover, we but guess at the fact; for so horrible a thoughthas never once been whispered to her own gentle and spotless mind. Yether heart bleeds for Carlos; and we see that did not the most sacredfeelings of humanity forbid her, there is no sacrifice she would notmake to restore his peace of mind. By her soothing influence shestrives to calm the agony of his spirit; by her mild winning eloquenceshe would persuade him that for Don Carlos other objects must remain, when his hopes of personal felicity have been cut off; she wouldchange his love for her into love for the millions of human beingswhose destiny depends on his. A meek vestal, yet with the prudence ofa queen, and the courage of a matron, with every graceful and generousquality of womanhood harmoniously blended in her nature, she lives ina scene that is foreign to her; the happiness she should have had isbeside her, the misery she must endure is around her; yet she uttersno regret, gives way to no complaint, but seeks to draw from dutyitself a compensation for the cureless evil which duty has inflicted. Many tragic queens are more imposing and majestic than this Elizabethof Schiller; but there is none who rules over us with a sway so softand feminine, none whom we feel so much disposed to love as well asreverence. 

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

In delineating Eboli and Philip, Schiller seems as if strugglingagainst the current of his nature; our feelings towards them arehardly so severe as he intended; their words and deeds, at least thoseof the latter, are wicked and repulsive enough; but we still have akind of latent persuasion that they meant better than they spoke oracted. With the Marquis of Posa, he had a more genial task. This Posa, we can easily perceive, is the representative of Schiller himself. Theardent love of men, which forms his ruling passion, was likewise theconstant feeling of his author; the glowing eloquence with which headvocates the cause of truth, and justice, and humanity, was such asSchiller too would have employed in similar circumstances. In somerespects, Posa is the chief character of the piece; there is apreëminent magnificence in his object, and in the faculties andfeelings with which he follows it. Of a splendid intellect, and adaring devoted heart, his powers are all combined upon a singlepurpose. Even his friendship for Carlos, grounded on the likeness oftheir minds, and faithful as it is, yet seems to merge in thisparamount emotion, zeal for the universal interests of man. Aiming, with all his force of thought and action, to advance the happiness andbest rights of his fellow-creatures; pursuing this noble aim with theskill and dignity which it deserves, his mind is at once unwearied, earnest and serene. He is another Carlos, but somewhat older, moreexperienced, and never crossed in hopeless love. There is a calmstrength in Posa, which no accident of fortune can shake. Whethercheering the forlorn Carlos into new activity; whether lifting up hisvoice in the ear of tyrants and inquisitors, or taking leave of lifeamid his vast unexecuted schemes, there is the same sedatemagnanimity, the same fearless composure: when the fatal bulletstrikes him, he dies with the concerns of others, not his own, uponhis lips. He is a reformer, the perfection of reformers; not arevolutionist, but a prudent though determined improver. Hisenthusiasm does not burst forth in violence, but in manly andenlightened energy; his eloquence is not more moving to the heart thanhis lofty philosophy is convincing to the head. There is a majesticvastness of thought in his precepts, which recommends them to the mindindependently of the beauty of their dress. Few passages of poetry aremore spirit-stirring than his last message to Carlos, through theQueen. The certainty of death seems to surround his spirit with a kindof martyr glory; he is kindled into transport, and speaks with acommanding power. The pathetic wisdom of the line, 'Tell him, thatwhen he is a man, he must reverence the dreams of his youth, ' hasoften been admired: that scene has many such. 

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

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

ACT III. SCENE X. 

The KING and MARQUIS DE POSA. 

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

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

MAR. No. 

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

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

KING. I am not usedTo be my servants' debtor; ask of meSome favour. 

MAR. I enjoy the laws. 

KING. That rightThe very murd'rer has. 

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

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

MAR. Making wayFor men more worthy, I withdrew. 

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

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

KING. You pause?

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

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

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

KING [_with a look of expectation_]. Well?

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

KING. This fireIs laudable. You would do good to others;How you do it, patriots, wise men thinkOf little moment, so it be but done. Seek for yourself the office in my kingdomsThat will give you scope to gratifyThis noble zeal. 

MAR. There is not such an office. 

KING. How?

MAR. What the king desires to spread abroadThrough these weak hands, is it the good of men?That good which my unfetter'd love would wish them?Pale majesty would tremble to behold it!No! Policy has fashioned in her courtsAnother sort of human good; a sortWhich _she_ is rich enough to give away, Awakening with it in the hearts of menNew cravings, such as _it_ can satisfy. Truth she keeps coining in her mints, such truthAs she can tolerate; and every dieExcept her own she breaks and casts away. But is the royal bounty wide enoughFor me to wish and work in? Must the loveI hear my brother pledge itself to beMy brother's jailor? Can I call him happyWhen he dare not think? Sire, choose some otherTo dispense the good which _you_ have stamped for us. With me it tallies not; a prince's servantI cannot be. 

KING [_rather quickly_]. You are a Protestant. 

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

KING. No other knows you harbour such ideas?

MAR. Such, no one. 

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

MAR. Sire, I seeHow very meanly you conceive of men;How, in the language of the frank true spiritYou find but another deeper artificeOf a more practis'd coz'ner: I can alsoPartly see what causes this. 'Tis men;'Tis men that force you to it: they themselvesHave cast away their own nobility, Themselves have crouch'd to this degraded posture. Man's innate greatness, like a spectre, frights them;Their poverty seems safety; with base skillThey ornament their chains, and call it virtueTo wear them with an air of grace. Twas thusYou found the world; thus from your royal fatherCame it to you: how in this distorted, Mutilated image could you honour man?

KING. Some truth there is in this. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MAR. Peace of a churchyard! And you hope to endWhat you have entered on? Hope to withstandThe timeful change of Christendom; to stopThe universal Spring that shall make youngThe countenance o' th' Earth? _You_ purpose, singleIn all Europe, alone, to fling yourselfAgainst the wheel of Destiny that rollsFor ever its appointed course; to clutchIts spokes with mortal arm? You may not, Sire!Already thousands have forsook your kingdoms, Escaping glad though poor: the citizenYou lost for conscience' sake, he was your noblest. With mother's arms Elizabeth receivesThe fugitives, and rich by foreign skill, In fertile strength her England blooms. ForsakenOf its toilsome people, lies GrenadaDesolate; and Europe sees with glad surpriseIts enemy faint with self-inflicted wounds. 

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

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

KING. How know you that?

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

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

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

 [_Throwing himself at his feet. _

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

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

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

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

KING [_after a long pause_]. I have heard you to an end. Not as in common heads, the world is paintedIn that head of yours: nor will I mete youBy the common standard. I am the firstTo whom your heart has been disclosed:I know this, so believe it. For the sakeOf such forbearance; for your having keptIdeas, embraced with such devotion, secretUp to this present moment, for the sakeOf that reserve, young man, I will forgetThat I have learned them, and how I learned them. Arise. The headlong youth I will set right, Not as his sovereign, but as his senior. I will, because I will. So! bane itself, I find, in generous natures may becomeEnnobled into something better. ButBeware my Inquisition! It would grieve meIf you—

MAR. Would it? would it?

KING [_gazing at him, and lost in surprise_]. Such a mortalTill this hour I never saw. No, Marquis!No! You do me wrong. To you I will notBe a Nero, not to you. _All_ happinessShall not be blighted by me: you yourselfShall be permitted to remain a manBeside me. 

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

KING. You see so clearlyHow posterity will judge of me; yourselfShall teach it how I treated men so soonAs I had found one. 

MAR. O Sire! in beingThe most just of kings, at the same instantBe not the most unjust! In your FlandersAre many thousands worthier than I. 'Tis but yourself, —shall I confess it, Sire?—That under this mild form first truly seeWhat freedom is. 

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

MAR. Sire, let meContinue as I am. What good were itTo you, if I like others were corrupted?

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

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

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

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

'In composing the piece, ' he observes, 'many interruptions occurred;so that a considerable time elapsed between beginning and concludingit; and, in the mean while, much within myself had changed. Thevarious alterations which, during this period, my way of thinking andfeeling underwent, naturally told upon the work I was engaged with. What parts of it had at first attracted me, began to produce thiseffect in a weaker degree, and, in the end, scarcely at all. Newideas, springing up in the interim, displaced the former ones; Carloshimself had lost my favour, perhaps for no other reason than because Ihad become his senior; and, from the opposite cause, Posa had occupiedhis place. Thus I commenced the fourth and fifth acts with quite analtered heart. But the first three were already in the hands of thepublic; the plan of the whole could not now be re-formed; nothingtherefore remained but to suppress the piece entirely, or to fit thesecond half to the first the best way I could. '

The imperfection alluded to is one of which the general reader willmake no great account; the second half is fitted to the first withaddress enough for his purposes. Intent not upon applying the dramaticgauge, but on being moved and exalted, we may peruse the tragedywithout noticing that any such defect exists in it. The pity and lovewe are first taught to feel for Carlos abide with us to the last; andthough Posa rises in importance as the piece proceeds, our admirationof his transcendent virtues does not obstruct the gentler feelingswith which we look upon the fate of his friend. A certain confusionand crowding together of events, about the end of the play, is theonly fault in its plan that strikes us with any force. Even this isscarcely prominent enough to be offensive. 

An intrinsic and weightier defect is the want of ease and lightness inthe general composition of the piece; a defect which, all its otherexcellencies will not prevent us from observing. There is actionenough in the plot, energy enough in the dialogue, and abundance ofindividual beauties in both; but there is throughout a certain air ofstiffness and effort, which abstracts from the theatrical illusion. The language, in general impressive and magnificent, is now and theninflated into bombast. The characters do not, as it were, verify theirhuman nature, by those thousand little touches and nameless turns, which distinguish the genius essentially dramatic from the geniusmerely poetical; the Proteus of the stage from the philosophicobserver and trained imitator of life. We have not those carelessfelicities, those varyings from high to low, that air of livingfreedom which Shakspeare has accustomed us, like spoiled children, tolook for in every perfect work of this species. Schiller is tooelevated, too regular and sustained in his elevation, to be altogethernatural. 

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

The celebrity of Alfieri generally invites the reader of _Don Carlos_to compare it with _Filippo_. Both writers treat the same subject;both borrow their materials from the same source, the _nouvellehistorique_ of St. Réal: but it is impossible that two powerful mindscould have handled one given idea in more diverse manners. Theirexcellencies are, in fact, so opposite, that they scarcely come incompetition. Alfieri's play is short, and the characters are few. Hedescribes no scene: his personages are not the King of Spain and hiscourtiers, but merely men; their place of action is not the Escurialor Madrid, but a vacant, objectless platform anywhere in space. In allthis, Schiller has a manifest advantage. He paints manners andopinions, he sets before us a striking pageant, which interests us ofitself, and gives a new interest to whatever is combined with it. Theprinciples of the antique, or perhaps rather of the French drama, uponwhich Alfieri worked, permitted no such delineation. In the stylethere is the same diversity. A severe simplicity uniformly marksAlfieri's style; in his whole tragedy there is not a single figure. Ahard emphatic brevity is all that distinguishes his language from thatof prose. Schiller, we have seen, abounds with noble metaphors, andall the warm exciting eloquence of poetry. It is only in expressingthe character of Philip that Alfieri has a clear superiority. Withoutthe aid of superstition, which his rival, especially in thecatastrophe, employs to such advantage, Alfieri has exhibited in hisFilippo a picture of unequalled power. Obscurity is justly said to beessential to terror and sublimity; and Schiller has enfeebled theeffect of his Tyrant, by letting us behold the most secret recesses ofhis spirit: we understand him better, but we fear him less. Alfieridoes not show us the internal combination of Filippo: it is from itsworkings alone that we judge of his nature. Mystery, and the shadow ofhorrid cruelty, brood over his Filippo: it is only a transient word oract that gives us here and there a glimpse of his fierce, implacable, tremendous soul; a short and dubious glimmer that reveals to us theabysses of his being, dark, lurid, and terrific, 'as the throat of theinfernal Pool. ' Alfieri's Filippo is perhaps the most wicked man thathuman imagination has conceived. 

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

This tragedy of _Carlos_ was received with immediate and universalapprobation. In the closet and on the stage, it excited the warmestapplauses equally among the learned and unlearned. Schiller'sexpectations had not been so high: he knew both the excellencies andthe faults of his work; but he had not anticipated that the formerwould be recognised so instantaneously. The pleasure of this newcelebrity came upon him, therefore, heightened by surprise. Haddramatic eminence been his sole object, he might now have slackenedhis exertions; the public had already ranked him as the first of theirwriters in that favourite department. But this limited ambition wasnot his moving principle; nor was his mind of that sort for which restis provided in this world. The primary disposition of his nature urgedhim to perpetual toil: the great aim of his life, the unfolding of hismental powers, was one of those which admit but a relative not anabsolute progress. New ideas of perfection arise as the former havebeen reached; the student is always attaining, never has attained. 

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

For all these wishes, Schiller saw that the only chance of fulfilmentdepended on unwearied perseverance in his literary occupations. Yetthough his activity was unabated, and the calls on it were increasingrather than diminished, its direction was gradually changing. TheDrama had long been stationary, and of late been falling in hisestimation: the difficulties of the art, as he viewed it at present, had been overcome, and new conquests invited him in other quarters. The latter part of _Carlos_ he had written as a task rather than apleasure; he contemplated no farther undertaking connected with theStage. For a time, indeed, he seems to have wavered among amultiplicity of enterprises; now solicited to this, and now to that, without being able to fix decidedly on any. The restless ardour of hismind is evinced by the number and variety of his attempts; itsfluctuation by the circumstance that all of them are either short inextent, or left in the state of fragments. Of the former kind are hislyrical productions, many of which were composed about this period, during intervals from more serious labours. The character of theseperformances is such as his former writings gave us reason to expect. With a deep insight into life, and a keen and comprehensive sympathywith its sorrows and enjoyments, there is combined that impetuosity offeeling, that pomp of thought and imagery which belong peculiarly toSchiller. If he had now left the Drama, it was clear that his mind wasstill overflowing with the elements of poetry; dwelling among thegrandest conceptions, and the boldest or finest emotions; thinkingintensely and profoundly, but decorating its thoughts with thosegraces, which other faculties than the understanding are required toafford them. With these smaller pieces, Schiller occupied himself atintervals of leisure throughout the remainder of his life. Some ofthem are to be classed among the most finished efforts of his genius. The _Walk_, the _Song of the Bell_, contain exquisite delineations ofthe fortunes and history of man; his _Ritter Toggenburg_, his _Cranesof Ibycus_, his _Hero and Leander_, are among the most poetical andmoving ballads to be found in any language. 

Of these poems, the most noted written about this time, the_Freethinking of Passion_ (_Freigeisterei der Leidenschaft_), is saidto have originated in a real attachment. The lady, whom somebiographers of Schiller introduce to us by the mysterious designationof the 'Fräulein A * * *, one of the first beauties in Dresden, ' seemsto have made a deep impression on the heart of the poet. They tell usthat she sat for the picture of the princess Eboli, in his _DonCarlos_; that he paid his court to her with the most impassionedfervour, and the extreme of generosity. They add one or two anecdotesof dubious authenticity; which, as they illustrate nothing, but showus only that love could make Schiller crazy, as it is said to make allgods and men, we shall use the freedom to omit. 

This enchanting and not inexorable spinster perhaps displaced theMannheim _Laura_ from her throne; but the gallant assiduities, whichshe required or allowed, seem not to have abated the zeal of heradmirer in his more profitable undertakings. Her reign, we suppose, was brief and without abiding influence. Schiller never wrote orthought with greater diligence than while at Dresden. Partiallyoccupied with conducting his _Thalia_, or with those more slightpoetical performances, his mind was hovering among a multitude ofweightier plans, and seizing with avidity any hint that might assistin directing its attempts. To this state of feeling we are probablyindebted for the _Geisterseher_, a novel, naturalised in ourcirculating libraries by the title of the _Ghostseer_, two volumes ofwhich were published about this time. The king of quacks, the renownedCagliostro, was now playing his dextrous game at Paris; harrowing-upthe souls of the curious and gullible of all ranks in that capital, by various thaumaturgic feats; raising the dead from their graves;and, what was more to the purpose, raising himself from the station ofa poor Sicilian lacquey to that of a sumptuous and extravagant count. The noise of his exploits appears to have given rise to this work ofSchiller's. It is an attempt to exemplify the process of hoodwinkingan acute but too sensitive man; of working on the latent germ ofsuperstition, which exists beneath his outward scepticism; harassinghis mind by the terrors of magic, —the magic of chemistry and naturalphilosophy and natural cunning; till, racked by doubts and agonisingfears, and plunging from one depth of dark uncertainty into another, he is driven at length to still his scruples in the bosom of theInfallible Church. The incidents are contrived with considerableaddress, displaying a familiar acquaintance, not only with severalbranches of science, but also with some curious forms of life andhuman nature. One or two characters are forcibly drawn; particularlythat of the amiable but feeble Count, the victim of the operation. Thestrange Foreigner, with the visage of stone, who conducts the businessof mystification, strikes us also, though we see but little of him. The work contains some vivid description, some passages of deeptragical effect: it has a vein of keen observation; in general, acertain rugged power, which might excite regret that it was neverfinished. But Schiller found that his views had been mistaken: it wasthought that he meant only to electrify his readers, by anaccumulation of surprising horrors, in a novel of the Mrs. Radcliffefashion. He felt, in consequence, discouraged to proceed; and finallyabandoned it. 

Schiller was, in fact, growing tired of fictitious writing. Imagination was with him a strong, not an exclusive, perhaps not evena predominating faculty: in the sublimest flights of his genius, intellect is a quality as conspicuous as any other; we are frequentlynot more delighted with the grandeur of the drapery in which heclothes his thoughts, than with the grandeur of the thoughtsthemselves. To a mind so restless, the cultivation of all its powerswas a peremptory want; in one so earnest, the love of truth was sureto be among its strongest passions. Even while revelling, with unwornardour, in the dreamy scenes of the Imagination, he had often cast alonging look, and sometimes made a hurried inroad, into the calmerprovinces of reason: but the first effervescence of youth was past, and now more than ever, the love of contemplating or painting thingsas they should be, began to yield to the love of knowing things asthey are. The tendency of his mind was gradually changing; he wasabout to enter on a new field of enterprise, where new triumphsawaited him. 

For a time he had hesitated what to choose; at length he began tothink of History. As a leading object of pursuit, this promised himpeculiar advantages. It was new to him; and fitted to employ some ofhis most valuable gifts. It was grounded on reality, for which, as wehave said, his taste was now becoming stronger; its mighty revolutionsand events, and the commanding characters that figure in it, wouldlikewise present him with things great and moving, for which his tastehad always been strong. As recording the past transactions, andindicating the prospects of nations, it could not fail to bedelightful to one, for whom not only human nature was a matter of mostfascinating speculation, but who looked on all mankind with thesentiments of a brother, feeling truly what he often said, that 'hehad no dearer wish than to see every living mortal happy and contentedwith his lot. ' To all these advantages another of a humbler sort wasadded, but which the nature of his situation forbade him to losesight of. The study of History, while it afforded him a subject ofcontinuous and regular exertion, would also afford him, what was evenmore essential, the necessary competence of income for which he feltreluctant any longer to depend on the resources of poetry, but whichthe produce of his pen was now the only means he had of realising. 

For these reasons, he decided on commencing the business of historian. The composition of _Don Carlos_ had already led him to investigate thestate of Spain under Philip II. ; and, being little satisfied withWatson's clear but shallow Work on that reign, he had turned to theoriginal sources of information, the writings of Grotius, Strada, DeThou, and many others. Investigating these with his usual fidelity andeagerness, the Revolt of the Netherlands had, by degrees, becomefamiliar to his thoughts; distinct in many parts where it waspreviously obscure; and attractive, as it naturally must be to atemper such as his. He now determined that his first historicalperformance should be a narrative of that event. He resolved toexplore the minutest circumstance of its rise and progress; to arrangethe materials he might collect, in a more philosophical order; tointerweave with them the general opinions he had formed, or wasforming, on many points of polity, and national or individualcharacter; and, if possible, to animate the whole with that warmsympathy, which, in a lover of Freedom, this most glorious of hertriumphs naturally called forth. 

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

Of these plans many never reached a describable shape; very fewreached even partial execution. One of the latter sort was an intended_History of the most remarkable Conspiracies and Revolutions in theMiddle and Later Ages_. A first volume of the work was published in1787. Schiller's part in it was trifling; scarcely more than that of atranslator and editor. St. Réal's _Conspiracy of Bedmar againstVenice_, here furnished with an extended introduction, is the bestpiece in the book. Indeed, St. Réal seems first to have set him onthis task: the Abbé had already signified his predilection for plotsand revolutions, and given a fine sample of his powers in treatingsuch matters. What Schiller did was to expand this idea, andcommunicate a systematic form to it. His work might have been curiousand valuable, had it been completed; but the pressure of otherengagements, the necessity of limiting his views to the Netherlands, prevented this for the present; it was afterwards forgotten, and nevercarried farther. 

Such were Schiller's occupations while at Dresden; their extent andvariety are proof enough that idleness was not among his vices. Itwas, in truth, the opposite extreme in which he erred. He wrote andthought with an impetuosity beyond what nature always could endure. His intolerance of interruptions first put him on the plan of studyingby night; an alluring but pernicious practice, which began atDresden, and was never afterwards forsaken. His recreations breathed asimilar spirit; he loved to be much alone, and strongly moved. Thebanks of the Elbe were the favourite resort of his mornings: herewandering in solitude amid groves and lawns, and green and beautifulplaces, he abandoned his mind to delicious musings; watched the fitfulcurrent of his thoughts, as they came sweeping through his soul intheir vague, fantastic, gorgeous forms; pleased himself with thetransient images of memory and hope; or meditated on the cares andstudies which had lately been employing, and were again soon to employhim. At times, he might be seen floating on the river in a gondola, feasting himself with the loveliness of earth and sky. He delightedmost to be there when tempests were abroad; his unquiet spirit found asolace in the expression of his own unrest on the face of Nature;danger lent a charm to his situation; he felt in harmony with thescene, when the rack was sweeping stormfully across the heavens, andthe forests were sounding in the breeze, and the river was rolling itschafed waters into wild eddying heaps. 

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

A visit to Weimar had long been one of Schiller's projects: he nowfirst accomplished it in 1787. Saxony had been, for ages, the Atticaof Germany; and Weimar had, of late, become its Athens. In thisliterary city, Schiller found what he expected, sympathy andbrotherhood with men of kindred minds. To Goethe he was notintroduced;[17] but Herder and Wieland received him with a cordialwelcome; with the latter he soon formed a most friendly intimacy. Wieland, the Nestor of German letters, was grown gray in the service:Schiller reverenced him as a father, and he was treated by him as ason. 'We shall have bright hours, ' he said; 'Wieland is still young, when he loves. ' Wieland had long edited the _Deutsche Mercur_: inconsequence of their connexion, Schiller now took part in contributingto that work. Some of his smaller poems, one or two fragments of theHistory of the Netherlands, and the _Letters on Don Carlos_, firstappeared here. His own _Thalia_ still continued to come out atLeipzig. With these for his incidental employments, with the BelgianRevolt for his chief study, and the best society in Germany for hisleisure, Schiller felt no wish to leave Weimar. The place and what itheld contented him so much, that he thought of selecting it for hispermanent abode. 'You know the men, ' he writes, 'of whom Germany isproud; a Herder, a Wieland, with their brethren; and one wall nowencloses me and them. What excellencies are in Weimar! In this city, at least in this territory, I mean to settle for life, and at lengthonce more to get a country. '

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

So occupied and so intentioned, he continued to reside at Weimar. Somemonths after his arrival, he received an invitation from his earlypatroness and kind protectress, Madam von Wolzogen, to come and visither at Bauerbach. Schiller went accordingly to this his ancient cityof refuge; he again found all the warm hospitality, which he had ofold experienced when its character could less be mistaken; but hisexcursion thither produced more lasting effects than this. AtRudolstadt, where he stayed for a time on occasion of this journey, hemet with a new friend. It was here that he first saw the FräuleinLengefeld, a lady whose attractions made him loth to leaveRudolstadt, and eager to return. 

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

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

'On the whole, this personal meeting has not at all diminished theidea, great as it was, which I had previously formed of Goethe; but Idoubt whether we shall ever come into any close communication witheach other. Much that still interests me has already had its epochwith him. His whole nature is, from its very origin, otherwiseconstructed than mine; his world is not my world; our modes ofconceiving things appear to be essentially different. From such acombination, no secure, substantial intimacy can result. Time willtry. '

 [Footnote 18: 1825. ]

The aid of time was not, in fact, unnecessary. On the part of Goethethere existed prepossessions no less hostile; and derived from sourcesolder and deeper than the present transitory meeting, to thediscontents of which they probably contributed. He himself has latelystated them with his accustomed frankness and good humour, in apaper, part of which some readers may peruse with an interest morethan merely biographical. 

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

'Neither of these gifted individuals did I blame for what he hadperformed or purposed: it is the nature and the privilege of everymortal to attempt working in his own peculiar way; he attempts itfirst without culture, scarcely with the consciousness of what he isabout; and continues it with consciousness increasing as his cultureincreases; whereby it happens that so many exquisite and so manypaltry things are to be found circulating in the world, and oneperplexity is seen to rise from the ashes of another. 

'But the rumour which these strange productions had excited overGermany, the approbation paid to them by every class of persons, fromthe wild student to the polished court-lady, frightened me; for I nowthought all my labour was to prove in vain; the objects, and the wayof handling them, to which I had been exercising all my powers, appeared as if defaced and set aside. And what grieved me still morewas, that all the friends connected with me, Heinrich Meyer andMoritz, as well as their fellow-artists Tischbein and Bury, seemed indanger of the like contagion. I was much hurt. Had it been possible, Iwould have abandoned the study of creative art, and the practice ofpoetry altogether; for where was the prospect of surpassing thoseperformances of genial worth and wild form, in the qualities whichrecommended them? Conceive my situation. It had been my object and mytask to cherish and impart the purest exhibitions of poetic art; andhere was I hemmed in between Ardinghello and Franz von Moor!

'It happened also about this time that Moritz returned from Italy, andstayed with me awhile; during which, he violently confirmed himselfand me in these persuasions. I avoided Schiller, who was now atWeimar, in my neighbourhood. The appearance of _Don Carlos_ was notcalculated to approximate us; the attempts of our common friends Iresisted; and thus we still continued to go on our way apart. '

By degrees, however, both parties found that they had been mistaken. The course of accidents brought many things to light, which had beenhidden; the true character of each became unfolded more and morecompletely to the other; and the cold, measured tribute of respect wason both sides animated and exalted by feelings of kindness, andultimately of affection. Ere long, Schiller had by gratifying proofsdiscovered that 'this Goethe was a very worthy man;' and Goethe, inhis love of genius, and zeal for the interests of literature, wasperforming for Schiller the essential duties of a friend, even whilehis personal repugnance continued unabated. 

A strict similarity of characters is not necessary, or perhaps veryfavourable, to friendship. To render it complete, each party must nodoubt be competent to understand the other; both must be possessed ofdispositions kindred in their great lineaments: but the pleasure ofcomparing our ideas and emotions is heightened, when there is'likeness in unlikeness. ' _The same sentiments, different opinions_, Rousseau conceives to be the best material of friendship: reciprocityof kind words and actions is more effectual than all. Luther lovedMelancthon; Johnson was not more the friend of Edmund Burke than ofpoor old Dr. Levitt. Goethe and Schiller met again; as they ultimatelycame to live together, and to see each other oftener, they liked eachother better; they became associates, friends; and the harmony oftheir intercourse, strengthened by many subsequent communities ofobject, was never interrupted, till death put an end to it. Goethe, inhis time, has done many glorious things; but few on which he shouldlook back with greater pleasure than his treatment of Schiller. Literary friendships are said to be precarious, and of rareoccurrence: the rivalry of interest disturbs their continuance; arivalry greater, where the subject of competition is one so vague, impalpable and fluctuating, as the favour of the public; where thefeeling to be gratified is one so nearly allied to vanity, the mostirritable, arid and selfish feeling of the human heart. Had Goethe'sprime motive been the love of fame, he must have viewed withrepugnance, not the misdirection but the talents of the rising genius, advancing with such rapid strides to dispute with him the palm ofintellectual primacy, nay as the million thought, already inpossession of it; and if a sense of his own dignity had withheld himfrom offering obstructions, or uttering any whisper of discontent, there is none but a truly patrician spirit that would cordially haveoffered aid. To being secretly hostile and openly indifferent, thenext resource was to enact the patron; to solace vanity, by helpingthe rival whom he could not hinder, and who could do without his help. Goethe adopted neither of these plans. It reflects much credit on himthat he acted as he did. Eager to forward Schiller's views by exertingall the influence within his power, he succeeded in effecting this;and what was still more difficult, in suffering the character ofbenefactor to merge in that of equal. They became not friends only, but fellow-labourers: a connection productive of importantconsequences in the history of both, particularly of the younger andmore undirected of the two. 

Meanwhile the _History of the Revolt of the United Netherlands_ was inpart before the world; the first volume came out in 1788. Schiller'sformer writings had given proofs of powers so great and various, suchan extent of general intellectual strength, and so deep anacquaintance, both practical and scientific, with the art ofcomposition, that in a subject like history, no ordinary work was tobe looked for from his hands. With diligence in accumulatingmaterials, and patient care in elaborating them, he could scarcelyfail to attain distinguished excellence. The present volume was wellcalculated to fulfil such expectations. The _Revolt of theNetherlands_ possesses all the common requisites of a good history, and many which are in some degree peculiar to itself. The informationit conveys is minute and copious; we have all the circumstances of thecase, remote and near, set distinctly before us. Yet, such is theskill of the arrangement, these are at once briefly and impressivelypresented. The work is not stretched out into a continuous narrative;but gathered up into masses, which are successively exhibited to view, the minor facts being grouped around some leading one, to which, asto the central object, our attention is chiefly directed. This methodof combining the details of events, of proceeding as it were, _persaltum_, from eminence to eminence, and thence surveying thesurrounding scene, is undoubtedly the most philosophical of any: butfew men are equal to the task of effecting it rightly. It must beexecuted by a mind able to look on all its facts at once; todisentangle their perplexities, referring each to its proper head; andto choose, often with extreme address, the station from which thereader is to view them. Without this, or with this inadequately done, a work on such a plan would be intolerable. Schiller has accomplishedit in great perfection; the whole scene of affairs was evidently clearbefore his own eye, and he did not want expertness to discriminate andseize its distinctive features. The bond of cause and consequence henever loses sight of; and over each successive portion of hisnarrative he pours that flood of intellectual and imaginativebrilliancy, which all his prior writings had displayed. Hisreflections, expressed or implied, are the fruit of strong, comprehensive, penetrating thought. His descriptions are vivid; hischaracters are studied with a keen sagacity, and set before us intheir most striking points of view; those of Egmont and Orange occurto every reader as a rare union of perspicacity and eloquence. Thework has a look of order; of beauty joined to calm reposing force. Hadit been completed, it might have ranked as the very best of Schiller'sprose compositions. But no second volume ever came to light; and thefirst concludes at the entrance of Alba into Brussels. Two fragmentsalone, the _Siege of Antwerp_, and the _Passage of Alba's Army_, bothliving pictures, show us still farther what he might have done had heproceeded. The surpassing and often highly-picturesque movements ofthis War, the devotedness of the Dutch, their heroic achievement ofliberty, were not destined to be painted by the glowing pen ofSchiller, whose heart and mind were alike so qualified to do themjustice. [19]

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

The accession of reputation, which this work procured its author, wasnot the only or the principal advantage he derived from it. Eichhorn, Professor of History, was at this time about to leave the Universityof Jena: Goethe had already introduced his new acquaintance Schillerto the special notice of Amelia, the accomplished Regent ofSachsen-Weimar; he now joined with Voigt, the head Chaplain of theCourt, in soliciting the vacant chair for him. Seconded by the generalvoice, and the persuasion of the Princess herself, he succeeded. Schiller was appointed Professor at Jena; he went thither in 1789. 

With Schiller's removal to Jena begins a new epoch in his public andprivate life. His connexion with Goethe here first ripened intofriendship, and became secured and cemented by frequency ofintercourse. [20] Jena is but a few miles distant from Weimar; and thetwo friends, both settled in public offices belonging to the sameGovernment, had daily opportunities of interchanging visits. Schiller's wanderings were now concluded: with a heart tired of sofluctuating an existence, but not despoiled of its capacity forrelishing a calmer one; with a mind experienced by much and variedintercourse with men; full of knowledge and of plans to turn it toaccount, he could now repose himself in the haven of domesticcomforts, and look forward to days of more unbroken exertion, and morewholesome and permanent enjoyment than hitherto had fallen to his lot. In the February following his settlement at Jena, he obtained the handof Fräulein Lengefeld; a happiness, with the prospect of which he hadlong associated all the pleasures which he hoped for from the future. A few months after this event, he thus expresses himself, in writingto a friend:

'Life is quite a different thing by the side of a beloved wife, thanso forsaken and alone; even in Summer. Beautiful Nature! I now for thefirst time fully enjoy it, live in it. The world again clothes itselfaround me in poetic forms; old feelings are again awakening in mybreast. What a life I am leading here! I look with a glad mind aroundme; my heart finds a perennial contentment without it; my spirit sofine, so refreshing a nourishment. My existence is settled inharmonious composure; not strained and impassioned, but peaceful andclear. I look to my future destiny with a cheerful heart; now whenstanding at the wished-for goal, I wonder with myself how it all hashappened, so far beyond my expectations. Fate has conquered thedifficulties for me; it has, I may say, forced me to the mark. Fromthe future I expect everything. A few years, and I shall live in thefull enjoyment of my spirit; nay, I think my very youth will berenewed; an inward poetic life will give it me again. '

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

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

 PART III. 

 FROM HIS SETTLEMENT AT JENA TO HIS DEATH. 

 (1790-1805. )

 PART THIRD. 

 [1790-1805. ]

The duties of his new office naturally called upon Schiller to devotehimself with double zeal to History: a subject, which from choice hehad already entered on with so much eagerness. In the study of it, wehave seen above how his strongest faculties and tastes were exercisedand gratified: and new opportunities were now combined with newmotives for persisting in his efforts. Concerning the plan or thesuccess of his academical prelections, we have scarcely any notice: inhis class, it is said, he used most frequently to speak extempore; andhis delivery was not distinguished by fluency or grace, a circumstanceto be imputed to the agitation of a public appearance; for, asWoltmann assures us, 'the beauty, the elegance, ease, and trueinstructiveness with which he could continuously express himself inprivate, were acknowledged and admired by all his friends. ' Hismatter, we suppose, would make amends for these deficiencies ofmanner: to judge from his introductory lecture, preserved in hisworks, with the title, _What is Universal History, and with what viewsshould it be studied_, there perhaps has never been in Europe anothercourse of history sketched out on principles so magnificent andphilosophical. [21] But college exercises were far from being hisultimate object, nor did he rest satisfied with mere visions ofperfection: the compass of the outline he had traced, for a properHistorian, was scarcely greater than the assiduity with which hestrove to fill it up. His letters breathe a spirit not only ofdiligence but of ardour; he seems intent with all his strength uponthis fresh pursuit; and delighted with the vast prospects of untouchedand attractive speculation, which were opening around him on everyside. He professed himself to be 'exceedingly contented with hisbusiness;' his ideas on the nature of it were acquiring both extensionand distinctness; and every moment of his leisure was employed inreducing them to practice. He was now busied with the _History of theThirty-Years War_. 

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

This work, which appeared in 1791, is considered by the German criticsas his chief performance in this department of literature: _The Revoltof the Netherlands_, the only one which could have vied with it, neverwas completed; otherwise, in our opinion, it might have been superior. Either of the two would have sufficed to secure for Schiller adistinguished rank among historians, of the class denominatedphilosophical; though even both together, they afford but a feebleexemplification of the ideas which he entertained on the manner ofcomposing history. In his view, the business of history is not merelyto record, but to interpret; it involves not only a clear conceptionand a lively exposition of events and characters, but a sound, enlightened theory of individual and national morality, a generalphilosophy of human life, whereby to judge of them, and measure theireffects. The historian now stands on higher ground, takes in a widerrange than those that went before him; he can now survey vast tractsof human action, and deduce its laws from an experience extending overmany climes and ages. With his ideas, moreover, his feelings ought tobe enlarged: he should regard the interests not of any sect or state, but of mankind; the progress not of any class of arts or opinions, butof universal happiness and refinement. His narrative, in short, shouldbe moulded according to the science, and impregnated with the liberalspirit of his time. 

Voltaire is generally conceived to have invented and introduced a newmethod of composing history; the chief historians that have followedhim have been by way of eminence denominated philosophical. This ishardly correct. Voltaire wrote history with greater talent, butscarcely with a new species of talent: he applied the ideas of theeighteenth century to the subject; but in this there was nothingradically new. In the hands of a thinking writer history has alwaysbeen 'philosophy teaching by experience;' that is, such philosophy asthe age of the historian has afforded. For a Greek or Roman, it wasnatural to look upon events with an eye to their effect on his owncity or country; and to try them by a code of principles, in which theprosperity or extension of this formed a leading object. For a monkishchronicler, it was natural to estimate the progress of affairs by thenumber of abbeys founded; the virtue of men by the sum-total ofdonations to the clergy. And for a thinker of the present day, it isequally natural to measure the occurrences of history by quite adifferent standard: by their influence upon the general destiny ofman, their tendency to obstruct or to forward him in his advancementtowards liberty, knowledge, true religion and dignity of mind. Eachof these narrators simply measures by the scale which is consideredfor the time as expressing the great concerns and duties of humanity. 

Schiller's views on this matter were, as might have been expected, ofthe most enlarged kind. 'It seems to me, ' said he in one of hisletters, 'that in writing history for the moderns, we should try tocommunicate to it such an interest as the History of the PeloponnesianWar had for the Greeks. Now this is the problem: to choose and arrangeyour materials so that, to interest, they shall not need the aid ofdecoration. We moderns have a source of interest at our disposal, which no Greek or Roman was acquainted with, and which the _patriotic_interest does not nearly equal. This last, in general, is chiefly ofimportance for unripe nations, for the youth of the world. But we mayexcite a very different sort of interest if we represent eachremarkable occurrence that happened to _men_ as of importance to_man_. It is a poor and little aim to write for one nation; aphilosophic spirit cannot tolerate such limits, cannot bound its viewsto a form of human nature so arbitrary, fluctuating, accidental. Themost powerful nation is but a fragment; and thinking minds will notgrow warm on its account, except in so far as this nation or itsfortunes have been influential on the progress of the species. '

That there is not some excess in this comprehensive cosmopolitanphilosophy, may perhaps be liable to question. Nature herself has, wisely no doubt, partitioned us into 'kindreds, and nations, andtongues:' it is among our instincts to grow warm in behalf of ourcountry, simply for its own sake; and the business of Reason seems tobe to chasten and direct our instincts, never to destroy them. Werequire individuality in our attachments: the sympathy which isexpanded over all men will commonly be found so much attenuated bythe process, that it cannot be effective on any. And as it is innature, so it is in art, which ought to be the image of it. Universalphilanthropy forms but a precarious and very powerless rule ofconduct; and the 'progress of the species' will turn out equallyunfitted for deeply exciting the imagination. It is not with freedomthat we can sympathise, but with free men. There ought, indeed, to bein history a spirit superior to petty distinctions and vulgarpartialities; our particular affections ought to be enlightened andpurified; but they should not be abandoned, or, such is the conditionof humanity, our feelings must evaporate and fade away in that extremediffusion. Perhaps, in a certain sense, the surest mode of pleasingand instructing all nations _is_ to write for one. 

This too Schiller was aware of, and had in part attended to. Besides, the Thirty-Years War is a subject in which nationality of feeling maybe even wholly spared, better than in almost any other. It is not aGerman but a European subject; it forms the concluding portion of theReformation, and this is an event belonging not to any country inparticular, but to the human race. Yet, if we mistake not, thisover-tendency to generalisation, both in thought and sentiment, hasrather hurt the present work. The philosophy, with which it is embued, now and then grows vague from its abstractness, ineffectual from itsrefinement: the enthusiasm which pervades it, elevated, strong, enlightened, would have told better on our hearts, had it beenconfined within a narrower space, and directed to a more specificclass of objects. In his extreme attention to the philosophicalaspects of the period, Schiller has neglected to take advantage ofmany interesting circumstances, which it offered under other points ofview. The Thirty-Years War abounds with what may be calledpicturesqueness in its events, and still more in the condition of thepeople who carried it on. Harte's _History of Gustavus_, a wildernesswhich mere human patience seems unable to explore, is yet enlivenedhere and there with a cheerful spot, when he tells us of some scaladeor camisado, or speculates on troopers rendered bullet-proof byart-magic. His chaotic records have, in fact, afforded to our Novelistthe raw materials of Dugald Dalgetty, a cavalier of the most singularequipment, of character and manners which, for many reasons, meritstudy and description. To much of this, though, as he afterwardsproved, it was well known to him, Schiller paid comparatively smallattention; his work has lost in liveliness by the omission, more thanit has gained in dignity or instructiveness. 

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

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

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

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

This first complete specimen of Schiller's art in the historicaldepartment, though but a small fraction of what he meant to do, andcould have done, proved in fact to be the last he ever undertook. Atpresent very different cares awaited him: in 1791, a fit of sicknessovertook him; he had to exchange the inspiring labours of literaturefor the disgusts and disquietudes of physical disease. His disorder, which had its seat in the chest, was violent and threatening; andthough nature overcame it in the present instance, the blessing ofentire health never more returned to him. The cause of this severeaffliction seemed to be the unceasing toil and anxiety of mind, inwhich his days had hitherto been passed: his frame, which, thoughtall, had never been robust, was too weak for the vehement andsleepless soul that dwelt within it; and the habit of nocturnal studyhad, no doubt, aggravated all the other mischiefs. Ever since hisresidence at Dresden, his constitution had been weakened: but thisrude shock at once shattered its remaining strength; for a time thestrictest precautions were required barely to preserve existence. Atotal cessation from every intellectual effort was one of the mostperemptory laws prescribed to him. Schiller's habits and domesticcircumstances equally rebelled against this measure; with a belovedwife depending on him for support, inaction itself could have procuredhim little rest. His case seemed hard; his prospects of innocentfelicity had been too banefully obscured. Yet in this painful anddifficult position, he did not yield to despondency; and at length, assistance, and partial deliverance, reached him from a veryunexpected quarter. Schiller had not long been sick, when thehereditary Prince, now reigning Duke of Holstein-Augustenburg, jointlywith the Count Von Schimmelmann, conferred on him a pension of athousand crowns for three years. [24] No stipulation was added, butmerely that he should be careful of his health, and use everyattention to recover. This speedy and generous aid, moreover, waspresented with a delicate politeness, which, as Schiller said, touchedhim more than even the gift itself. We should remember this Count andthis Duke; they deserve some admiration and some envy. 

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

This disorder introduced a melancholy change into Schiller'scircumstances: he had now another enemy to strive with, a secret andfearful impediment to vanquish, in which much resolute effort must besunk without producing any positive result. Pain is not entirelysynonymous with Evil; but bodily pain seems less redeemed by good thanalmost any other kind of it. From the loss of fortune, of fame, oreven of friends, Philosophy pretends to draw a certain compensatingbenefit; but in general the permanent loss of health will bid defianceto her alchymy. It is a universal diminution; the diminution equallyof our resources and of our capacity to guide them; a penaltyunmitigated, save by love of friends, which then first becomes trulydear and precious to us; or by comforts brought from beyond thisearthly sphere, from that serene Fountain of peace and hope, to whichour weak Philosophy cannot raise her wing. For all men, in itself, disease is misery; but chiefly for men of finer feelings andendowments, to whom, in return for such superiorities, it seems to besent most frequently and in its most distressing forms. It is a cruelfate for the poet to have the sunny land of his imagination, often thesole territory he is lord of, disfigured and darkened by the shades ofpain; for one whose highest happiness is the exertion of his mentalfaculties, to have them chained and paralysed in the imprisonment of adistempered frame. With external activity, with palpable pursuits, above all, with a suitable placidity of nature, much even in certainstates of sickness may be performed and enjoyed. But for him whoseheart is already over-keen, whose world is of the mind, ideal, internal; when the mildew of lingering disease has struck that world, and begun to blacken and consume its beauty, nothing seems to remainbut despondency and bitterness and desolate sorrow, felt andanticipated, to the end. 

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

Such are frequently the fruits of protracted sickness, in menotherwise of estimable qualities and gifts, but whose sensibilityexceeds their strength of mind. In Schiller, its worst effects wereresisted by the only availing antidote, a strenuous determination toneglect them. His spirit was too vigorous and ardent to yield even inthis emergency: he disdained to dwindle into a pining valetudinarian;in the midst of his infirmities, he persevered with unabated zeal inthe great business of his life. As he partially recovered, he returnedas strenuously as ever to his intellectual occupations; and often, inthe glow of poetical conception, he almost forgot his maladies. Bysuch resolute and manly conduct, he disarmed sickness of its cruelestpower to wound; his frame might be in pain, but his spirit retainedits force, unextinguished, almost unimpeded; he did not lose hisrelish for the beautiful, the grand, or the good, in any of theirshapes; he loved his friends as formerly, and wrote his finest andsublimest works when his health was gone. Perhaps no period of hislife displayed more heroism than the present one. 

After this severe attack, and the kind provision which he had receivedfrom Denmark, Schiller seems to have relaxed his connexion with theUniversity of Jena: the weightiest duties of his class appear to havebeen discharged by proxy, and his historical studies to have beenforsaken. Yet this was but a change, not an abatement, in the activityof his mind. Once partially free from pain, all his former diligenceawoke; and being also free from the more pressing calls of duty andeconomy, he was now allowed to turn his attention to objects whichattracted it more. Among these one of the most alluring was thePhilosophy of Kant. 

The transcendental system of the Königsberg Professor had, for thelast ten years, been spreading over Germany, which it had now filledwith the most violent contentions. The powers and accomplishments ofKant were universally acknowledged; the high pretensions of hissystem, pretensions, it is true, such as had been a thousand times putforth, a thousand times found wanting, still excited notice, when sobacked by ability and reputation. The air of mysticism connected withthese doctrines was attractive to the German mind, with which thevague and the vast are always pleasing qualities; the dreadful arrayof first principles, the forest huge of terminology and definitions, where the panting intellect of weaker men wanders as in pathlessthickets, and at length sinks powerless to the earth, oppressed withfatigue, and suffocated with scholastic miasma, seemed sublime ratherthan appalling to the Germans; men who shrink not at toil, and towhom a certain degree of darkness appears a native element, essentialfor giving play to that deep meditative enthusiasm which forms soimportant a feature in their character. Kant's Philosophy, accordingly, found numerous disciples, and possessed them with a zealunexampled since the days of Pythagoras. This, in fact, resembledspiritual fanaticism rather than a calm ardour in the cause ofscience; Kant's warmest admirers seemed to regard him more in thelight of a prophet than of a mere earthly sage. Such admiration was ofcourse opposed by corresponding censure; the transcendental neophyteshad to encounter sceptical gainsayers as determined as themselves. Ofthis latter class the most remarkable were Herder and Wieland. Herder, then a clergyman of Weimar, seems never to have comprehended what hefought against so keenly: he denounced and condemned the Kanteanmetaphysics, because he found them heterodox. The young divines cameback from the University of Jena with their minds well nigh delirious;full of strange doctrines, which they explained to the examinators ofthe Weimar Consistorium in phrases that excited no idea in the headsof these reverend persons, but much horror in their hearts. [25] Hencereprimands, and objurgations, and excessive bitterness between theapplicants for ordination and those appointed to confer it: one youngclergyman at Weimar shot himself on this account; heresy, and jarring, and unprofitable logic, were universal. Hence Herder's vehementattacks on this 'pernicious quackery;' this delusive and destructive'system of words. '[26] Wieland strove against it for another reason. He had, all his life, been labouring to give currency among hiscountrymen to a species of diluted epicurism; to erect a certainsmooth, and elegant, and very slender scheme of taste and morals, borrowed from our Shaftesbury and the French. All this feeble edificethe new doctrine was sweeping before it to utter ruin, with theviolence of a tornado. It grieved Wieland to see the work of half acentury destroyed: he fondly imagined that but for Kant's philosophyit might have been perennial. With scepticism quickened into action bysuch motives, Herder and he went forth as brother champions againstthe transcendental metaphysics; they were not long without a multitudeof hot assailants. The uproar produced among thinking men by theconflict, has scarcely been equalled in Germany since the days ofLuther. Fields were fought, and victories lost and won; nearly all theminds of the nation were, in secret or openly, arrayed on this side oron that. Goethe alone seemed altogether to retain his wontedcomposure; he was clear for allowing the Kantean scheme to 'have itsday, as all things have. ' Goethe has already lived to see the wisdomof this sentiment, so characteristic of his genius and turn ofthought. 

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

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

In these controversies, soon pushed beyond the bounds of temperate orwholesome discussion, Schiller took no part: but the noise they madeafforded him a fresh inducement to investigate a set of doctrines, soimportant in the general estimation. A system which promised, evenwith a very little plausibility, to accomplish all that Kant assertedhis complete performance of; to explain the difference between Matterand Spirit, to unravel the perplexities of Necessity and Free-will;to show us the true grounds of our belief in God, and what hope naturegives us of the soul's immortality; and thus at length, after athousand failures, to interpret the enigma of our being, —hardlyneeded that additional inducement to make such a man as Schiller graspat it with eager curiosity. His progress also was facilitated by hispresent circumstances; Jena had now become the chief well-spring ofKantean doctrine, a distinction or disgrace it has ever sincecontinued to deserve. Reinhold, one of Kant's ablest followers, was atthis time Schiller's fellow-teacher and daily companion: he did notfail to encourage and assist his friend in a path of study, which, ashe believed, conducted to such glorious results. Under this tuition, Schiller was not long in discovering, that at least the 'newphilosophy was more poetical than that of Leibnitz, and had a grandercharacter;' persuasions which of course confirmed him in hisresolution to examine it. 

How far Schiller penetrated into the arcana of transcendentalism it isimpossible for us to say. The metaphysical and logical branches of itseem to have afforded him no solid satisfaction, or taken no firm holdof his thoughts; their influence is scarcely to be traced in any ofhis subsequent writings. The only department to which he attachedhimself with his ordinary zeal was that which relates to theprinciples of the imitative arts, with their moral influences, andwhich in the Kantean nomenclature has been designated by the term_Æsthetics_, [27] or the doctrine of sentiments and emotions. On thesesubjects he had already amassed a multitude of thoughts; to see whichexpressed by new symbols, and arranged in systematic form, and heldtogether by some common theory, would necessarily yield enjoyment tohis intellect, and inspire him with fresh alacrity in prosecutingsuch researches. The new light which dawned, or seemed to dawn, uponhim, in the course of these investigations, is reflected, in varioustreatises, evincing, at least, the honest diligence with which hestudied, and the fertility with which he could produce. Of these thelargest and most elaborate are the essays on _Grace and Dignity_; on_Naïve and Sentimental Poetry_; and the _Letters on the ÆstheticCulture of Man_: the other pieces are on _Tragic Art_; on the_Pathetic_; on the _Cause of our Delight in Tragic Objects_; on_Employing the Low and Common in Art_. 

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

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

We have been compelled to offer these remarks on Kant's Philosophy;but it is right to add that they are the result of only very limitedacquaintance with the subject. We cannot wish that any influence ofours should add a note, however feeble, to the loud and not at allmelodious cry which has been raised against it in this country. When aclass of doctrines so involved in difficulties, yet so sanctioned byillustrious names, is set before us, curiosity must have a theoryrespecting them, and indolence and other humbler feelings are tooready to afford her one. To call Kant's system a laborious dream, andits adherents crazy mystics, is a brief method, brief but false. Thecritic, whose philosophy includes the _craziness_ of men like these, so easily and smoothly in its formulas, should render thanks to Heavenfor having gifted him with science and acumen, as few in any age orcountry have been gifted. Meaner men, however, ought to recollect thatwhere we do not understand, we should postpone deciding, or, at least, keep our decision for our own exclusive benefit. We of England mayreject this Kantean system, perhaps with reason; but it ought to be onother grounds than are yet before us. Philosophy is science, andscience, as Schiller has observed, cannot always be explained in'conversations by the parlour fire, ' or in written treatises thatresemble such. The _cui bono_ of these doctrines may not, it is true, be expressible by arithmetical computations: the subject also isperplexed with obscurities, and probably with manifold delusions; andtoo often its interpreters with us have been like 'tenebrific stars, 'that 'did ray out darkness' on a matter itself sufficiently dark. Butwhat then? Is the jewel always to be found among the common dust ofthe highway, and always to be estimated by its value in the commonjudgment? It lies embosomed in the depths of the mine; rocks must berent before it can be reached; skilful eyes and hands must separate itfrom the rubbish where it lies concealed, and kingly purchasers alonecan prize it and buy it. This law of _ostracism_ is as dangerous inscience as it was of old in politics. Let us not forget that manythings are true which cannot be demonstrated by the rules of _Watts'sLogic_; that many truths are valuable, for which no price is given inPaternoster Row, and no preferment offered at St. Stephen's! Whoeverreads these treatises of Schiller with attention, will perceive thatthey depend on principles of an immensely higher and more complexcharacter than our 'Essays on Taste, ' and our 'Inquiries concerningthe Freedom of the Will. ' The laws of criticism, which it is theirpurpose to establish, are derived from the inmost nature of man; thescheme of morality, which they inculcate, soars into a brighterregion, very far beyond the ken of our 'Utilities' and 'Reflex-senses. 'They do not teach us 'to judge of poetry and art as we judge ofdinner, ' merely by observing the impressions it produced in us; andthey _do_ derive the duties and chief end of man from other groundsthan the philosophy of Profit and Loss. These _Letters on ÆstheticCulture_, without the aid of anything which the most sceptical coulddesignate as superstition, trace out and attempt to sanction for us asystem of morality, in which the sublimest feelings of the Stoic andthe Christian are represented but as stages in our progress to thepinnacle of true human grandeur; and man, isolated on this fragment ofthe universe, encompassed with the boundless desolate Unknown, at warwith Fate, without help or the hope of help, is confidently calledupon to rise into a calm cloudless height of internal activity andpeace, and _be_, what he has fondly named himself, the god of thislower world. When such are the results, who would not make an effortfor the steps by which they are attained? In Schiller's treatises, itmust be owned, the reader, after all exertions, will be fortunate ifhe can find them. Yet a second perusal will satisfy him better thanthe first; and among the shapeless immensities which fill the Night ofKantism, and the meteoric coruscations, which perplex him rather thanenlighten, he will fancy he descries some streaks of a serenerradiance, which he will pray devoutly that time may purify and ripeninto perfect day. The Philosophy of Kant is probably combined witherrors to its very core; but perhaps also, this ponderous unmanageabledross may bear in it the everlasting gold of truth! Mighty spiritshave already laboured in refining it: is it wise in us to take up withthe base pewter of Utility, and renounce such projects altogether? Wetrust, not. [28]

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

That Schiller's _genius_ profited by this laborious and ardent studyof Æsthetic Metaphysics, has frequently been doubted, and sometimesdenied. That, after such investigations, the process of compositionwould become more difficult, might be inferred from the nature of thecase. That also the principles of this critical theory were in parterroneous, in still greater part too far-fetched and fine-spun forapplication to the business of writing, we may farther venture toassert. But excellence, not ease of composition, is the thing to bedesired; and in a mind like Schiller's, so full of energy, of imagesand thoughts and creative power, the more sedulous practice ofselection was little likely to be detrimental. And though considerableerrors might mingle with the rules by which he judged himself, thehabit of judging carelessly, or not at all, is far worse than that ofsometimes judging wrong. Besides, once accustomed to attend strictlyto the operations of his genius, and rigorously to try its products, such a man as Schiller could not fail in time to discover what wasfalse in the principles by which he tried them, and consequently, inthe end, to retain the benefits of this procedure without its evils. There is doubtless a purism in taste, a rigid fantastical demand ofperfection, a horror at approaching the limits of impropriety, whichobstructs the free impulse of the faculties, and if excessive, wouldaltogether deaden them. But the excess on the other side is much morefrequent, and, for high endowments, infinitely more pernicious. Afterthe strongest efforts, there may be little realised; without strongefforts, there must be little. That too much care does hurt in any ofour tasks is a doctrine so flattering to indolence, that we ought toreceive it with extreme caution. In works impressed with the stamp oftrue genius, their quality, not their extent, is what we value: a dullman may spend his lifetime writing little; better so than writingmuch; but a man of powerful mind is liable to no such danger. Of allour authors, Gray is perhaps the only one that from fastidiousness oftaste has written less than he should have done: there are thousandsthat have erred the other way. What would a Spanish reader give, hadLope de Vega composed a hundred times as little, and that little ahundred times as well!

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

'Criticism must now make good to me the damage she herself has done. And damaged me she most certainly has; for the boldness, the livingglow which I felt before a rule was known to me, have for severalyears been wanting. I now _see_ myself _create_ and _form_: I watchthe play of inspiration; and my fancy, knowing she is not withoutwitnesses of her movements, no longer moves with equal freedom. Ihope, however, ultimately to advance so far that _art_ shall become asecond _nature_, as polished manners are to well-bred men; thenImagination will regain her former freedom, and submit to none butvoluntary limitations. '

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

The historical and critical studies, in which he had been soextensively and seriously engaged, could not remain without effect onSchiller's general intellectual character. He had spent five activeyears in studies directed almost solely to the understanding, or thefaculties connected with it; and such industry united to such ardourhad produced an immense accession of ideas. History had furnished himwith pictures of manners and events, of strange conjunctures andconditions of existence; it had given him more minute and truerconceptions of human nature in its many forms, new and more accurateopinions on the character and end of man. The domain of his mind wasboth enlarged and enlightened; a multitude of images and detachedfacts and perceptions had been laid up in his memory; and hisintellect was at once enriched by acquired thoughts, and strengthenedby increased exercise on a wider circle of knowledge. 

But to understand was not enough for Schiller; there were in himfaculties which this could not employ, and therefore could notsatisfy. The primary vocation of his nature was poetry: theacquisitions of his other faculties served but as the materials forhis poetic faculty to act upon, and seemed imperfect till they hadbeen sublimated into the pure and perfect forms of beauty, which it isthe business of this to elicit from them. New thoughts gave birth tonew feelings: and both of these he was now called upon to body forth, to represent by visible types, to animate and adorn with the magic ofcreative genius. The first youthful blaze of poetic ardour had longsince passed away; but this large increase of knowledge awakened itanew, refined by years and experience into a steadier and clearerflame. Vague shadows of unaccomplished excellence, gleams of idealbeauty, were now hovering fitfully across his mind: he longed to turnthem into shape, and give them a local habitation and a name. Criticism, likewise, had exalted his notions of art: the modernwriters on subjects of taste, Aristotle, the ancient poets, he hadlately studied; he had carefully endeavoured to extract the truth fromeach, and to amalgamate their principles with his own; in choosing, hewas now more difficult to satisfy. Minor poems had all along beenpartly occupying his attention; but they yielded no space for theintensity of his impulses, and the magnificent ideas that were risingin his fancy. Conscious of his strength, he dreaded not engaging withthe highest species of his art: the perusal of the Greek tragedianshad given rise to some late translations;[29] the perusal of Homerseems now to have suggested the idea of an epic poem. The hero whom hefirst contemplated was Gustavus Adolphus; he afterwards changed toFrederick the Great of Prussia. 

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

Epic poems, since the time of the _Epigoniad_, and _Leonidas_, andespecially since that of some more recent attempts, have with usbecome a mighty dull affair. That Schiller aimed at somethinginfinitely higher than these faint and superannuated imitations, farhigher than even Klopstock has attained, will appear by the followingextract from one of his letters:

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

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

'The epoch of Frederick's life that would fit me best, I haveconsidered also. I should wish to select some unhappy situation; itwould allow me to unfold his mind far more poetically. The chiefaction should, if possible, be very simple, perplexed with nocomplicated circumstances, that the whole might easily be comprehendedat a glance, though the episodes were never so numerous. In thisrespect there is no better model than the _Iliad_. '

Schiller did not execute, or even commence, the project he has here sophilosophically sketched: the constraints of his present situation, the greatness of the enterprise compared with the uncertainty of itssuccess, were sufficient to deter him. Besides, he felt that after allhis wide excursions, the true home of his genius was the Drama, thedepartment where its powers had first been tried, and were now byhabit or nature best qualified to act. To the Drama he accordinglyreturned. The _History of the Thirty-Years War_ had once suggested theidea of Gustavus Adolphus as the hero of an epic poem; the same workafforded him a subject for a tragedy: he now decided on beginning_Wallenstein_. In this undertaking it was no easy task that hecontemplated; a common play did not now comprise his aim; he requiredsome magnificent and comprehensive object, in which he could expendto advantage the new poetical and intellectual treasures which he hadfor years been amassing; something that should at once exemplify hisenlarged ideas of art, and give room and shape to his fresh stores ofknowledge and sentiment. As he studied the history of Wallenstein, andviewed its capabilities on every side, new ideas gathered round it:the subject grew in magnitude, and often changed in form. His progressin actual composition was, of course, irregular and small. Yet thedifficulties of the subject, increasing with his own wider, moreambitious conceptions, did not abate his diligence: _Wallenstein_, with many interruptions and many alterations, sometimes stationary, sometimes retrograde, continued on the whole, though slowly, toadvance. 

This was for several years his chosen occupation, the task to which heconsecrated his brightest hours, and the finest part of his faculties. For humbler employments, demanding rather industry than inspiration, there still remained abundant leisure, of which it was inconsistentwith his habits to waste a single hour. His occasional labours, accordingly, were numerous, varied, and sometimes of considerableextent. In the end of 1792, a new object seemed to call for hisattention; he once about this time seriously meditated mingling inpolitics. The French Revolution had from the first affected him withno ordinary hopes; which, however, the course of events, particularlythe imprisonment of Louis, were now fast converting into fears. Forthe ill-fated monarch, and the cause of freedom, which seemedthreatened with disgrace in the treatment he was likely to receive, Schiller felt so deeply interested, that he had determined, in hiscase a determination not without its risks, to address an appeal onthese subjects to the French people and the world at large. The voiceof reason advocating liberty as well as order might still, heconceived, make a salutary impression in this period of terror anddelusion; the voice of a distinguished man would at first sound likethe voice of the nation, which he seemed to represent. Schiller wasinquiring for a proper French translator, and revolving in his mindthe various arguments that might be used, and the comparativepropriety of using or forbearing to use them; but the progress ofthings superseded the necessity of such deliberation. In a few months, Louis perished on the scaffold; the Bourbon family were murdered, orscattered over Europe; and the French government was changed into afrightful chaos, amid the tumultuous and bloody horrors of which, calmtruth had no longer a chance to be heard. Schiller turned away fromthese repulsive and appalling scenes, into other regions where hisheart was more familiar, and his powers more likely to produce effect. The French Revolution had distressed and shocked him; but it did notlessen his attachment to liberty, the name of which had been sodesecrated in its wild convulsions. Perhaps in his subsequent writingswe can trace a more respectful feeling towards old establishments;more reverence for the majesty of Custom; and with an equal zeal, aweaker faith in human perfectibility: changes indeed which are thecommon fruit of years themselves, in whatever age or climate of theworld our experience may be gathered. 

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

The _Musen-Almanach_, of which he likewise undertook thesuperintendence, did not aim so high: like other works of the sametitle, which are numerous in Germany, it was intended for preservingand annually delivering to the world, a series of short poeticaleffusions, or other fugitive compositions, collected from variousquarters, and often having no connexion but their juxtaposition. Inthis work, as well as in the _Horen_, some of Schiller's finestsmaller poems made their first appearance; many of these pieces beingwritten about this period, especially the greater part of his ballads, the idea of attempting which took its rise in a friendly rivalry withGoethe. But the most noted composition sent forth in the pages of the_Musen-Almanach_, was the _Xenien_;[30] a collection of epigrams whichoriginated partly, as it seems, in the mean or irritating conduct ofvarious contemporary authors. In spite of the most flatteringpromises, and of its own intrinsic character, the _Horen_, at itsfirst appearance, instead of being hailed with welcome by the leadingminds of the country, for whom it was intended as a rallying point, met in many quarters with no sentiment but coldness or hostility. Thecontroversies of the day had sown discord among literary men; Schillerand Goethe, associating together, had provoked ill-will from a host ofpersons, who felt the justice of such mutual preference, but liked notthe inferences to be drawn from it; and eyed this intellectualduumvirate, however meek in the discharge of its functions and thewearing of its honours, with jealousy and discontent. 

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

The cavilling of these people, awkwardly contrasted with theirpersonal absurdity and insipidity, at length provoked the seriousnotice of the two illustrious associates: the result was this GermanDunciad; a production of which the plan was, that it should comprisean immense multitude of detached couplets, each conveying a completethought within itself, and furnished by one of the joint operators. The subjects were of unlimited variety; 'the most, ' as Schiller says, 'were wild satire, glancing at writers and writings, intermixed withhere and there a flash of poetical or philosophic thought. ' It was atfirst intended to provide about a thousand of these pointedmonodistichs; unity in such a work appearing to consist in a certainboundlessness of size, which should hide the heterogeneous nature ofthe individual parts: the whole were then to be arranged andelaborated, till they had acquired the proper degree of consistencyand symmetry; each sacrificing something of its own peculiar spirit topreserve the spirit of the rest. This number never was completed: and, Goethe being now busy with his _Wilhelm Meister_, the project ofcompleting it was at length renounced; and the _Xenien_ were publishedas unconnected particles, not pretending to constitute a whole. Enoughappeared to create unbounded commotion among the parties implicated:the _Xenien_ were exclaimed against, abused, and replied to, on allhands; but as they declared war not on persons but on actions; notagainst Gleim, Nicolai, Manso, but against bad taste, dulness, andaffectation, nothing criminal could be sufficiently made out againstthem. [31] The _Musen-Almanach_, where they appeared in 1797, continuedto be published till the time of Schiller's leaving Jena: the _Horen_ceased some months before. 

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

The coöperation of Goethe, which Schiller had obtained so readily inthese pursuits, was of singular use to him in many others. Bothpossessing minds of the first order, yet constructed and trained inthe most opposite modes, each had much that was valuable to learn ofthe other, and suggest to him. Cultivating different kinds ofexcellence, they could joyfully admit each other's merit; connected bymutual services, and now by community of literary interests, fewunkindly feelings could have place between them. For a man of highequalities, it is rare to find a meet companion; painful and injuriousto want one. Solitude exasperates or deadens the heart, perverts orenervates the faculties; association with inferiors leads to dogmatismin thought, and self-will even in affections. Rousseau never shouldhave lived in the Val de Montmorenci; it had been good for Warburtonthat Hurd had not existed; for Johnson never to have known Boswell orDavies. From such evils Schiller and Goethe were delivered; theirintimacy seems to have been equal, frank and cordial; from thecontrasts and the endowments of their minds, it must have had peculiarcharms. In his critical theories, Schiller had derived much profitfrom communicating with an intellect as excursive as his own, but farcooler and more sceptical: as he lopped off from his creed theexcrescences of Kantism, Goethe and he, on comparing their ideas, often found in them a striking similarity; more striking and moregratifying, when it was considered from what diverse premises theseharmonious conclusions had been drawn. On such subjects they oftencorresponded when absent, and conversed when together. They were inthe habit of paying long visits to each other's houses; frequentlythey used to travel in company between Jena and Weimar. 'At Triesnitz, a couple of English miles from Jena, Goethe and he, ' we are told, 'might sometimes be observed sitting at table, beneath the shade of aspreading tree; talking, and looking at the current of passengers. '—Thereare some who would have 'travelled fifty miles on foot' to join theparty!

Besides this intercourse with Goethe, he was happy in a kindlyconnexion with many other estimable men, both in literary and inactive life. Dalberg, at a distance, was to the last his friend andwarmest admirer. At Jena, he had Schütz, Paul, Hufland, Reinhold. Wilhelm von Humboldt, also, brother of the celebrated traveller, hadcome thither about this time, and was now among his closestassociates. At Weimar, excluding less important persons, there werestill Herder and Wieland, to divide his attention with Goethe. Andwhat to his affectionate heart must have been the most gratefulcircumstance of all, his aged parents were yet living to participatein the splendid fortune of the son whom they had once lamented anddespaired of, but never ceased to love. In 1793 he paid them a visitin Swabia, and passed nine cheerful months among the scenes dearest tohis recollection: enjoying the kindness of those unalterable friendswhom Nature had given him; and the admiring deference of those by whomit was most delightful to be honoured, —those who had known him inadverse and humbler circumstances, whether they might have respectedor contemned him. By the Grand Duke, his ancient censor and patron, he was not interfered with; that prince, in answer to a previousapplication on the subject, having indirectly engaged to take nonotice of this journey. The Grand Duke had already interfered too muchwith him, and bitterly repented of his interference. Next year hedied; an event which Schiller, who had long forgotten pastill-treatment, did not learn without true sorrow, and gratefulrecollections of bygone kindness. The new sovereign, anxious to repairthe injustice of his predecessor, almost instantly made offer of avacant Tübingen professorship to Schiller; a proposal flattering tothe latter, but which, by the persuasion of the Duke of Weimar, herespectfully declined. 

Amid labours and amusements so multiplied, amid such variety ofintellectual exertion and of intercourse with men, Schiller, it wasclear, had not suffered the encroachments of bodily disease toundermine the vigour of his mental or moral powers. No period of hislife displayed in stronger colours the lofty and determined zeal ofhis character. He had already written much; his fame stood upon a firmbasis; domestic wants no longer called upon him for incessant effort;and his frame was pining under the slow canker of an incurable malady. Yet he never loitered, never rested; his fervid spirit, which hadvanquished opposition and oppression in his youth; which had struggledagainst harassing uncertainties, and passed unsullied through manytemptations, in his earlier manhood, did not now yield to this lastand most fatal enemy. The present was the busiest, most productiveseason of his literary life; and with all its drawbacks, it wasprobably the happiest. Violent attacks from his disorder were of rareoccurrence; and its constant influence, the dark vapours with which itwould have overshadowed the faculties of his head and heart, wererepelled by diligence and a courageous exertion of his will. In otherpoints, he had little to complain of, and much to rejoice in. He washappy in his family, the chosen scene of his sweetest, most lastingsatisfaction; by the world he was honoured and admired; his wants wereprovided for; he had tasks which inspired and occupied him; friendswho loved him, and whom he loved. Schiller had much to enjoy, and mostof it he owed to himself. 

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

'During summer, his place of study was in a garden, which at length hepurchased, in the suburbs of Jena, not far from the Weselhöfts' house, where at that time was the office of the _Allgemeine Litteratur-Zeitung_. Reckoning from the market-place of Jena, it lies on the south-westborder of the town, between the Engelgatter and the Neuthor, in ahollow defile, through which a part of the Leutrabach flows round thecity. On the top of the acclivity, from which there is a beautifulprospect into the valley of the Saal, and the fir mountains of theneighbouring forest, Schiller built himself a small house, with asingle chamber. [32] It was his favourite abode during hours ofcomposition; a great part of the works he then wrote were writtenhere. In winter he likewise dwelt apart from the noise of men; in theGriesbachs' house, on the outside of the city-trench. * * * On sittingdown to his desk at night, he was wont to keep some strong coffee, orwine-chocolate, but more frequently a flask of old Rhenish, orChampagne, standing by him, that he might from time to time repair theexhaustion of nature. Often the neighbours used to hear him earnestlydeclaiming, in the silence of the night: and whoever had anopportunity of watching him on such occasions, a thing very easy to bedone from the heights lying opposite his little garden-house, on theother side of the dell, might see him now speaking aloud and walkingswiftly to and fro in his chamber, then suddenly throwing himself downinto his chair and writing; and drinking the while, sometimes morethan once, from the glass standing near him. In winter he was to befound at his desk till four, or even five o'clock in the morning; insummer, till towards three. He then went to bed, from which he seldomrose till nine or ten. '[33]

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

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

Had prudence been the dominant quality in Schiller's character, thispractice would undoubtedly have been abandoned, or rather never takenup. It was an error so to waste his strength; but one of those whichincrease rather than diminish our respect; originating, as it did, ingenerous ardour for what was best and grandest, they must be coldcensurers that can condemn it harshly. For ourselves, we but lamentand honour this excess of zeal; its effects were mournful, but itsorigin was noble. Who can picture Schiller's feelings in thissolitude, without participating in some faint reflection of theirgrandeur! The toil-worn but devoted soul, alone, under the silentstarry canopy of Night, offering up the troubled moments of existenceon the altar of Eternity! For here the splendour that gleamed acrossthe spirit of a mortal, transient as one of us, was made to beperpetual; these images and thoughts were to pass into other ages anddistant lands; to glow in human hearts, when the heart that conceivedthem had long been mouldered into common dust. To the lovers ofgenius, this little garden-house might have been a place to visit as achosen shrine; nor will they learn without regret that the walls ofit, yielding to the hand of time, have already crumbled into ruin, andare now no longer to be traced. The piece of ground that it stood onis itself hallowed with a glory that is bright, pure and abiding; butthe literary pilgrim could not have surveyed, without peculiaremotion, the simple chamber, in which Schiller wrote the _Reich derSchatten_, the _Spaziergang_, the _Ideal_, and the immortal scenes of_Wallenstein_. 

The last-named work had cost him many an anxious, given him many apleasant, hour. For seven years it had continued in a state ofirregular, and oft-suspended progress; sometimes 'lying endless andformless' before him; sometimes on the point of being given upaltogether. The multitude of ideas, which he wished to incorporate inthe structure of the piece, retarded him; and the difficulty ofcontenting his taste, respecting the manner of effecting this, retarded him still more. In _Wallenstein_ he wished to embody the moreenlarged notions which experience had given him of men, especiallywhich history had given him of generals and statesmen; and whileputting such characters in action, to represent whatever was, or couldbe made, poetical, in the stormy period of the Thirty-Years War. As hemeditated on the subject, it continued to expand; in his fancy, itassumed successively a thousand forms; and after all due strictness ofselection, such was still the extent of materials remaining on hishands, that he found it necessary to divide the play into three parts, distinct in their arrangements, but in truth forming a continuousdrama of eleven acts. In this shape it was sent forth to the world, in1799; a work of labour and persevering anxiety, but of anxiety andlabour, as it then appeared, which had not been bestowed in vain. _Wallenstein_ is by far the best performance he had yet produced; itmerits a long chapter of criticism by itself; and a few hurried pagesare all that we can spend on it. 

As a porch to the great edifice stands Part first, entitled_Wallenstein's Camp_, a piece in one act. It paints, with much humourand graphical felicity, the manners of that rude tumultuous host whichWallenstein presided over, and had made the engine of his ambitiousschemes. Schiller's early experience of a military life seems now tohave stood him in good stead; his soldiers are delineated with thedistinctness of actual observation; in rugged sharpness of feature, they sometimes remind us of Smollett's seamen. Here are all the wildlawless spirits of Europe assembled within the circuit of a singletrench. Violent, tempestuous, unstable is the life they lead. Ishmaelites, their hands against every man, and every man's handagainst them; the instruments of rapine; tarnished with almost everyvice, and knowing scarcely any virtue but those of reckless braveryand uncalculating obedience to their leader, their situation stillpresents some aspects which affect or amuse us; and these the poet hasseized with his accustomed skill. Much of the cruelty and repulsiveharshness of these soldiers, we are taught to forget in contemplatingtheir forlorn houseless wanderings, and the practical magnanimity, with which even they contrive to wring from Fortune a tolerablescantling of enjoyment. Their manner of existence Wallenstein has, atan after period of the action, rather movingly expressed:

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

Still farther to soften the asperities of the scene, the dialogue iscast into a rude Hudibrastic metre, full of forced rhymes, and strangedouble-endings, with a rhythm ever changing, ever rough and lively, which might almost be compared to the hard, irregular, fluctuatingsound of the regimental drum. In this ludicrous doggrel, with phrasesand figures of a correspondent cast, homely, ridiculous, graphic, these men of service paint their hopes and doings. There are ranks andkinds among them; representatives of all the constituent parts of themotley multitude, which followed this prince of _Condottieri_. Thesolemn pedantry of the ancient Wachtmeister is faithfully given; noless so are the jocund ferocity and heedless daring of Holky'sJägers, or the iron courage and stern camp-philosophy of Pappenheim'sCuirassiers. Of the Jäger the sole principle is military obedience; hedoes not reflect or calculate; his business is to do whatever he isordered, and to enjoy whatever he can reach. 'Free wished I to live, 'he says, 'Free wished I to live, and easy and gay, And see something new on each new day; In the joys of the moment lustily sharing, 'Bout the past or the future not thinking or caring: To the Kaiser, therefore, I sold my bacon, And by him good charge of the whole is taken. Order me on 'mid the whistling fiery shot, Over the Rhine-stream rapid and roaring wide, A third of the troop must go to pot, — Without loss of time, I mount and ride; But farther, I beg very much, do you see, That in all things else you would leave me free. '

The Pappenheimer is an older man, more sedate and more indomitable; hehas wandered over Europe, and gathered settled maxims of soldierlyprinciple and soldierly privilege: he is not without a _rationale_ oflife; the various professions of men have passed in review before him, but no coat that he has seen has pleased him like his own 'steeldoublet, ' cased in which, it is his wish, 'Looking down on the world's poor restless scramble, Careless, through it, astride of his nag to ramble. '

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

But the camp of Wallenstein is fall of bustle as well as speculation;there are gamblers, peasants, sutlers, soldiers, recruits, capuchinfriars, moving to and fro in restless pursuit of their severalpurposes. The sermon of the Capuchin is an unparalleledcomposition;[34] a medley of texts, puns, nicknames, and verbal logic, conglutinated by a stupid judgment, and a fiery catholic zeal. Itseems to be delivered with great unction, and to find fit audience inthe camp: towards the conclusion they rush upon him, and he narrowlyescapes killing or ducking, for having ventured to glance a censure atthe General. The soldiers themselves are jeering, wrangling, jostling;discussing their wishes and expectations; and, at last, they combinein a profound deliberation on the state of their affairs. A vagueexaggerated outline of the coming events and personages is imaged tous in their coarse conceptions. We dimly discover the precariousposition of Wallenstein; the plots which threaten him, which he ismeditating: we trace the leading qualities of the principal officers;and form a high estimate of the potent spirit which, binds this fiercediscordant mass together, and seems to be the object of universalreverence where nothing else is revered. 

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

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

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

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

amid difficulties, darkness and impending ruin, at which the boldestof his followers grow pale, he himself is calm, and first in thisawful crisis feels the serenity and conscious strength of his soulreturn. Wallenstein, in fact, though preeminent in power, bothexternal and internal, of high intellect and commanding will, skilledin war and statesmanship beyond the best in Europe, the idol of sixtythousand fearless hearts, is not yet removed above our sympathy. Weare united with him by feelings, which he reckons weak, though theybelong to the most generous parts of his nature. His indecision partlytakes its rise in the sensibilities of his heart, as well as in thecaution of his judgment: his belief in astrology, which gives forceand confirmation to this tendency, originates in some soft kindlyemotions, and adds a new interest to the spirit of the warrior; ithumbles him, to whom the earth is subject, before those mysteriousPowers which weigh the destinies of man in their balance, in whoseeyes the greatest and the least of mortals scarcely differ inlittleness. Wallenstein's confidence in the friendship of Octavio, hisdisinterested love for Max Piccolomini, his paternal and brotherlykindness, are feelings which cast an affecting lustre over theharsher, more heroic qualities wherewith they are combined. Histreason to the Emperor is a crime, for which, provoked and tempted ashe was, we do not greatly blame him; it is forgotten in our admirationof his nobleness, or recollected only as a venial trespass. Schillerhas succeeded well with Wallenstein, where it was not easy to succeed. The truth of history has been but little violated; yet we arecompelled to feel that Wallenstein, whose actions individually aretrifling, unsuccessful, and unlawful, is a strong, sublime, commandingcharacter; we look at him with interest, our concern at his fate istinged with a shade of kindly pity. 

In Octavio Piccolomini, his war-companion, we can find less fault, yetwe take less pleasure. Octavio's qualities are chiefly negative: herather walks by the letter of the moral law, than by its spirit; hisconduct is externally correct, but there is no touch of generositywithin. He is more of the courtier than of the soldier: his weapon isintrigue, not force. Believing firmly that 'whatever is, is best, ' hedistrusts all new and extraordinary things; he has no faith in humannature, and seems to be virtuous himself more by calculation than byimpulse. We scarcely thank him for his loyalty; serving his Emperor, he ruins and betrays his friend: and, besides, though he does not ownit, personal ambition is among his leading motives; he wishes to begeneral and prince, and Wallenstein is not only a traitor to hissovereign, but a bar to this advancement. It is true, Octavio does notpersonally tempt him towards his destruction; but neither does hewarn him from it; and perhaps he knew that fresh temptation wassuperfluous. Wallenstein did not deserve such treatment from a manwhom he had trusted as a brother, even though such confidence wasblind, and guided by visions and starry omens. Octavio is a skilful, prudent, managing statesman; of the kind praised loudly, if notsincerely, by their friends, and detested deeply by their enemies. Hisobject may be lawful or even laudable; but his ways are crooked; wedislike him but the more that we know not positively how to blame him. 

Octavio Piccolomini and Wallenstein are, as it were, the two opposingforces by which this whole universe of military politics is kept inmotion. The struggle of magnanimity and strength combined withtreason, against cunning and apparent virtue, aided by law, gives riseto a series of great actions, which are here vividly presented to ourview. We mingle in the clashing interests of these men of war; we seethem at their gorgeous festivals and stormy consultations, andparticipate in the hopes or fears that agitate them. The subject hadmany capabilities; and Schiller has turned them all to profit. Ourminds are kept alert by a constant succession of animating scenes ofspectacle, dialogue, incident: the plot thickens and darkens as weadvance; the interest deepens and deepens to the very end. 

But among the tumults of this busy multitude, there are two forms ofcelestial beauty that solicit our attention, and whose destiny, involved with that of those around them, gives it an importance in oureyes which it could not otherwise have had. Max Piccolomini, Octavio'sson, and Thekla, the daughter of Wallenstein, diffuse an etherealradiance over all this tragedy; they call forth the finest feelings ofthe heart, where other feelings had already been aroused; theysuperadd to the stirring pomp of scenes, which had already kindledour imaginations, the enthusiasm of bright unworn humanity, 'the bloomof young desire, the purple light of love. ' The history of Max andThekla is not a rare one in poetry; but Schiller has treated it with askill which is extremely rare. Both of them are represented ascombining every excellence; their affection is instantaneous andunbounded; yet the coolest, most sceptical reader is forced to admirethem, and believe in them. 

Of Max we are taught from the first to form the highest expectations:the common soldiers and their captains speak of him as of a perfecthero; the Cuirassiers had, at Pappenheim's death, on the field ofLützen, appointed him their colonel by unanimous election. Hisappearance answers these ideas: Max is the very spirit of honour, andintegrity, and young ardour, personified. Though but passing intomaturer age, he has already seen and suffered much; but the experienceof the man has not yet deadened or dulled the enthusiasm of the boy. He has lived, since his very childhood, constantly amid the clang ofwar, and with few ideas but those of camps; yet here, by a nativeinstinct, his heart has attracted to it all that was noble andgraceful in the trade of arms, rejecting all that was repulsive orferocious. He loves Wallenstein his patron, his gallant and majesticleader: he loves his present way of life, because it is one of periland excitement, because he knows no other, but chiefly because hisyoung unsullied spirit can shed a resplendent beauty over even thewastest region in the destiny of man. Yet though a soldier, and thebravest of soldiers, he is not this alone. He feels that there arefairer scenes in life, which these scenes of havoc and distress butdeform or destroy; his first acquaintance with the Princess Theklaunveils to him another world, which till then he had not dreamed of; aland of peace and serene elysian felicity, the charms of which hepaints with simple and unrivalled eloquence. Max is not more daringthan affectionate; he is merciful and gentle, though his training hasbeen under tents; modest and altogether unpretending, though young anduniversally admired. We conceive his aspect to be thoughtful butfervid, dauntless but mild: he is the very poetry of war, the essenceof a youthful hero. We should have loved him anywhere; but here, amidbarren scenes of strife and danger, he is doubly dear to us. 

His first appearance wins our favour; his eloquence in sentimentprepares us to expect no common magnanimity in action. It is asfollows: _Octavio_ and _Questenberg_ are consulting on affairs ofstate; _Max_ enters: he is just returned from convoying the _PrincessThekla_ and her mother, the daughter and the wife of _Friedland_, tothe camp at Pilsen. 

ACT I. SCENE IV. 

MAX PICCOLOMINI, OCTAVIO PICCOLOMINI, QUESTENBERG. 

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

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

Busied, I perceive? I will not interrupt you. 

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

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

QUEST. [_has taken his hand_] Nay, draw notYour hand away, Count Piccolomini!Not on mine own account alone I grasp it, And nothing common will I say therewith. Octavio, Max, Piccolomini! [_Taking both their hands. _Names of benignant solemn import! NeverCan Austria's fortune fail while two such stars, To guide and guard her, gleam above our hosts. 

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

OCT. [_to Max. _] He comes from Court, where every one is notSo well contented with the Duke as here. 

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

QUEST. The Army, truly!

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

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

MAX. And is he not? By birth he is investedWith all gifts for it, and with the farther giftOf finding scope to use them; of acquiringFor the ruler's faculties the ruler's office. 

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

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

QUEST. The trial shows it!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

MAX. 'Twas the first holiday of my existence. Tell me, where's the end of all this labour, This grinding labour that has stolen my youth, And left my heart uncheer'd and void, my spiritUncultivated as a wilderness?This camp's unceasing din; the neighing steeds;The trumpet's clang; the never-changing roundOf service, discipline, parade, give nothingTo the heart, the heart that longs for nourishment. There is no soul in this insipid bus'ness;Life has another fate and other joys. 

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

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

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

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

The Princess Thekla is perhaps still dearer to us. Thekla, justentering on life, with 'timid steps, ' with the brilliant visions of acloister yet undisturbed by the contradictions of reality, beholds inMax, not merely her protector and escort to her father's camp, but theliving emblem of her shapeless yet glowing dreams. She knows notdeception, she trusts and is trusted: their spirits meet and mingle, and 'clasp each other firmly and forever. ' All this is described bythe poet with a quiet inspiration, which finds its way into ourdeepest sympathies. Such beautiful simplicity is irresistible. 'Howlong, ' the Countess Terzky asks, How long is it since you disclosed your heart?

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

COUN. Not till this morning during twenty days?

MAX. 'Twas at the castle where you met us, 'twixt thisAnd Nepomuk, the last stage of the journey. On a balcony she and I were standing, our looksIn silence turn'd upon the vacant landscape;And before us the dragoons were riding, Whom the Duke had sent to be her escort. Heavy on my heart lay thoughts of parting, And with a faltering voice at last I said:All this reminds me, Fräulein, that todayI must be parted from my happiness;In few hours you will find a father, Will see yourself encircled by new friends;And I shall be to you nought but a stranger, Forgotten in the crowd—"Speak with Aunt Terzky!"Quick she interrupted me; I noticedA quiv'ring in her voice; a glowing blushSpread o'er her cheeks; slow rising from the ground, Her eyes met mine: I could control myselfNo longer—

[_The Princess appears at the door, and stops; the Countess, but notPiccolomini, observing her. _

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

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

MAX. Your secret?

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

MAX. Ha?

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

 * * * * *

We rejoice in the ardent, pure and confiding affection of these twoangelic beings: but our feeling is changed and made more poignant, when we think that the inexorable hand of Destiny is already lifted tosmite their world with blackness and desolation. Thekla has enjoyed'two little hours of heavenly beauty;' but her native gaiety givesplace to serious anticipations and alarms; she feels that the camp ofWallenstein is not a place for hope to dwell in. The instructions andexplanations of her aunt disclose the secret: she is not to love Max;a higher, it may be a royal, fate awaits her; but she is to tempt himfrom his duty, and make him lend his influence to her father, whosedaring projects she now for the first time discovers. From that momenther hopes of happiness have vanished, never more to return. Yet herown sorrows touch her less than the ruin which she sees about tooverwhelm her tender and affectionate mother. For herself, she waitswith gloomy patience the stroke that is to crush her. She is meek, andsoft, and maiden-like; but she is Friedland's daughter, and does notshrink from what is unavoidable. There is often a rectitude, and quickinflexibility of resolution about Thekla, which contrasts beautifullywith her inexperience and timorous acuteness of feeling: ondiscovering her father's treason, she herself decides that Max 'shallobey his first impulse, ' and forsake her. 

There are few scenes in poetry more sublimely pathetic than this. Webehold the sinking but still fiery glory of Wallenstein, opposed tothe impetuous despair of Max Piccolomini, torn asunder by the claimsof duty and of love; the calm but broken-hearted Thekla, beside herbroken-hearted mother, and surrounded by the blank faces ofWallenstein's desponding followers. There is a physical pompcorresponding to the moral grandeur of the action; the successiverevolt and departure of the troops is heard without the walls of thePalace; the trumpets of the Pappenheimers reëcho the wild feelings oftheir leader. What follows too is equally affecting. Max being forcedaway by his soldiers from the side of Thekla, rides forth at theirhead in a state bordering on frenzy. Next day come tidings of hisfate, which no heart is hard enough to hear unmoved. The effect itproduces upon Thekla displays all the hidden energies of her soul. Thefirst accidental hearing of the news had almost overwhelmed her; butshe summons up her strength: she sends for the messenger, that she mayquestion him more closely, and listen to his stern details with theheroism of a Spartan virgin. 

ACT IV. SCENE X. 

THEKLA; THE SWEDISH CAPTAIN; FRÄULEIN NEUBRUNN. 

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

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

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

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

CAPT. 'Twill renew your grief!

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

CAPT. At Neustadt, dreading no surprise, we laySlightly entrench'd; when towards night a cloudOf dust rose from the forest, and our outpostsRush'd into the camp, and cried: The foe was there!Scarce had we time to spring on horseback, whenThe Pappenheimers, coming at full gallop, Dash'd o'er the palisado, and next momentThese fierce troopers pass'd our camp-trench also. But thoughtlessly their courage had impelled themTo advance without support; their infantryWas far behind; only the PappenheimersBoldly following their bold leader—

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

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

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

NEU. Lady, dearest mistress—

CAPT. [_moved_] Let me begone. 

THEKLA. 'Tis past; conclude it. 

CAPT. Seeing their leader fall, A grim inexorable desperationSeiz'd the troops: their own escape forgotten, Like wild tigers they attack us; their furyProvokes our soldiers, and the battle ends notTill the last man of the Pappenheimers falls. 

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

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

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

THEKLA. Where is his grave?

CAPT. I' th' chapel of a cloisterAt Neustadt is he laid, till we receiveDirections from his father. 

THEKLA. What is its name?

CAPT. St. Catharine's. 

THEKLA. Is't far from this?

CAPT. Seven leagues. 

THEKLA. How goes the way?

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

THEKLA. Who commands them?

CAPT. Colonel Seckendorf. 

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

CAPT. [_overpowered_] Princess!

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

SCENE XI. 

NEUBRUNN; THEKLA. 

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

NEU. Go! This very night! And whither?

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

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

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

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

THEKLA. I dread no mortal's anger now. 

NEU. The mockeryOf the world, the wicked tongue of slander!

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

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

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

NEU. In the gloomy night-time?

THEKLA. Night will hide us. 

NEU. In this rude storm?

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

NEU. O Heaven!And then the many Swedish posts! They will notLet us pass. 

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

NEU. So far! So—

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

NEU. How shall weEven get out of Eger?

THEKLA. Gold opens gates. Go! Do go!

NEU. If they should recognise us?

THEKLA. In a fugitive despairing womanNo one will look to meet with Friedland's daughter. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

NEU. Think well what you are doing. 

THEKLA. All is thoughtThat can be thought, already. 

NEU. _Were_ we there, What would you do?

THEKLA. God will direct me, there. 

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

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

NEU. You frighten me, my lady: I dare stayNo longer; quickly I'll call Rosenberg. 

SCENE XII. 

THEKLA. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yet still there is some touch of pathos in his gloomy fall; somevisitings of nature in the austere grandeur of his slowly-coming, butinevitable and annihilating doom. The last scene of his life is amongthe finest which poetry can boast of. Thekla's death is still unknownto him; but he thinks of Max, and almost weeps. He looks at the stars:dim shadows of superstitious dread pass fitfully across his spirit, ashe views these fountains of light, and compares their glorious andenduring existence with the fleeting troubled life of man. The strongspirit of his sister is subdued by dark forebodings; omens are againsthim; his astrologer entreats, one of the relenting conspiratorsentreats, his own feelings call upon him, to watch and beware. But herefuses to let the resolution of his mind be overmastered; he castsaway these warnings, and goes cheerfully to sleep, with dreams of hopeabout his pillow, unconscious that the javelins are already graspedwhich will send him to his long and dreamless sleep. The death ofWallenstein does not cause tears; but it is perhaps the mosthigh-wrought scene of the play. A shade of horror, of fatefuldreariness, hangs over it, and gives additional effect to the fire ofthat brilliant poetry, which glows in every line of it. Except in_Macbeth_ or the conclusion of _Othello_, we know not where to matchit. Schiller's genius is of a kind much narrower than Shakspeare's;but in his own peculiar province, the exciting of lofty, earnest, strong emotion, he admits of no superior. Others are finer, morepiercing, varied, thrilling, in their influence: Schiller, in hisfinest mood, is overwhelming. 

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

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

Soon after the publication of _Wallenstein_, Schiller once morechanged his abode. The 'mountain air of Jena' was conceived by hisphysicians to be prejudicial in disorders of the lungs; and partly inconsequence of this opinion, he determined henceforth to spend hiswinters in Weimar. Perhaps a weightier reason in favour of this newarrangement was the opportunity it gave him of being near the theatre, a constant attendance on which, now that he had once more become adramatist, seemed highly useful for his farther improvement. Thesummer he, for several years, continued still to spend in Jena; towhich, especially its beautiful environs, he declared himselfparticularly attached. His little garden-house was still his place ofstudy during summer; till at last he settled constantly at Weimar. Even then he used frequently to visit Jena; to which there was a freshattraction in later years, when Goethe chose it for his residence, which, we understand, it still occasionally is. With Goethe he oftenstayed for months. 

This change of place produced little change in Schiller's habits oremployment: he was now as formerly in the pay of the Duke of Weimar;now as formerly engaged in dramatic composition as the great object ofhis life. What the amount of his pension was, we know not: that thePrince behaved to him in a princely manner, we have proof sufficient. Four years before, when invited to the University of Tübingen, Schiller had received a promise, that, in case of sickness or anyother cause preventing the continuance of his literary labour, hissalary should be doubled. It was actually increased on occasion of thepresent removal; and again still farther in 1804, some advantageousoffers being made to him from Berlin. Schiller seems to have been, what he might have wished to be, neither poor nor rich: his simpleunostentatious economy went on without embarrassment: and this was allthat he required. To avoid pecuniary perplexities was constantlyamong his aims: to amass wealth, never. We ought also to add that, in1802, by the voluntary solicitation of the Duke, he was ennobled; afact which we mention, for his sake by whose kindness this honour wasprocured; not for the sake of Schiller, who accepted it withgratitude, but had neither needed nor desired it. 

The official services expected of him in return for so much kindnessseem to have been slight, if any. Chiefly or altogether of his ownaccord, he appears to have applied himself to a close inspection ofthe theatre, and to have shared with Goethe the task of superintendingits concerns. The rehearsals of new pieces commonly took place at thehouse of one of these friends; they consulted together on all suchsubjects, frankly and copiously. Schiller was not slow to profit bythe means of improvement thus afforded him; in the mechanical detailsof his art he grew more skilful: by a constant observation of thestage, he became more acquainted with its capabilities and its laws. It was not long till, with his characteristic expansiveness ofenterprise, he set about turning this new knowledge to account. Inconjunction with Goethe, he remodelled his own _Don Carlos_ and hisfriend's _Count Egmont_, altering both according to his latest viewsof scenic propriety. It was farther intended to treat, in the samemanner, the whole series of leading German plays, and thus to producea national stock of dramatic pieces, formed according to the bestrules; a vast project, in which some progress continued to be made, though other labours often interrupted it. For the present, Schillerwas engaged with his _Maria Stuart_: it appeared in 1800. 

This tragedy will not detain us long. It is upon a subject, theincidents of which are now getting trite, and the moral of which haslittle that can peculiarly recommend it. To exhibit the repentance ofa lovely but erring woman, to show us how her soul may be restored toits primitive nobleness, by sufferings, devotion and death, is theobject of _Maria Stuart_. It is a tragedy of sombre and mournfulfeelings; with an air of melancholy and obstruction pervading it; alooking backward on objects of remorse, around on imprisonment, andforward on the grave. Its object is undoubtedly attained. We areforced to pardon and to love the heroine; she is beautiful, andmiserable, and lofty-minded; and her crimes, however dark, have beenexpiated by long years of weeping and woe. Considering also that theywere the fruit not of calculation, but of passion acting on a heartnot dead, though blinded for a time, to their enormity, they seem lesshateful than the cold premeditated villany of which she is the victim. Elizabeth is selfish, heartless, envious; she violates no law, but shehas no virtue, and she lives triumphant: her arid, artificialcharacter serves by contrast to heighten our sympathy with herwarm-hearted, forlorn, ill-fated rival. These two Queens, particularlyMary, are well delineated: their respective qualities are vividlybrought out, and the feelings they were meant to excite arise withinus. There is also Mortimer, a fierce, impetuous, impassioned lover;driven onward chiefly by the heat of his blood, but still interestingby his vehemence and unbounded daring. The dialogue, moreover, hasmany beauties; there are scenes which have merited peculiarcommendation. Of this kind is the interview between the Queens; andmore especially the first entrance of Mary, when, after longseclusion, she is once more permitted to behold the cheerful sky. Inthe joy of a momentary freedom, she forgets that she is still acaptive; she addresses the clouds, the 'sailors of the air, who 'arenot subjects of Elizabeth, ' and bids them carry tidings of her to thehearts that love her in other lands. Without doubt, in all that heintended, Schiller has succeeded; _Maria Stuart_ is a beautifultragedy; it would have formed the glory of a meaner man, but it cannotmaterially alter his. Compared with _Wallenstein_, its purpose isnarrow, and its result is common. We have no manners or truehistorical delineation. The figure of the English court is not given;and Elizabeth is depicted more like one of the French Medici, thanlike our own politic, capricious, coquettish, imperious, yet on thewhole true-hearted, 'good Queen Bess. ' With abundant proofs of genius, this tragedy produces a comparatively small effect, especially onEnglish readers. We have already wept enough for Mary Stuart, bothover prose and verse; and the persons likely to be deeply touched withthe moral or the interest of her story, as it is recorded here, arerather a separate class than men in general. Madame de Staël, weobserve, is her principal admirer. 

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

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

Such a manner of considering the Maid of Orleans is evidently not theright one. Feelings so deep and earnest as hers can never be an objectof ridicule: whoever pursues a purpose of any sort with such ferviddevotedness, is entitled to awaken emotions, at least of a seriouskind, in the hearts of others. Enthusiasm puts on a different shape inevery different age: always in some degree sublime, often it isdangerous; its very essence is a tendency to error and exaggeration;yet it is the fundamental quality of strong souls; the true nobilityof blood, in which all greatness of thought or action has its rise. _Quicquid vult valdè vult_ is ever the first and surest test of mentalcapability. This peasant girl, who felt within her such fieryvehemence of resolution, that she could subdue the minds of kings andcaptains to her will, and lead armies on to battle, conquering, tillher country was cleared of its invaders, must evidently have possessedthe elements of a majestic character. Benevolent feelings, sublimeideas, and above all an overpowering will, are here indubitablymarked. Nor does the form, which her activity assumed, seem lessadapted for displaying these qualities, than many other forms in whichwe praise them. The gorgeous inspirations of the Catholic religion areas real as the phantom of posthumous renown; the love of our nativesoil is as laudable as ambition, or the principle of military honour. Jeanne d'Arc must have been a creature of shadowy yet far-glancingdreams, of unutterable feelings, of 'thoughts that wandered throughEternity. ' Who can tell the trials and the triumphs, the splendoursand the terrors, of which her simple spirit was the scene! 'Heartless, sneering, god-forgetting French!' as old Suwarrow called them, —theyare not worthy of this noble maiden. Hers were errors, but errorswhich a generous soul alone could have committed, and which generoussouls would have done more than pardon. Her darkness and delusionswere of the understanding only; they but make the radiance of herheart more touching and apparent; as clouds are gilded by the orientlight into something more beautiful than azure itself. 

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

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

The woes and desolation of the land have kindled in Joanna's keen andfervent heart a fire, which the loneliness of her life, and her deepfeelings of religion, have nourished and fanned into a holy flame. Shesits in solitude with her flocks, beside the mountain chapel of theVirgin, under the ancient Druid oak, a wizard spot, the haunt of evilspirits as well as of good; and visions are revealed to her such ashuman eyes behold not. It seems the force of her own spirit, expressing its feelings in forms which react upon itself. Thestrength of her impulses persuades her that she is called from on highto deliver her native France; the intensity of her own faith persuadesothers; she goes forth on her mission; all bends to the fieryvehemence of her will; she is inspired because she thinks herself so. There is something beautiful and moving in the aspect of a nobleenthusiasm, fostered in the secret soul, amid obstructions anddepressions, and at length bursting forth with an overwhelming forceto accomplish its appointed end: the impediments which long hid it arenow become testimonies of its power; the very ignorance, and meanness, and error, which still in part adhere to it, increase our sympathywithout diminishing our admiration; it seems the triumph, hardlycontested, and not wholly carried, but still the triumph, of Mind overFate, of human volition over material necessity. 

All this Schiller felt, and has presented with even more than hisusual skill. The secret mechanism of Joanna's mind is concealed fromus in a dim religious obscurity; but its active movements aredistinct; we behold the lofty heroism of her feelings; she affects usto the very heart. The quiet, devout innocence of her early years, when she lived silent, shrouded in herself, meek and kindly though notcommuning with others, makes us love her: the celestial splendourwhich illuminates her after-life adds reverence to our love. Her wordsand actions combine an overpowering force with a calm unpretendingdignity: we seem to understand how they must have carried in theirfavour the universal conviction. Joanna is the most noble being intragedy. We figure her with her slender lovely form, her mild butspirit-speaking countenance; 'beautiful and terrible;' bearing thebanner of the Virgin before the hosts of her country; travelling inthe strength of a rapt soul; irresistible by faith; 'the lowlyherdsmaid, ' greater in the grandeur of her simple spirit than thekings and queens of this world. Yet her breast is not entirelyinsensible to human feeling, nor her faith never liable to waver. Whenthat inexorable vengeance, which had shut her ear against the voice ofmercy to the enemies of France, is suspended at the sight of Lionel, and her heart experiences the first touch of mortal affection, abaleful cloud overspreads the serene of her mind; it seems as ifHeaven had forsaken her, or from the beginning permitted demons orearthly dreams to deceive her. The agony of her spirit, involved inendless and horrid labyrinths of doubt, is powerfully portrayed. Shehas crowned the king at Rheims; and all is joy, and pomp, and jubilee, and almost adoration of Joanna: but Joanna's thoughts are not of joy. The sight of her poor but kind and true-hearted sisters in the crowd, moves her to the soul. Amid the tumult and magnificence of this royalpageant, she sinks into a reverie; her small native dale of Arc, between its quiet hills, rises on her mind's eye, with itsstraw-roofed huts, and its clear greensward; where the sun is eventhen shining so brightly, and the sky is so blue, and all is so calmand motherly and safe. She sighs for the peace of that sequesteredhome; then shudders to think that she shall never see it more. Accusedof witchcraft, by her own ascetic melancholic father, she utters noword of denial to the charge; for her heart is dark, it is tarnishedby earthly love, she dare not raise her thoughts to Heaven. Partedfrom her sisters; cast out with horror by the people she had latelysaved from despair, she wanders forth, desolate, forlorn, not knowingwhither. Yet she does not sink under this sore trial: as she suffersfrom without, and is forsaken of men, her mind grows clear and strong, her confidence returns. She is now more firmly fixed in our admirationthan before; tenderness is united to our other feelings; and herfaith has been proved by sharp vicissitudes. Her countrymen recognisetheir error; Joanna closes her career by a glorious death; we takefarewell of her in a solemn mood of heroic pity. 

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

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

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

ACT III. SCENE IV. 

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

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

CHARLES. Resistless Maid, Thou addest miracle to miracle!Henceforward I believe that nothing isImpossible to thee. Thou hast subduedThis haughty spirit, that till now defiedTh' omnipotence of Love. 

LA HIRE [_steps forward_]. If I mistake notJoanna's form of mind, what most adorns herIs her modest heart. The rev'rence of the greatShe merits; but her thoughts will never riseSo high. She strives not after giddy splendours:The true affection of a faithful soulContents her, and the still, sequester'd lotWhich with this hand I offer her. 

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

AGNES SOREL [_approaches_]. Joanna is embarrass'd and surprised;I see the bashful crimson tinge her cheeks. Let her have time to ask her heart, to openHer clos'd bosom in trustful confidenceWith me. The moment is arriv'd when IIn sisterly communion also mayApproach the rigorous Maid, and offer herThe solace of my faithful, silent breast. First let us women sit in secret judgmentOn this matter that concerns us; then expectWhat we shall have decided. 

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

JOANNA. Not so, Sire! 'Twas not the embarrassmentOf virgin shame that dy'd my cheeks in crimson:To this lady I have nothing to confide, Which I need blush to speak of before men. Much am I honour'd by the preferenceOf these two noble Knights; but it was notTo chase vain worldly grandeurs, that I leftThe shepherd moors; not in my hair to bindThe bridal garland, that I girt myselfWith warlike armour. To far other workAm I appointed: and the spotless virginAlone can do it. I am the soldierOf the God of Battles; to no living manCan I be wife. 

ARCHBISHOP. As kindly help to manWas woman born; and in obeying NatureShe best obeys and reverences Heaven. When the command of God who summon'd theeTo battle is fulfull'd, thou wilt lay downThy weapons, and return to that soft sexWhich thou deny'st, which is not call'd to doThe bloody work of war. 

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

CHARLES. We are journeyingTowards Rheims. 

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

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

JOANNA. If God see meetThat I return with life and vict'ry fromThese broils, my task is ended, and the herdsmaidHas nothing more to do in her King's palace. 

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

JOANNA. Dauphin! Art thou wearyOf the heavenly vision, that thou seekestTo deface its chosen vessel, wouldst degradeTo common dust the Maid whom God has sent thee?Ye blind of heart! O ye of little faith!Heaven's brightness is about you, before your eyesUnveils its wonders; and ye see in meNought but a woman. Dare a woman, think ye, Clothe herself in iron harness, and mingleIn the wreck of battle? Woe, woe to me, If bearing in my hand th' avenging swordOf God, I bore in my vain heart a loveTo earthly man! Woe to me! It were betterThat I never had been born. No more, No more of this! Unless ye would awake the wrathOf HIM that dwells in me! The eye of manDesiring me is an abominationAnd a horror. 

CHARLES. Cease! 'Tis vain to urge her. 

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

SCENE V. 

A KNIGHT [_in haste_]. 

CHARLES. How now?

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

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

 * * * * *

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

SCENE VI. 

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

TALBOT, _leaning upon_ FASTOLF, _and accompanied by_ Soldiers. _Soonafter_, LIONEL. 

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

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

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

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

LIONEL. Paris has surrender'dTo the Dauphin: an express is just arriv'dWith tidings. 

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

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

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

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

TALBOT. Had we as brave men been defeatedBy brave men, we might have consoled ourselvesWith common thoughts of Fortune's fickleness:But that a sorry farce should be our ruin!—Did our earnest toilsome struggle meritNo graver end than this?

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

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

SCENE VII. 

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

BURGUN. The trench is storm'd. 

DUNOIS. The victory is ours. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

DUNOIS. Dreaded Talbot! stern, unconquerable!Dost thou content thee with a space so narrow, And the wide domains of France once could notStay the striving of thy giant spirit?—Now for the first time, Sire, I call you King:The crown but totter'd on your head, so longAs in this body dwelt a soul. 

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

 * * * * *

SCENE IX. 

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

_A Knight, cased in black armour, with his visor shut. _ JOANNA_follows him to the front of the scene, where he stops and awaitsher. _

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

KNIGHT. Why dost thou follow me, and track my stopsWith murd'rous fury? I am not appointedTo die by thee. 

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

KNIGHT. Speaks not the prophesying Spirit in thee?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[_She lifts her arm to strike him. _

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

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

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

SCENE X. 

LIONEL, JOANNA. 

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

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

Faithless fortune! [_He struggles with her. _

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

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

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

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

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

JOANNA. Kill me, and fly!

LIONEL. Ha! How is this?

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

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

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

LIONEL. Wherefore namest thouThe Virgin? _She_ knows nothing of thee; HeavenHas nought to say to thee. 

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

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

JOANNA. Away! Begone!

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

JOANNA. I no more deserve to bear them!

LIONEL. Cast themAway, then, and come with me!

JOANNA [_with horror_]. Come with thee!

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

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

LIONEL. Fear not; I will guard thee. 

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

LIONEL. Am IDear to thee?

JOANNA. Saints of Heaven!

LIONEL. Shall I everSee thee, hear of thee, again?

JOANNA. Never! Never!

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

[_He wrests the sword from her. _

JOANNA. Madman!Thou dar'st?

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

The introduction of supernatural agency in this play, and the finalaberration from the truth of history, have been considerably censuredby the German critics: Schlegel, we recollect, calls Joanna's end a'rosy death. ' In this dramaturgic discussion, the mere reader needtake no great interest. To require our belief in apparitions andmiracles, things which we cannot now believe, no doubt for a momentdisturbs our submission to the poet's illusions: but the miracles inthis story are rare and transient, and of small account in the generalresult: they give our reason little trouble, and perhaps contribute toexalt the heroine in our imaginations. It is still the mere humangrandeur of Joanna's spirit that we love and reverence; the loftydevotedness with which she is transported, the generous benevolence, the irresistible determination. The heavenly mandate is but the meansof unfolding these qualities, and furnishing them with a properpassport to the minds of her age. To have produced, without the aid offictions like these, a Joanna so beautified and exalted, wouldundoubtedly have yielded greater satisfaction: but it may bequestioned whether the difficulty would not have increased in a stillhigher ratio. The sentiments, the characters, are not only accurate, but exquisitely beautiful; the incidents, excepting the very last, arepossible, or even probable: what remains is but a very slender evil. 

After all objections have been urged, and this among others hascertainly a little weight, the _Maid of Orleans_ will remain one ofthe very finest of modern dramas. Perhaps, among all Schiller's plays, it is the one which evinces most of that quality denominated _genius_in the strictest meaning of the word. _Wallenstein_ embodies morethought, more knowledge, more conception; but it is only in partsilluminated by that ethereal brightness, which shines over every partof this. The spirit of the romantic ages is here imaged forth; but thewhole is exalted, embellished, ennobled. It is what the critics callidealised. The heart must be cold, the imagination dull, which the_Jungfrau von Orleans_ will not move. 

In Germany this case did not occur: the reception of the work wasbeyond example flattering. The leading idea suited the German mind;the execution of it inflamed the hearts and imaginations of thepeople; they felt proud of their great poet, and delighted toenthusiasm with his poetry. At the first exhibition of the play inLeipzig, Schiller being in the theatre, though not among theaudience, this feeling was displayed in a rather singular manner. Whenthe curtain dropped at the end of the first act, there arose on allsides a shout of "_Es lebe Friedrich Schiller!_" accompanied by thesound of trumpets and other military music: at the conclusion of thepiece, the whole assembly left their places, went out, and crowdedround the door through which the poet was expected to come; and nosooner did he show himself, than his admiring spectators, uncoveringtheir heads, made an avenue for him to pass; and as he waited along, many, we are told, held up their children, and exclaimed, "_That ishe!_"[36]

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

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

At Weimar his present way of life was like his former one at Jena: hisbusiness was to study and compose; his recreations were in the circleof his family, where he could abandon himself to affections, grave ortrifling, and in frank and cheerful intercourse with a few friends. Ofthe latter he had lately formed a social club, the meetings of whichafforded him a regular and innocent amusement. He still loved solitarywalks: in the Park at Weimar he might frequently be seen wanderingamong the groves and remote avenues, with a note-book in his hand; nowloitering slowly along, now standing still, now moving rapidly on; ifany one appeared in sight, he would dart into another alley, that hisdream might not be broken. [37] 'One of his favourite resorts, ' we aretold, 'was the thickly-overshadowed rocky path which leads to the_Römische Haus_, a pleasure-house of the Duke's, built under thedirection of Goethe. There he would often sit in the gloom of thecrags, overgrown with cypresses and boxwood; shady hedges before him;not far from the murmur of a little brook, which there gushes in asmooth slaty channel, and where some verses of Goethe are cut upon abrown plate of stone, and fixed in the rock. ' He still continued tostudy in the night: the morning was spent with his children and hiswife, or in pastimes such as we have noticed; in the afternoon herevised what had been last composed, wrote letters, or visited hisfriends. His evenings were often passed in the theatre; it was theonly public place of amusement which he ever visited; nor was it forthe purpose of amusement that he visited this: it was his observatory, where he watched the effect of scenes and situations; devised newschemes of art, or corrected old ones. To the players he was kind, friendly: on nights when any of his pieces had been acted successfullyor for the first time, he used to invite the leaders of the company toa supper in the Stadthaus, where the time was spent in mirthfuldiversions, one of which was frequently a recitation, by Genast, ofthe Capuchin's sermon in _Wallenstein's Camp_. Except on such rareoccasions, he returned home directly from the theatre, to light hismidnight lamp, and commence the most earnest of his labours. 

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

The assiduity, with which he struggled for improvement in dramaticcomposition, had now produced its natural result: the requisitions ofhis taste no longer hindered the operation of his genius; art had atlength become a second nature. A new proof at once of his fertility, and of his solicitude for farther improvement, appeared in 1803. The_Braut von Messina_ was an experiment; an attempt to exhibit a modernsubject and modern sentiments in an antique garb. The principle onwhich the interest of this play rests is the Fatalism of the ancients:the plot is of extreme simplicity; a Chorus also is introduced, anelaborate discussion of the nature and uses of that accompanimentbeing prefixed by way of preface. The experiment was not successful:with a multitude of individual beauties this _Bride of Messina_ isfound to be ineffectual as a whole: it does not move us; the greatobject of every tragedy is not attained. The Chorus, which Schiller, swerving from the Greek models, has divided into two contending parts, and made to enter and depart with the principals to whom they areattached, has in his hands become the medium of conveying manybeautiful effusions of poetry; but it retards the progress of theplot; it dissipates and diffuses our sympathies; the interest weshould take in the fate and prospects of Manuel and Cæsar, isexpended on the fate and prospects of man. For beautiful and touchingdelineations of life; for pensive and pathetic reflections, sentiments, and images, conveyed in language simple but nervous andemphatic, this tragedy stands high in the rank of modern compositions. There is in it a breath of young tenderness and ardour, mingledimpressively with the feelings of gray-haired experience, whoserecollections are darkened with melancholy, whose very hopes arechequered and solemn. The implacable Destiny which consigns thebrothers to mutual enmity and mutual destruction, for the guilt of apast generation, involving a Mother and a Sister in their ruin, spreads a sombre hue over all the poem; we are not unmoved by thecharacters of the hostile Brothers, and we pity the hapless andamiable Beatrice, the victim of their feud. Still there is too littleaction in the play; the incidents are too abundantly diluted withreflection; the interest pauses, flags, and fails to produce its fulleffect. For its specimens of lyrical poetry, tender, affecting, sometimes exquisitely beautiful, the _Bride of Messina_ will longdeserve a careful perusal; but as exemplifying a new form of thedrama, it has found no imitators, and is likely to find none. 

The slight degree of failure or miscalculation which occurred in thepresent instance, was next year abundantly redeemed. _Wilhelm Tell_, sent out in 1804, is one of Schiller's very finest dramas; it exhibitssome of the highest triumphs which his genius, combined with his art, ever realised. The first descent of Freedom to our modern world, thefirst unfurling of her standard on the rocky pinnacle of Europe, ishere celebrated in the style which it deserved. There is no falsetimsel-decoration about _Tell_, no sickly refinement, no declamatorysentimentality. All is downright, simple, and agreeable to Nature;yet all is adorned and purified and rendered beautiful, without losingits resemblance. An air of freshness and wholesomeness breathes overit; we are among honest, inoffensive, yet fearless peasants, untaintedby the vices, undazzled by the theories, of more complex and pervertedconditions of society. The opening of the first scene sets us downamong the Alps. It is 'a high rocky shore of the Luzern Lake, oppositeto Schwytz. The lake makes a little bight in the land, a hut stands ata short distance from the bank, the fisher-boy is rowing himself aboutin his boat. Beyond the lake, on the other side, we see the greenmeadows, the hamlets and farms of Schwytz, lying in the clearsunshine. On our left are observed the peaks of the Hacken surroundedwith clouds: to the right, and far in the distance, appear theglaciers. We hear the _rance des vaches_ and the tinkling ofcattle-bells. ' This first impression never leaves us; we are in ascene where all is grand and lovely; but it is the loveliness andgrandeur of unpretending, unadulterated Nature. These Switzers are notArcadian shepherds or speculative patriots; there is not one crook orbeechen bowl among them, and they never mention the Social Contract, or the Rights of Man. They are honest people, driven by oppression toassert their privileges; and they go to work like men in earnest, benton the despatch of business, not on the display of sentiment. They arenot philosophers or tribunes; but frank, stalwart landmen: even in thefield of Rütli, they do not forget their common feelings; the partythat arrive first indulge in a harmless little ebullition of parishvanity: "_We_ are first here!" they say, "we Unterwaldeners!" Theyhave not charters or written laws to which they can appeal; but theyhave the traditionary rights of their fathers, and bold hearts andstrong arms to make them good. The rules by which they steer are notdeduced from remote premises, by a fine process of thought; they arethe accumulated result of experience, transmitted from peasant sire topeasant son. There is something singularly pleasing in this exhibitionof genuine humanity; of wisdom, embodied in old adages and practicalmaxims of prudence; of magnanimity, displayed in the quietunpretending discharge of the humblest every-day duties. Truth issuperior to Fiction: we feel at home among these brave good people;their fortune interests us more than that of all the brawling, vapid, sentimental heroes in creation. Yet to make them interest us was thevery highest problem of art; it was to copy lowly Nature, to give us acopy of it embellished and refined by the agency of genius, yetpreserving the likeness in every lineament. The highest quality of artis to conceal itself: these peasants of Schiller's are what every oneimagines he could imitate successfully; yet in the hands of any but atrue and strong-minded poet they dwindle into repulsive coarseness ormawkish insipidity. Among our own writers, who have tried suchsubjects, we remember none that has succeeded equally with Schiller. One potent but ill-fated genius has, in far different circumstancesand with far other means, shown that he could have equalled him: the_Cotter's Saturday Night_ of Burns is, in its own humble way, asquietly beautiful, as _simplex munditiis_, as the scenes of _Tell_. Noother has even approached them; though some gifted persons haveattempted it. Mr. Wordsworth is no ordinary man; nor are his pedlars, and leech-gatherers, and dalesmen, without their attractions and theirmoral; but they sink into whining drivellers beside _Rösselmann thePriest_, _Ulric the Smith_, _Hans of the Wall_, and the other sturdyconfederates of Rütli. 

The skill with which the events are concatenated in this playcorresponds to the truth of its delineation of character. Theincidents of the Swiss Revolution, as detailed in Tschudi or Müller, are here faithfully preserved, even to their minutest branches. Thebeauty of Schiller's descriptions all can relish; their fidelity iswhat surprises every reader who has been in Switzerland. Schillernever saw the scene of his play; but his diligence, his quickness andintensity of conception, supplied this defect. Mountain andmountaineer, conspiracy and action, are all brought before us in theirtrue forms, all glowing in the mild sunshine of the poet's fancy. Thetyranny of Gessler, and the misery to which it has reduced the land;the exasperation, yet patient courage of the people; their characters, and those of their leaders, Fürst, Stauffacher, and Melchthal; theirexertions and ultimate success, described as they are here, keep up aconstant interest in the piece. It abounds in action, as much as the_Bride of Messina_ is defective in that point. 

But the finest delineation is undoubtedly the character of WilhelmTell, the hero of the Swiss Revolt, and of the present drama. In Tellare combined all the attributes of a great man, without the help ofeducation or of great occasions to develop them. His knowledge hasbeen gathered chiefly from his own experience, and this is bounded byhis native mountains: he has had no lessons or examples of splendidvirtue, no wish or opportunity to earn renown: he has grown up tomanhood, a simple yeoman of the Alps, among simple yeomen; and hasnever aimed at being more. Yet we trace in him a deep, reflective, earnest spirit, thirsting for activity, yet bound in by the wholesomedictates of prudence; a heart benevolent, generous, unconscious alikeof boasting or of fear. It is this salubrious air of rustic, unpretending honesty that forms the great beauty in Tell's character:all is native, all is genuine; he does not declaim: he dislikes totalk of noble conduct, he exhibits it. He speaks little of hisfreedom, because he has always enjoyed it, and feels that he canalways defend it. His reasons for destroying Gessler are not drawnfrom jurisconsults and writers on morality, but from the everlastinginstincts of Nature: the Austrian Vogt must die; because if not, thewife and children of Tell will be destroyed by him. The scene, wherethe peaceful but indomitable archer sits waiting for Gessler in thehollow way among the rocks of Küssnacht, presents him in a strikinglight. Former scenes had shown us Tell under many amiable andattractive aspects; we knew that he was tender as well as brave, thathe loved to haunt the mountain tops, and inhale in silent dreams theinfluence of their wild and magnificent beauty: we had seen him themost manly and warm-hearted of fathers and husbands; intrepid, modest, and decisive in the midst of peril, and venturing his life to bringhelp to the oppressed. But here his mind is exalted into sternsolemnity; its principles of action come before us with greaterclearness, in this its fiery contest. The name of murder strikes adamp across his frank and fearless spirit; while the recollection ofhis children and their mother proclaims emphatically that there is noremedy. Gessler must perish: Tell swore it darkly in his secret soul, when the monster forced him to aim at the head of his boy; and he willkeep his oath. His thoughts wander to and fro, but his volition isunalterable; the free and peaceful mountaineer is to become a shedderof blood: woe to them that have made him so!

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

ACT IV. SCENE III. 

_The hollow way at Küssnacht. You descend from behind amid rocks; andtravellers, before appearing on the scene, are seen from the heightabove. Rocks encircle the whole space; on one of the foremost is aprojecting crag overgrown with brushwood. _

TELL [_enters with his bow_]. 

Here through the hollow way he'll pass; there isNo other road to Küssnacht: here I'll do it!The opportunity is good; the bushesOf alder there will hide me; from that pointMy arrow hits him; the strait pass preventsPursuit. Now, Gessler, balance thy accountWith Heaven! Thou must be gone: thy sand is run. 

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

 Poor little boys! My kind true wife! I willProtect them from thee, Landvogt! When I drewThat bowstring, and my hand was quiv'ring, And with devilish joy thou mad'st me point itAt the child, and I in fainting anguishEntreated thee in vain; then with a grimIrrevocable oath, deep in my soul, I vow'd to God in Heav'n, that the _next_ aimI took should be thy heart. The vow I madeIn that despairing moment's agonyBecame a holy debt; and I will pay it. 

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

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

 [_Travellers cross the scene. _

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

TELL. A serious guest befits not bridal feasts. 

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

TELL. And oftentimes the one leads to the other. 

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

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

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

TELL. Weak creatures too have stings. 

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

STÜSSI. 'Tis thought to bodeSome great misfortune to the land; some blackUnnatural action. 

TELL. Ev'ry day such actionsOccur in plenty: needs no sign or wonderTo foreshow them. 

STÜSSI. Ay, truly! Well for himThat tills his field in peace, and undisturb'dSits by his own fireside!

TELL. The peacefulestDwells not in peace, if wicked neighbours hinder. 

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

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

TELL. That am I. 

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

TRAVELLER [_enters_]. Expect notThe Landvogt now. The waters, from the rain, Are flooded, and have swept down all the bridges. [_Tell stands up. _

ARMGART [_coming forward_]. 

The Vogt not come!

STÜSSI. Did you want aught with him?

ARMGART. Ah! yes, indeed!

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

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

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

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

ARMGART. The Landvogt coming!

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

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

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

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

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

STÜSSI. Stay, stay!O, tell me!

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

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

GESSLER _and_ RUDOLPH DER HARRAS _on horseback_. 

GESSLER. Say what you like, I am the Kaiser's servant, And must think of pleasing him. He sent meNot to caress these hinds, to soothe or nurse them:Obedience is the word! The point at issue isShall Boor or Kaiser here be lord o' th' land. 

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

 [_Approaches timidly. _

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

RUDOLPH. But yet the people have some rights—

GESSLER. Which nowIs not a time for settling or admitting. Mighty things are on the anvil. The houseOf Hapsburg must wax powerful; what the FatherGloriously began, the Son must forward:This people is a stone of stumbling, whichOne way or t'other must be put aside. 

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

ARMGART. Mercy, gracious Landvogt! Justice! Justice!

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

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

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

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

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

ARMGART. No, no! I stir notFrom the spot till you give up my husband!'Tis the sixth month he has lain i' th' dungeon, Waiting for the sentence of some judge, in vain. 

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

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

GESSLER. Off! Take the mutinous rabbleFrom my sight. 

ARMGART [_catches the bridle of the horse_]. No, no! I now have nothingMore to lose. Thou shalt not move a step, Vogt, Till thou hast done me right. Ay, knit thy brows, And roll thy eyes as sternly as thou wilt;We are so wretched, wretched now, we care notAught more for thy anger. 

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

ARMGART. Let it! there—

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

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

RUDOLPH. Woman! Art' mad?

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

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

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

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

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

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

 God be merciful to me!

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

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

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

GESSLER. 'Tis Tell's arrow. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

RUDOLPH. He's bleeding, bleeding to death. Away! Seek help; pursue the murderer!Lost man! Must it so end with thee? Thou wouldst notHear my warning!

STÜSSI. Sure enough! There lies hePale and going fast. 

MANY VOICES. Who was it killed him?

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

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

 Herr Landvogt, Can you not speak to me? Is there nothingYou would entrust me with?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

ALL [_tumultuously_]. The land is free!

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

[_To the armed Attendants, who press in. _

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

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

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

STÜSSI. The victim slain, the ravens are assembling!

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

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

The death of Gessler, which forms the leading object of the plot, happens at the end of the fourth act; the fifth, occupied withrepresenting the expulsion of his satellites, and the final triumphand liberation of the Swiss, though diversified with occurrences andspectacles, moves on with inferior animation. A certain want of unityis, indeed, distinctly felt throughout all the piece; the incidents donot point one way; there is no connexion, or a very slight one, between the enterprise of Tell and that of the men of Rütli. This isthe principal, or rather sole, deficiency of the present work; adeficiency inseparable from the faithful display of the historicalevent, and far more than compensated by the deeper interest and thewider range of action and delineation, which a strict adherence to thefacts allows. By the present mode of management, Alpine life in allits length and breadth is placed before us: from the feudal halls ofAttinghausen to Ruodi the Fisher of the Luzern Lake, and Armgart, —

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

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

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

We have dwelt the longer on this play, not only on account of itspeculiar fascinations, but also—as it is our last! Schiller'sfaculties had never been more brilliant than at present: strong inmature age, in rare and varied accomplishments, he was now reaping thefull fruit of his studious vigils; the rapidity with which he wrotesuch noble poems, at once betokened the exuberant riches of his mindand the prompt command which he enjoyed of them. Still all that he haddone seemed but a fraction of his appointed task: a bold imaginationwas carrying him forward into distant untouched fields of thought andpoetry, where triumphs yet more glorious were to be gained. Schemes ofnew writings, new kinds of writing, were budding in his fancy; he wasyet, as he had ever been, surrounded by a multitude of projects, andfull of ardour to labour in fulfilling them. But Schiller's laboursand triumphs were drawing to a close. The invisible Messenger wasalready near, which overtakes alike the busy and the idle, whicharrests man in the midst of his pleasures or his occupations, _andchanges his countenance and sends him away_. 

In 1804, having been at Berlin witnessing the exhibition of his_Wilhelm Tell_, he was seized, while returning, with a paroxysm ofthat malady which for many years had never wholly left him. The attackwas fierce and violent; it brought him to the verge of the grave; buthe escaped once more; was considered out of danger, and again resumedhis poetical employments. Besides various translations from the Frenchand Italian, he had sketched a tragedy on the history of PerkinWarbeck, and finished two acts of one on that of a kindred but morefortunate impostor, Dimitri of Russia. His mind, it would appear, wasalso frequently engaged with more solemn and sublime ideas. Theuniverse of human thought he had now explored and enjoyed; but heseems to have found no permanent contentment in any of its provinces. Many of his later poems indicate an incessant and increasing longingfor some solution of the mystery of life; at times it is a gloomyresignation to the want and the despair of any. His ardent spiritcould not satisfy itself with things seen, though gilded with all theglories of intellect and imagination; it soared away in search ofother lands, looking with unutterable desire for some surer andbrighter home beyond the horizon of this world. Death he had no reasonto regard as probably a near event; but we easily perceive that theawful secrets connected with it had long been familiar to hiscontemplation. The veil which hid them from his eyes was now shortly, when he looked not for it, to be rent asunder. 

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

The news of Schiller's death fell cold on many a heart: not in Germanyalone, but over Europe, it was regarded as a public loss, by all whounderstood its meaning. In Weimar especially, the scene of his noblestefforts, the abode of his chosen friends, the sensation it producedwas deep and universal. The public places of amusement were shut; allranks made haste to testify their feelings, to honour themselves andthe deceased by tributes to his memory. It was Friday when Schillerdied; his funeral was meant to be on Sunday; but the state of hisremains made it necessary to proceed before. Doering thus describesthe ceremony:

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

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

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

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

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

In his dress and manner, as in all things, he was plain andunaffected. Among strangers, something shy and retiring mightoccasionally be observed in him: in his own family, or among hisselect friends, he was kind-hearted, free, and gay as a little child. In public, his external appearance had nothing in it to strike orattract. Of an unpresuming aspect, wearing plain apparel, his looks ashe walked were constantly bent on the ground; so that frequently, aswe are told, 'he failed to notice the salutation of a passingacquaintance; but if he heard it, he would catch hastily at his hat, and give his cordial "_Guten Tag_. "' Modesty, simplicity, a total wantof all parade or affectation were conspicuous in him. These are theusual concomitants of true greatness, and serve to mitigate itssplendour. Common things he did as a common man. His conduct in suchmatters was uncalculated, spontaneous; and therefore natural andpleasing. 

Concerning his mental character, the greater part of what we had tosay has been already said, in speaking of his works. The most cursoryperusal of these will satisfy us that he had a mind of the highestorder; grand by nature, and cultivated by the assiduous study of alifetime. It is not the predominating force of any one faculty thatimpresses us in Schiller; but the general force of all. Every page ofhis writings bears the stamp of internal vigour; new truths, newaspects of known truth, bold thought, happy imagery, lofty emotion. Schiller would have been no common man, though he had altogetherwanted the qualities peculiar to poets. His intellect is clear, deep, and comprehensive; its deductions, frequently elicited from numerousand distant premises, are presented under a magnificent aspect, in theshape of theorems, embracing an immense multitude of minorpropositions. Yet it seems powerful and vast, rather than quick orkeen; for Schiller is not notable for wit, though his fancy is everprompt with its metaphors, illustrations, comparisons, to decorate andpoint the perceptions of his reason. The earnestness of his temperfarther disqualified him for this: his tendency was rather to adorethe grand and the lofty than to despise the little and the mean. Perhaps his greatest faculty was a half-poetical, half-philosophicalimagination: a faculty teeming with magnificence and brilliancy; nowadorning, or aiding to erect, a stately pyramid of scientificspeculation; now brooding over the abysses of thought and feeling, till thoughts and feelings, else unutterable, were embodied inexpressive forms, and palaces and landscapes glowing in etherealbeauty rose like exhalations from the bosom of the deep. 

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

The gifts by which such transformation is effected, the gift of pure, ardent, tender sensibility, joined to those of fancy and imagination, are perhaps not wholly denied to any man endowed with the power ofreason; possessed in various degrees of strength, they add to theproducts of mere intellect corresponding tints of new attractiveness;in a degree great enough to be remarkable they constitute a poet. Ofthis peculiar faculty how much had fallen to Schiller's lot, we neednot attempt too minutely to explain. Without injuring his reputation, it may be admitted that, in general, his works exhibit ratherextraordinary strength than extraordinary fineness or versatility. Hispower of dramatic imitation is perhaps never of the very highest, theShakspearean kind; and in its best state, it is farther limited to acertain range of characters. It is with the grave, the earnest, theexalted, the affectionate, the mournful, that he succeeds: he is notdestitute of humour, as his _Wallenstein's Camp_ will show, butneither is he rich in it; and for sprightly ridicule in any of itsforms he has seldom shown either taste or talent. Chance principallymade the drama his department; he might have shone equally in manyothers. The vigorous and copious invention, the knowledge of life, ofmen and things, displayed in his theatrical pieces, might have beenavailable in very different pursuits; frequently the charm of hisworks has little to distinguish it from the charm of intellectual andmoral force in general; it is often the capacious thought, the vividimagery, the impetuous feeling of the orator, rather than the wildpathos and capricious enchantment of the poet. Yet that he was capableof rising to the loftiest regions of poetry, no reader of his _Maid ofOrleans_, his character of Thekla, or many other of his pieces, willhesitate to grant. Sometimes we suspect that it is the very grandeurof his general powers which prevents us from exclusively admiring hispoetic genius. We are not lulled by the syren song of poetry, becauseher melodies are blended with the clearer, manlier tones of seriousreason, and of honest though exalted feeling. 

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

In a poet worthy of that name, the powers of the intellect areindissolubly interwoven with the moral feelings, and the exercise ofhis art depends not more on the perfection of the one than of theother. The poet, who does not feel nobly and justly, as well aspassionately, will never permanently succeed in making others feel:the forms of error and falseness, infinite in number, are transitoryin duration; truth, of thought and sentiment, but chiefly ofsentiment, truth alone is eternal and unchangeable. But, happily, adelight in the products of reason and imagination can scarcely ever bedivided from, at least, a love for virtue and genuine greatness. Ourfeelings are in favour of heroism; we _wish_ to be pure and perfect. Happy he whose resolutions are so strong, or whose temptations are soweak, that he can convert these feelings into action! The severestpang, of which a proud and sensitive nature can be conscious, is theperception of its own debasement. The sources of misery in life aremany: vice is one of the surest. Any human creature, tarnished withguilt, will in general be wretched; a man of genius in that case willbe doubly so, for his ideas of excellence are higher, his sense offailure is more keen. In such miseries, Schiller had no share. Thesentiments, which animated his poetry, were converted into principlesof conduct; his actions were as blameless as his writings were pure. With his simple and high predilections, with his strong devotedness toa noble cause, he contrived to steer through life, unsullied by itsmeanness, unsubdued by any of its difficulties or allurements. Withthe world, in fact, he had not much to do; without effort, he dweltapart from it; its prizes were not the wealth which could enrich him. His great, almost his single aim, was to unfold his spiritualfaculties, to study and contemplate and improve their intellectualcreations. Bent upon this, with the steadfastness of an apostle, themore sordid temptations of the world passed harmlessly over him. Wishing not to seem, but to be, envy was a feeling of which he knewbut little, even before he rose above its level. Wealth or rank heregarded as a means, not an end; his own humble fortune supplying himwith all the essential conveniences of life, the world had nothingmore that he chose to covet, nothing more that it could give him. Hewas not rich; but his habits were simple, and, except by reason of hissickness and its consequences, unexpensive. At all times he was farabove the meanness of self-interest, particularly in its meanestshape, a love of money. Doering tells us, that a bookseller havingtravelled from a distance expressly to offer him a higher price forthe copyright of _Wallenstein_, at that time in the press, and forwhich he was on terms with Cotta of Tübingen, Schiller answering, "Cotta deals steadily with me, and I with him, " sent away this newmerchant, without even the hope of a future bargain. The anecdote issmall; but it seems to paint the integrity of the man, careless ofpecuniary concerns in comparison with the strictest uprightness in hisconduct. In fact, his real wealth lay in being able to pursue hisdarling studies, and to live in the sunshine of friendship anddomestic love. This he had always longed for; this he at last enjoyed. And though sickness and many vexations annoyed him, the intrinsicexcellence of his nature chequered the darkest portions of their gloomwith an effulgence derived from himself. The ardour of his feelings, tempered by benevolence, was equable and placid: his temper, thoughoverflowing with generous warmth, seems almost never to have shown anyhastiness or anger. To all men he was humane and sympathising; amonghis friends, open-hearted, generous, helpful; in the circle of hisfamily, kind, tender, sportive. And what gave an especial charm to allthis was, the unobtrusiveness with which it was attended: there was noparade, no display, no particle of affectation; rating and conductinghimself simply as an honest man and citizen, he became greater byforgetting that he was great. 

Such were the prevailing habits of Schiller. That in the mild andbeautiful brilliancy of their aspect there must have been some specksand imperfections, the common lot of poor humanity, who knows not?That these were small and transient, we judge from the circumstancethat scarcely any hint of them has reached us: nor are we anxious toobtain a full description of them. For practical uses, we cansufficiently conjecture what they were; and the heart desires not todwell upon them. This man is passed away from our dim and tarnishedworld: let him have the benefit of departed friends; let him betransfigured in our thoughts, and shine there without the littleblemishes that clung to him in life. 

Schiller gives a fine example of the German character: he has all itsgood qualities in a high degree, with very few of its defects. Wetrace in him all that downrightness and simplicity, that sincerity ofheart and mind, for which the Germans are remarked; their enthusiasm, their patient, long-continuing, earnest devotedness; theirimagination, delighting in the lofty and magnificent; their intellect, rising into refined abstractions, stretching itself into comprehensivegeneralisations. But the excesses to which such a character is liableare, in him, prevented by a firm and watchful sense of propriety. Hissimplicity never degenerates into ineptitude or insipidity; hisenthusiasm must be based on reason; he rarely suffers his love of thevast to betray him into toleration of the vague. The boy Schiller wasextravagant; but the man admits no bombast in his style, no inflationin his thoughts or actions. He is the poet of truth; ourunderstandings and consciences are satisfied, while our hearts andimaginations are moved. His fictions are emphatically nature copiedand embellished; his sentiments are refined and touchingly beautiful, but they are likewise manly and correct; they exalt and inspire, butthey do not mislead. Above all, he has no cant; in any of its thousandbranches, ridiculous or hateful, none. He does not distort hischaracter or genius into shapes, which he thinks more becoming thantheir natural one: he does not hang out principles which are not his, or harbour beloved persuasions which he half or wholly knows to befalse. He did not often speak of wholesome prejudices; he did not'embrace the Roman Catholic religion because it was the grandest andmost comfortable. ' Truth with Schiller, or what seemed such, was anindispensable requisite: if he but suspected an opinion to be false, however dear it may have been, he seems to have examined it with rigidscrutiny, and if he found it guilty, to have plucked it out, andresolutely cast it forth. The sacrifice might cause him pain, permanent pain; real damage, he imagined, it could hardly cause him. It is irksome and dangerous to travel in the dark; but better so, thanwith an _Ignis-fatuus_ to guide us. Considering the warmth of hissensibilities, Schiller's merit on this point is greater than we mightat first suppose. For a man with whom intellect is the ruling orexclusive faculty, whose sympathies, loves, hatreds, are comparativelycoarse and dull, it may be easy to avoid this half-wilfulentertainment of error, and this cant which is the consequence andsign of it. But for a man of keen tastes, a large fund of innateprobity is necessary to prevent his aping the excellence which heloves so much, yet is unable to attain. Among persons of the lattersort, it is extremely rare to meet with one completely unaffected. Schiller's other noble qualities would not have justice, did weneglect to notice this, the truest proof of their nobility. Honest, unpretending, manly simplicity pervades all parts of his character andgenius and habits of life. We not only admire him, we trust him andlove him. 

'The character of child-like simplicity, ' he has himself observed, [39]'which genius impresses on its works, it shows also in its privatelife and manners. It is bashful, for nature is ever so; but it is notprudish, for only corruption is prudish. It is clear-sighted, fornature can never be the contrary; but it is not cunning, for this onlyart can be. It is faithful to its character and inclinations; but notso much because it is directed by principles, as because after allvibrations nature constantly reverts to her original position, constantly renews her primitive demand. It is modest, nay timid, forgenius is always a secret to itself; but it is not anxious, for itknows not the dangers of the way which it travels. Of the privatehabits of the persons who have been peculiarly distinguished by theirgenius, our information is small; but the little that has beenrecorded for us of the chief of them, —of Sophocles, Archimedes, Hippocrates; and in modern times, of Dante and Tasso, of Rafaelle, Albrecht Dürer, Cervantes, Shakspeare, Fielding, and others, —confirmsthis observation. ' Schiller himself confirms it; perhaps more stronglythan most of the examples here adduced. No man ever wore his facultiesmore meekly, or performed great works with less consciousness of theirgreatness. Abstracted from the contemplation of himself, his eye wasturned upon the objects of his labour, and he pursued them with theeagerness, the entireness, the spontaneous sincerity, of a boypursuing sport. Hence this 'child-like simplicity, ' the lastperfection of his other excellencies. His was a mighty spiritunheedful of its might. He walked the earth in calm power: 'the staffof his spear was like a weaver's beam;' but he wielded it like a wand. 

 [Footnote 39: _Naive und sentimentalische Dichtung. _]

Such, so far as we can represent it, is the form in which Schiller'slife and works have gradually painted their character in the mind of asecluded individual, whose solitude he has often charmed, whom he hasinstructed, and cheered, and moved. The original impression, we know, was faint and inadequate, the present copy of it is still more so; yetwe have sketched it as we could: the figure of Schiller, and of thefigures he conceived and drew are there; himself, 'and in his hand aglass which shows us many more. ' To those who look on him as we havewished to make them, Schiller will not need a farther panegyric. Forthe sake of Literature, it may still be remarked, that his merit waspeculiarly due to her. Literature was his creed, the dictate of hisconscience; he was an Apostle of the Sublime and Beautiful, and thishis calling made a hero of him. For it was in the spirit of a true manthat he viewed it, and undertook to cultivate it; and its inspirationsconstantly maintained the noblest temper in his soul. The end ofLiterature was not, in Schiller's judgment, to amuse the idle, or torecreate the busy, by showy spectacles for the imagination, or quaintparadoxes and epigrammatic disquisitions for the understanding: leastof all was it to gratify in any shape the selfishness of itsprofessors, to minister to their malignity, their love of money, oreven of fame. For persons who degrade it to such purposes, the deepestcontempt of which his kindly nature could admit was at all times instore. 'Unhappy mortal!' says he to the literary tradesman, the manwho writes for gain, 'Unhappy mortal, who with science and art, thenoblest of all instruments, effectest and attemptest nothing more thanthe day-drudge with the meanest; who, in the domain of perfectFreedom, bearest about in thee the spirit of Slave!' As Schillerviewed it, genuine Literature includes the essence of philosophy, religion, art; whatever speaks to the immortal part of man. Thedaughter, she is likewise the nurse of all that is spiritual andexalted in our character. The boon she bestows is truth; truth notmerely physical, political, economical, such as the sensual man in usis perpetually demanding, ever ready to reward, and likely in generalto find; but truth of moral feeling, truth of taste, that inward truthin its thousand modifications, which only the most ethereal portion ofour nature can discern, but without which that portion of itlanguishes and dies, and we are left divested of our birthright, thenceforward 'of the earth earthy, ' machines for earning andenjoying, no longer worthy to be called the Sons of Heaven. Thetreasures of Literature are thus celestial, imperishable, beyond allprice: with her is the shrine of our best hopes, the palladium of puremanhood; to be among the guardians and servants of this is the noblestfunction that can be intrusted to a mortal. Genius, even in itsfaintest scintillations, is 'the inspired gift of God;' a solemnmandate to its owner to go forth and labour in his sphere, to keepalive 'the sacred fire' among his brethren, which the heavy andpolluted atmosphere of this world is forever threatening toextinguish. Woe to him if he neglect this mandate, if he hear not itssmall still voice! Woe to him if he turn this inspired gift into theservant of his evil or ignoble passions; if he offer it on the altarof vanity, if he sell it for a piece of money!

'The Artist, it is true, ' says Schiller, 'is the son of his age; butpity for him if he is its pupil, or even its favourite! Let somebeneficent Divinity snatch him when a suckling from the breast of hismother, and nurse him with the milk of a better time; that he mayripen to his full stature beneath a distant Grecian sky. And havinggrown to manhood, let him return, a foreign shape, into his century;not, however, to delight it by his presence; but terrible, like theSon of Agamemnon, to purify it. The Matter of his works he will takefrom the present; but their Form he will derive from a nobler time, nay from beyond all time, from the absolute unchanging unity of hisnature. Here from the pure æther of his spiritual essence, flows downthe Fountain of Beauty, uncontaminated by the pollutions of ages andgenerations, which roll to and fro in their turbid vortex far beneathit. His Matter caprice can dishonour as she has ennobled it; but thechaste Form is withdrawn from her mutations. The Roman of the firstcentury had long bent the knee before his Cæsars, when the statues ofRome were still standing erect; the temples continued holy to the eye, when their gods had long been a laughing-stock; and the abominationsof a Nero and a Commodus were silently rebuked by the style of theedifice which lent them its concealment. Man has lost his dignity, butArt has saved it, and preserved it for him in expressive marbles. Truth still lives in fiction, and from the copy the original will berestored. 

'But how is the Artist to guard himself from the corruptions of histime, which on every side assail him? By despising its decisions. Lethim look upwards to his dignity and his mission, not downwards to hishappiness and his wants. Free alike from the vain activity, that longsto impress its traces on the fleeting instant; and from thediscontented spirit of enthusiasm, that measures by the scale ofperfection the meagre product of reality, let him leave to _commonsense_, which is here at home, the province of the actual; while _he_strives from the union of the possible with the necessary to bring outthe ideal. This let him imprint and express in fiction and truth, imprint it in the sport of his imagination and the earnest of hisactions, imprint it in all sensible and spiritual forms, and cast itsilently into everlasting Time. '[40]

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

Nor were these sentiments, be it remembered, the mere boastingmanifesto of a hot-brained inexperienced youth, entering on literaturewith feelings of heroic ardour, which its difficulties and temptationswould soon deaden or pervert: they are the calm principles of a man, expressed with honest manfulness, at a period when the world couldcompare them with a long course of conduct. In this just and loftyspirit, Schiller undertook the business of literature; in the samespirit he pursued it with unflinching energy all the days of his life. The common, and some uncommon, difficulties of a fluctuating anddependent existence could not quench or abate his zeal: sicknessitself seemed hardly to affect him. During his last fifteen years, hewrote his noblest works; yet, as it has been proved too well, no dayof that period could have passed without its load of pain. [41] Paincould not turn him from his purpose, or shake his equanimity: in deathitself he was _calmer and calmer_. Nor has he gone without hisrecompense. To the credit of the world it can be recorded, that theirsuffrages, which he never courted, were liberally bestowed on him:happier than the mighty Milton, he found 'fit hearers, ' even in hislifetime, and they were not 'few. ' His effect on the mind of his owncountry has been deep and universal, and bids fair to be abiding: hiseffect on other countries must in time be equally decided; for suchnobleness of heart and soul shadowed forth in beautiful imperishableemblems, is a treasure which belongs not to one nation, but to all. Inanother age, this Schiller will stand forth in the foremost rank amongthe master-spirits of his century; and be admitted to a place amongthe chosen of all centuries. His works, the memory of what he did andwas, will rise afar off like a towering landmark in the solitude ofthe Past, when distance shall have dwarfed into invisibility thelesser people that encompassed him, and hid him from the nearbeholder. 

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

On the whole, we may pronounce him happy. His days passed in thecontemplation of ideal grandeurs, he lived among the glories andsolemnities of universal Nature; his thoughts were of sages andheroes, and scenes of elysian beauty. It is true, he had no rest, nopeace; but he enjoyed the fiery consciousness of his own activity, which stands in place of it for men like him. It is true, he was longsickly; but did he not even then conceive and body-forth MaxPiccolomini, and Thekla, and the Maid of Orleans, and the scenes of_Wilhelm Tell_? It is true, he died early; but the student willexclaim with Charles XII. In another case, "Was it not enough of lifewhen he had conquered kingdoms?" These kingdoms which Schillerconquered were not for one nation at the expense of suffering toanother; they were soiled by no patriot's blood, no widow's, noorphan's tear: they are kingdoms conquered from the barren realms ofDarkness, to increase the happiness, and dignity, and power, of allmen; new forms of Truth, new maxims of Wisdom, new images and scenesof Beauty, won from the 'void and formless Infinite;' a κτημα ες αιει, 'a possession forever, ' to all the generations of the Earth. 

 SUPPLEMENT OF 1872. 

 HERR SAUPE'S BOOK. 

 [NOTE IN PEOPLE'S EDITION. ]

In the end of Autumn last a considerately kind old Friend of minebrought home to me, from his Tour in Germany, a small Book by a HerrSaupe, one of the Head-masters of Gera High-School, —Book entitled'Schiller and His Father's Household, '[42]—of which, though it hasbeen before the world these twenty years and more, I had not heardtill then. The good little Book, —an altogether modest, lucid, exactand amiable, though not very lively performance, offering new littlefacts about the Schiller world, or elucidations and once or twice aslight correction of the old, —proved really interesting andinstructive; awoke, in me especially, multifarious reflections, mournfully beautiful old memories;—and led to farther readings inother Books touching on the same subject, particularly in these threementioned below, [43]—the first two of them earlier than Saupe's, thethird later and slightly corrective of him once or twice;—all whichagreeably employed me for some weeks, and continued to be rather apious recreation than any labour. 

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

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

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

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

To this accident of Saupe's little Book there was, meanwhile, addedanother not less unexpected: a message, namely, from BibliopolicHead-quarters that my own poor old Book on Schiller was to bereprinted, and that in this "_People's Edition_" it would want (ondeduction of the German Piece by Goethe, which had gone into the"_Library Edition_, " but which had no fitness here) some sixty orseventy pages for the proper size of the volume. _Saupe_, which I wasstill reading, or idly reading-about, offered the readyexpedient:—and here accordingly _Saupe_ is. I have had him faithfullytranslated, and with some small omissions or abridgments, slighttransposals here and there for clearness' sake, and one or twoelucidative patches, gathered from the three subsidiary Books alreadynamed, all duly distinguished from Saupe's text;—whereby the gap ordeficit of pages is well filled up, almost of its own accord. And thusI can now certify that, in all essential respects, the authentic_Saupe_ is here made accessible to English readers as to German; andhope that to many lovers of Schiller among us, who are likely to belovers also of humbly beautiful Human Worth, and of such anunconsciously noble scene of Poverty made _richer_ than anyCalifornia, as that of the elder Schiller Household here manifests, itmay be a welcome and even profitable bit of reading. 

Chelsea, Nov. 1872. 

T. C. 

 SAUPE'S

 "SCHILLER AND HIS FATHER'S HOUSEHOLD. "

 I. THE FATHER. 

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

'After completing his apprenticeship and proof-time, the pushing younglad, eager to get forward in the world, went, during theAustrian-Succession War, in the year 1745, with a Bavarian HussarRegiment, as "Army-Doctor, " into the Netherlands. Here, as his activemind found no full employment in the practice of his Art, he willinglyundertook, withal, the duties of a sub-officer in small militaryenterprises. On the Peace of Aix-la-Chapelle, 1748, when a part ofthis Regiment was disbanded, and Schiller with them, he returned tohis homeland; and set himself down in Marbach, a pleasant littlecountry town on the Neckar, as practical Surgeon there. Here, in1749, he married the Poet's Mother; then a young girl of sixteen:Elisabetha Dorothea, born at Marbach in the year 1733, the daughter ofa respectable townsman, Georg Friedrich Kodweis, who, to his trade ofBaker adding that of Innkeeper and Woodmeasurer, had gathered a littlefortune, and was at this time counted well-off, though afterwards, bysome great inundation of the Neckar, ' date not given, 'he was againreduced to poverty. The brave man by this unavoidable mischance came, by degrees, so low that he had to give-up his house in theMarket-Place, and in the end to dwell in a poor hut, as Porter at oneof the Toll-Gates of Marbach. Elisabetha was a comely girl to lookupon; slender, well-formed, without quite being tall; the neck long, hair high-blond, almost red, brow broad, eyes as if a little sorish, face covered with freckles; but with all these features enlivened by asoft expression of kindliness and good-nature. 

'This marriage, for the first eight years, was childless; after that, they gradually had six children, two of whom died soon after birth;the Poet Schiller was the second of these six, and the only Boy. Theyoung couple had to live in a very narrow, almost needy condition, asneither of them had any fortune; and the Husband's business couldhardly support a household. There is still in existence a legalMarriage Record and Inventory, such as is usual in these cases, whichestimates the money and money's worth brought together by the youngpeople at a little over 700 gulden (70_l. _). Out of the sameInventory, one sees, by the small value put upon the surgicalinstruments, and the outstanding debts of patients, distinctly enough, that Caspar Schiller's practice, at that point of time, did not muchexceed that of a third-class Surgeon, and was scarcely adequate, asabove stated, to support the thriftiest household. And therefore it isnot surprising that Schiller, intent on improving so bare a position, should, at the breaking-out of the Seven-Years War, have anew sought amilitary appointment, as withal more fit for employing his youngstrength and ambitions. 

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

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

'In Bohemia this Corps was visited by an infectious fever, andsuffered by the almost pestilential disorder a good deal of loss. Inthis bad time, Schiller, who by his temperance and frequent movementin the open air had managed to retain perfect health, showed himselfvery active and helpful; and cheerfully undertook every kind ofbusiness in which he could be of use. He attended the sick, therebeing a scarcity of Doctors; and served at the same time as Chaplainto the Regiment, so far as to lead the Psalmody, and read thePrayers. When, after this, he was changed into another WürtembergRegiment, which served in Hessen and Thüringen, he employed every freehour in filling up, by his own industrious study, the many deeply-feltdefects in his young schooling; and was earnestly studious. By hisperseverant zeal and diligence, he succeeded in the course of thesewar-years in acquiring not only many medical, military andagricultural branches of knowledge, but also, as his Letters prove, inamassing a considerable amount of general culture. Nor did hispraiseworthy efforts remain without recognition and external reward. At the end of the Seven-Years War, he had risen to be a Captain, andhad even saved a little money. 

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

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

'With the Father's return out of War, there came a new element intothe Family, which had so long been deprived of its natural Guardianand Counsellor. To be House-Father in the full sense of the word wasnow all the more Captain Schiller's need and duty, the longer hisWar-service had kept him excluded from the sacred vocation of Husbandand Father. For he was throughout a rational and just man, simple, strong, expert, active for practical life, if also somewhat quick andrough. This announced itself even in the outward make and look of him;for he was of short stout stature and powerful make of limbs; the browhigh-arched, eyes sharp and keen. Withal, his erect carriage, his firmstep, his neat clothing, as well as his clear and decisive mode ofspeech, all testified of strict military training; which also extendeditself over his whole domestic life, and even over the daily devotionsof the Family. For although the shallow Illuminationism of that periodhad produced some influence on his religious convictions, he held fastby the pious principles of his forebears; read regularly to hishousehold out of the Bible; and pronounced aloud, each day, theMorning and Evening Prayer. And this was, in his case, not merely anoutward decorous bit of discipline, but in fact the faithfulexpression of his Christian conviction, that man's true worth and truehappiness can alone be found in the fear of the Lord, and the moralpurity of his heart and conduct. He himself had even, in the manner ofthose days, composed a long Prayer, which he in later years addressedto God every morning, and which began with the following lines:

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

 [Footnote 45:

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

'If, therefore, a certain otherwise accredited Witness calls him akind of crotchety, fantastic person, mostly brooding over strangethoughts and enterprises, this can only have meant that CasparSchiller in earlier years appeared such, namely at the time when, asincipient Surgeon at Marbach, he saw himself forced into a circle ofactivity which corresponded neither to his inclination, strength nornecessities. 

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

'In the year 1765, the reigning Duke, Karl of Würtemberg, sent CaptainSchiller as Recruiting Officer to the Imperial Free-TownSchwäbish-Gmünd; with permission to live with his Family in thenearest Würtemberg place, the Village and Cloister of Lorch. Lorchlies in a green meadow-ground, surrounded by beech-woods, at the footof a hill, which is crowned by the weird buildings of the Cloister, where the Hohenstaufen graves are; opposite the Cloister and Hamlet, rise the venerable ruins of Hohenstaufen itself, with a series ofhills; at the bottom winds the Rems, ' a branch of the Neckar, 'towardsstill fruitfuler regions. In this attractive rural spot the SchillerFamily resided for several years; and found from the pious and kindlypeople of the Hamlet, and especially from a friend of the house, Moser, the worthy Parish-Parson there, the kindliest reception. TheSchiller children soon felt themselves at home and happy in Lorch, especially Fritz did, who, in the Parson's Son, Christoph FerdinandMoser, a soft gentle child, met with his first boy-friend. In thisworthy Parson's house he also received, along with the Parson's ownSons, the first regular and accurate instruction in reading andwriting, as also in the elements of Latin and Greek. This arrangementpleased and comforted Captain Schiller not a little: for the moredistinctly he, with his clear and candid character, recognised theinsufficiency of his own instruction and stock of knowledge, the moreimpressively it lay on him that his Son should early acquire a goodfoundation in Languages and Science, and learn something solid andeffective. What he could himself do in that particular he faithfullydid; bringing out, with this purpose, partly the grand historicalmemorials of that neighbourhood, partly his own life-experiences, ininstructive and exciting dialogues with his children. He would pointout to the listening little pair the venerable remains of theHohenstaufen Ancestral Castle, or tell them of his own soldier-career. He took the Boy with him into the Exercise Camp, to the Woodmen in theForest, and even into the farther-distant pleasure-castle ofHohenheim; and thereby led their youthful imagination into manychangeful imaginings of life. [46]

 [Footnote 46: _Saupe_, p. 11. ]

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

'In rural stillness, and in almost uninterrupted converse without-door nature, flowed by for Fritz and her the greatest part oftheir childhood and youth. Especially dear to them was their abode inthis romantic region. Every hour that was free from teaching or othertask, they employed in roaming about in the neighbourhood; and theyknew no higher joy than a ramble into the neighbouring hills. Inparticular they liked to make pilgrimages together to a chapel on theCalvary Hill at Gmünd, a few miles off, to which the way was stillthrough the old monkish grief-stations, on to the Cloister of Lorchnoticed above. Often they would sit with closely-grasped hands, underthe thousand-years-old Linden, which stood on a projection before theCloister-walls, and seemed to whisper to them long-silent tales ofpast ages. On these walks the hearts of the two clasped each otherever closer and more firmly, and they faithfully shared their littlechildish joys and sorrows. Christophine would bitterly weep when hervivacious Brother had committed some small misdeed and was punishedfor it. In such cases, she often enough confessed Fritz's faults asher own, and was punished when she had in reality had no complicity inthem. It was with great sorrow that they two parted from their littleParadise; and both of them always retained a great affection for Lorchand its neighbourhood. Christophine, who lived to be ninety, ofteneven in her latter days looked back with tender affection to theirabode there. [47]

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

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

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

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

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

 MUCH-LOVED PARENTS. [48]

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

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

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

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

1 January 1769. JOHANN FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. 

 [Footnote 48:

 HERZGELIEBTE ELTERN. 

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

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

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

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

 JOHANN CHRISTOPH FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. 

 _Den 1 Januarii Anno 1769. _]

'According to the pious wish of their Son, this year, 1769, did bringsomewhat which "comforted" them. Captain Schiller, from of old a loverof rural occupations, and skilful in gardening and nursery affairs, had, at Ludwigsburg, laid-out for himself a little Nursery. It wasmanaged on the same principles which he afterwards made public in hisBook, _Die Baumzucht im Grossen_ (Neustrelitz, 1795, and secondedition, Giessen, 1806); and was prospering beautifully. The Duke, whohad noticed this, signified satisfaction in the thing; and heappointed him, in 1770, to shift to his beautiful Forest-Castle, DieSolitüde, near Stuttgart, as overseer of all his Forest operationsthere. Hereby to the active man was one of his dearest wishesfulfilled; and a sphere of activity opened, corresponding to hisacquirements and his inclination. At Solitüde, by the Duke's order, helaid-out a Model Nursery for all Würtemberg, which he managed withperfect care and fidelity; and in this post he so completely satisfiedthe expectations entertained of him, that his Prince by and by raisedhim to the rank of Major. ' He is reckoned to have raised from seeds, and successfully planted, 60, 000 trees, in discharge of thisfunction, which continued for the rest of his life. 

'His Family, which already at Lorch, in 1766, had been increased bythe birth of a Daughter, Luise, waited but a short time in Ludwigsburgtill the Father brought them over to the new dwelling at Solitüde. Fritz, on the removal of his Parents, was given over as boarder to hisactual Teacher, the rigorous pedant Jahn; and remained yet two yearsat the Latin school in Ludwigsburg. During this time, the lively, andperhaps also sometimes mischievous Boy, was kept in the strictestfetters; and, by the continual admonitions, exhortations, and manuallypractical corrections of Father and of Teacher, not a little held downand kept in fear. The fact, for instance, that he liked more thepotent Bible-words and pious songs of a Luther, a Paul Gerhard, andGellert, than he did the frozen lifeless catechism-drill of theLudwigsburg Institute, gave surly strait-laced Jahn occasion to lamentfrom time to time to the alarmed Parents, that "their Son had nofeeling whatever for religion. " In this respect, however, theotherwise so irritable Father easily satisfied himself, not only byhis own observations of an opposite tendency, but chiefly by stricterinvestigation of one little incident that was reported to him. Theteacher of religion in the Latin school, Superintendent Zilling, whosename is yet scornfully remembered, had once, in his dull awkwardness, introduced even Solomon's Song as an element of nurture for his class;and was droning out, in an old-fashioned way, his interpretation of itas symbolical of the Christian Church and its Bridegroom Christ, whenhe was, on the sudden, to his no small surprise and anger, interruptedby the audible inquiry of little Schiller, "But was this Song, then, actually sung to the Church?" Schiller Senior took the little hereticto task for this rash act; and got as justification the innocentquestion, "Has the Church really got teeth of ivory?" The Father wasenlightened enough to take the Boy's opposition for a naturalexpression of sound human sense; nay, he could scarcely forbear alaugh; whirled swiftly round, and murmured to himself, "Occasionallyshe has Wolf's teeth. " And so the thing was finished. [49]

 [Footnote 49: _Saupe_, p. 18. ]

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

 [Footnote 50: Ibid. P. 109. ]

'So soon as Friedrich had gone through the Latin school atLudwigsburg, which was in 1772, he was, according to the standingregulation, to enter one of the four Lower Cloister-schools; and gothrough the farther curriculum for a Würtemberg clergyman. But nowthere came suddenly from the Duke to Captain Schiller an offer to takehis Son, who had been represented to him as a clever boy, into the newMilitary Training-School, founded by his Highness at Solitüde, in1771; where he would be brought up, and taken charge of, free of cost. 

'In the Schiller Family this offer caused great consternation andpainful embarrassment. The Father was grieved to be obliged tosacrifice a long-cherished paternal plan to the whim of an arbitraryruler; and the Son felt himself cruelly hurt to be torn away so rudelyfrom his hope and inclination. Accordingly, how dangerous soever forthe position of the Family a declining of the Ducal grace might seem, the straightforward Father ventured nevertheless to lay open to theDuke, in a clear and distinct statement, how his purpose had alwaysbeen to devote his Son, in respect both of his inclination and hishitherto studies, to the Clerical Profession; for which in the newTraining-School he could not be prepared. The Duke showed no anger atthis step of the elder Schiller's; but was just as little of intentionto let a capable and hopeful scholar, who was also the Son of one ofhis Officers and Dependents, escape him. He simply, with brevity, repeated his wish, and required the choice of another study, in whichthe Boy would have a better career and outlook than in the TheologicalDepartment. Nill they, will they, there was nothing for the Parentsbut compliance with the so plainly intimated will of this Duke, onwhom their Family's welfare so much depended. 

'Accordingly, 17th January 1773, Friedrich Schiller, then in hisfourteenth year, stept over to the Military Training-School atSolitüde. 

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

'From the time when Schiller entered this "Karl's School"' (MilitaryAcademy, in official style), 'he was nearly altogether withdrawn fromany tutelage of his Father; for it was only to Mothers, and to Sistersstill under age, that the privilege of visiting their Sons andBrothers, and this on the Sunday only, was granted: beyond this, theKarl's Scholars, within their monastic cells, were cut off from familyand the world, by iron-doors and sentries guarding them. This rigorousseclusion from actual life and all its friendly impressions, stillmore the spiritual constraint of the Institution, excluding every freeactivity, and all will of your own, appeared to the Son in a morehateful light than to the Father, who, himself an old soldier, foundit quite according to order that the young people should be kept instrict military discipline and subordination. What filled the Son withbitter discontent and indignation, and at length brought him to a kindof poetic outburst of revolution in the _Robbers_, therein the Fathersaw only a wholesome regularity, and indispensable substitute forpaternal discipline. Transient complaints of individual teachers andsuperiors little disturbed the Father's mind; for, on the whole, theofficial testimonies concerning his Son were steadily favourable. TheDuke too treated young Schiller, whose talents had not escaped hissharpness of insight, with particular goodwill, nay distinction. Tothis Prince, used to the accurate discernment of spiritual gifts, thecomplaints of certain Teachers, that Schiller's slow progress inJurisprudence proceeded from want of head, were of no weight whatever;and he answered expressly, "Leave me that one alone; he will come tosomething yet!" But that Schiller gave his main strength to what inthe Karl's School was a strictly forbidden object, to poetry namely, this I believe was entirely hidden from his Father, or appeared tohim, on occasional small indications, the less questionable, as he sawthat, in spite of this, the Marketable-Sciences were not neglected. 

'At the same age, viz. About twenty-two, at which Captain Schiller hadmade his first military sally into the Netherlands and theAustrian-Succession War, his Son issued from the Karl's School, 15thDecember 1780; and was immediately appointed Regimental-Doctor atStuttgart; with a monthly pay of twenty-three gulden' (_2l. 6s. =11s. _and a fraction per week). 'With this appointment, Schiller had, as itwere, openly altogether outgrown all special paternal guardianship orguidance; and was, from this time, treated by his Father as come tomajority, and standing on his own feet. If he came out, as frequentlyhappened, with a comrade to Solitüde, he was heartily welcome there, and the Father's looks often dwelt on him with visible satisfaction. If in the conscientious and rigorous old man, with his instructive andserious experiences of life, there might yet various anxieties anddoubts arise when he heard of the exuberantly genial ways of hishopeful Son at Stuttgart, he still looked upon him with joyful pride, in remarking how those so promising Karl's Scholars, who had enteredinto the world along with him, recognised his superiority of mind, andwillingly ranked themselves under him. Nor could it be otherwise thanhighly gratifying to his old heart to remark always with what deeplove the gifted Son constantly regarded his Parents andSisters. '[51]—Of Schiller's first procedures in Stuttgart, after hisemancipation from the Karl's School, and appointment asRegimental-Surgeon, or rather of his general behaviour and way of lifethere, which are said to have been somewhat wild, genially, or even_un_genially extravagant, and to have involved him in many paltryentanglements of debts, as one bad consequence, —there will be somenotice in the next Section, headed "_The Mother_. " His RegimentalDoctorship, and stay in Stuttgart altogether, lasted twenty-twomonths. 

 [Footnote 51: _Saupe_, p. 25. ]

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

'Crushed into the stiff tasteless Old-Prussian Uniform; on each ofhis temples three stiff rolls as if done with gypsum; the tinythree-cocked hat scarcely covering his crown; so much the thicker thelong pigtail, with the slender neck crammed into a very narrowhorsehair stock; the felt put under the white spatterdashes, smirchedby traces of shoe-blacking, giving to the legs a bigger diameter thanthe thighs, squeezed into their tight-fitting breeches, could boastof. Hardly, or not at all, able to bend his knees, the whole man movedlike a stork. '

'The Poet's form, ' says this Witness elsewhere, a bit of a dilettanteartist it seems, 'had somewhat the following appearance: Long straightstature; long in the legs, long in the arms; pigeon-breasted; his neckvery long; something rigorously stiff; in gait and carriage not thesmallest elegance. His brow was broad; the nose thin, cartilaginous, white of colour, springing out at a notably sharp angle, much bent, —aparrot-nose, and very sharp in the point (according to Dannecker theSculptor, Schiller, who took snuff, had pulled it out so with hishand). The red eyebrows, over the deep-lying dark-gray eyes, were benttoo close together at the nose, which gave him a pathetic expression. The lips were thin, energetic; the under-lip protruding, as if pushedforward by the inspiration of his feelings; the chin strong; cheekspale, rather hollow than full, freckly; the eyelids a little inflamed;the bushy hair of the head dark red; the whole head rather ghostlikethan manlike, but impressive even in repose, and all expression whenSchiller declaimed. Neither the features nor the somewhat shriekyvoice could he subdue. Dannecker, ' adds the satirical Witness, 'hasunsurpassably cut this head in marble for us. '[52]

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

'The publication of the _Robbers_' (Autumn 1781), —'which Schiller, driven on by rage and desperation, had composed in the fetters of theKarl's School, —raised him on the sudden to a phenomenon on which alleyes in Stuttgart were turned. What, with careless exaggeration, hehad said to a friend some months before, on setting forth his _Elegyon the Death of a Young Man_, "The thing has made my name hereaboutsmore famous than twenty years of practice would have done; but it is aname like that of him who burnt the Temple of Ephesus: God be mercifulto me a sinner!" might now with all seriousness be said of theimpression his _Robbers_ made on the harmless townsfolk of Stuttgart. But how did Father Schiller at first take up this eccentric product ofhis Son, which openly declared war on all existing order? Astonishmentand terror, anger and detestation, boundless anxiety, with touches ofadmiration and pride, stormed alternately through the solid honestman's paternal breast, as he saw the frank picture of a Prodigal Sonrolled out before him; and had to gaze into the most revolting deepsof the passions and vices. Yet he felt himself irresistibly draggedalong by the uncommon vivacity of action in this wild Drama; and atthe same time powerfully attracted by the depth, the tenderness andfulness of true feeling manifested in it: so that, at last, out ofthose contradictory emotions of his, a clear admiration and pride forhis Son's bold and rich spirit maintained the upper hand. BySchiller's friends and closer connections, especially by his Motherand Sisters, all pains were of course taken to keep up this favourablehumour in the Father, and carefully to hide from him alldisadvantageous or disquieting tidings about the Piece and itsconsequences and practical effects. Thus he heard sufficiently of thehuge excitement and noise which the _Robbers_ was making all overGermany, and of the seductive approval which came streaming-in on theyouthful Poet, even out of distant provinces; but heard nothing eitherof the Duke's offended and angry feelings over the _Robbers_, aproduction horrible to him; nor of the Son's secret journeys toMannheim, and the next consequences of these' (his brief arrest, namely), 'nor of the rumour circulating in spiteful quarters, thatthis young Doctor was neglecting his own province of medicine, andmeaning to become a play-actor. How could the old man, in thesecircumstances, have a thought that the _Robbers_ would be the loss ofFamily and Country to his poor Fritz! And yet so it proved. 

'Excited by all kinds of messagings, informings and insinuations, theimperious Prince, in spite of his secret pleasure in this suddenrenown of his Pupil, could in no wise be persuaded to revoke or softenhis harsh Order, which "forbade the Poet henceforth, under pain ofmilitary imprisonment, either to write anything poetic or tocommunicate the same to foreign persons"' (non-Würtembergers). In vainwere all attempts of Schiller to obtain his discharge from MilitaryService and his "_Entschwäbung_" (Un-_Swabian_-ing); such petitionshad only for result new sharper rebukes and hard threateningexpressions, to which the mournful fate of Schubart in the Castle ofHohenasperg[53] formed a too questionable background. 

 [Footnote 53: See Appendix ii. _infrà_. ]

'Thus by degrees there ripened in the strong soul of this young manthe determination to burst these laming fetters of his genius, byflight from despotic Würtemberg altogether; and, in some friendliercountry, gain for himself the freedom without which his spiritualdevelopment was impossible. Only to one friend, who clung to him withalmost enthusiastic devotion, did he impart his secret. This wasJohann Andreas Streicher of Stuttgart, who intended to go next year toHamburg, and there, under Bach's guidance, study music; but declaredhimself ready to accompany Schiller even now, since it had becomeurgent. Except to this trustworthy friend, Schiller had imparted hisplan to his elder Sister Christophine alone; and she had not onlyapproved of the sad measure, but had undertaken also to prepare theirMother for it. The Father naturally had to be kept dark on thesubject; all the more that, if need were, he might pledge his word asan Officer that he had known nothing of his Son's intention. 

'Schiller went out, in company of Madam Meier, Wife of the _Regisseur_(Theatre-manager) at Mannheim, a native of Stuttgart, and of thisStreicher, one last time to Solitüde, to have one more look of it andof his dear ones there; especially to soothe and calm his Mother. Onthe way, which they travelled on foot, Schiller kept up a continualdiscourse about the Mannheim Theatre and its interests, withoutbetraying his secret to Madam Meier. The Father received these welcomeguests with frank joy; and gave to the conversation, which at firsthung rather embarrassed, a happy turn by getting into talk, withcheery circumstantiality, of the grand Pleasure-Hunt, of the Play andof the Illumination, which were to take place, in honour of theRussian Grand-Prince, afterwards Czar Paul, and his Bride, the Duke ofWürtemberg's Niece, on the 17th September instant, at Solitüde. Farother was the poor Mother's mood; she was on the edge of betrayingherself, in seeing the sad eyes of her Son; and she could not speakfor emotion. The presence of Streicher and a Stranger with whom theelder Schiller was carrying on a, to him, attractive conversation, permitted Mother and Son to withdraw speedily and unremarked. Not tillafter an hour did Schiller reappear, alone now, to the company;neither this circumstance, nor Schiller's expression of face, yetstriking the preoccupied Father. Though to the observant Streicher, his wet red eyes betrayed how painful the parting must have been. Gradually on the way back to Stuttgart, amid general talk of thethree, Schiller regained some composure and cheerfulness. 

'The bitter sorrow of this hour of parting renewed itself yet once inSchiller's soul, when on the flight itself, about midnight of the17th. In effect it was these same festivities that had decided theyoung men's time and scheme of journey; and under the sheltering noiseof which their plan was luckily executed. Towards midnight of theabove-said day, when the Castle of Solitüde, with all itssurroundings, was beaming in full splendour of illumination, thererolled past, almost rubbing elbows with it, the humble SchillerVehicle from Stuttgart, which bore the fugitive Poet with his trueFriend on their way. Schiller pointed out to his Friend the spot wherehis Parents lived, and, with a half-suppressed sigh and a woe-begoneexclamation, "Oh, my Mother!" sank back upon his seat. '

Mannheim, the goal of their flight, is in Baden-Baden, under anotherSovereign; lies about 80 miles to N. W. Of Stuttgart. Their drearyjourney lasted two days, —arrival not till deep in the night of thesecond. Their united stock of money amounted to 51 gulden, —Schiller23, Streicher 28, —5_l. _ 6_s. _ in all. Streicher subsequently squeezedout from home 3_l. _ more; and that appears to have been theirsum-total. [54]

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

'Great was the astonishment and great the wrath of the Father, when atlength he understood that his Son had broken the paternal, writtenBond, and withdrawn himself by flight from the Ducal Service. Hedreaded, not without reason, the heavy consequences of so rash anaction; and a thousand gnawing anxieties bestormed the heart of theworthy man. Might not the Duke, in the first outburst of hisindignation, overwhelm forever the happiness of their Family, whichthere was nothing but the income of his post that supported in humblecompetence? And what a lot stood before the Son himself, if he werecaught in flight, or if, what was nowise improbable, his delivery backwas required and obtained? Sure enough, there had risen on theotherwise serene heaven of the Schiller Family a threateningthundercloud; which, any day, might discharge itself, bringingdestruction on their heads. 

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

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

What became of this good Streicher afterwards, I have inquiredconsiderably, but with very little success. On the total exhaustion oftheir finance, Schiller and he had to part company, —Schiller forrefuge at Bauerbach, as will soon be seen. Streicher continued aboutMannheim, not as Schiller's fellow-lodger any longer, but always athis hand, passionately eager to serve him with all his faculties bynight or by day; and they did not part finally till Schiller quittedMannheim, two years hence, for Leipzig. After which they never metagain. Streicher, in Mannheim, seems to have subsisted by his musicaltalent; and to have had some connection with the theatre in thatcapacity. In similar dim positions, with what shiftings, adventuresand vicissitudes is quite unknown to me, he long survived Schiller, and, at least fifty years after these Mannheim struggles, wrote someBook of bright and loving Reminiscences concerning him, the exact_title_ of which I can nowhere find, —though passages from it arecopied by Biographer Schwab here and there. His affection for Schilleris of the nature of worship rather, of constant adoration; andprobably formed the sunshine to poor Streicher's life. Schillernowhere mentions him in his writings or correspondences, after thatfinal parting at Mannheim, 1784. 

'The necessities of the two Friends reached by and by such a heightthat Schiller had to sell his Watch, although they had already forseveral weeks been subsisting on loans. To all which now cameDalberg's overwhelming message, that even this Remodelling of _Fiesco_could not be serviceable; and of course could not have money paid forit. Schiller thereupon, at once resolute what to do, walked off to theworthy Bookseller Schwann, ' with whom he was already on a trustful, even grateful footing; 'and sold him his MS. At one louis-d'or thesheet. At the same time, too, he recognised the necessity of quittingMannheim, and finding a new asylum in Saxony; seeing, withal, hisfarther continuance here might be as dangerous for him as it was amatter of apprehension to his Friends. For although the Duke ofWürtemberg undertook nothing that was hostile to him, and his Familyat Solitüde experienced no annoyance, yet the impetuous Prince might, any day, take it into his head to have him put in prison. In the everlivelier desire after a securely-hidden place of abode, where he mightexecute in peace his poetic plans and enterprises, Schiller suddenlytook up an earlier purpose, which had been laid aside. 

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

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

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

From Mannheim, Bauerbach or Meiningen lies about 120 miles N. E. ; andfrom Stuttgart almost as far straight North. Bretten, 'a little townon a hill, celebrated as Melancthon's Birthplace, his Father's housestill standing there, ' is some 35 miles S. E. Of Mannheim, and as farN. W. From Stuttgart. From Mannheim, in this wise, it is not at all onthe road to Meiningen, though only a few miles more remote in directdistance. Schiller's purpose had been, after this affectionateinterview, to turn at once leftward and make for Meiningen, by whatroad or roads there were from Bretten thither. Schiller's poor guinea(Karolin) was not needed on this occasion; the rendezvous at Brettenbeing found impossible or inexpedient at the Stuttgart end of it. OurAuthor continues:

'Although this meeting, on which the loving Son and Brother wished tospend his last penny, did not take effect; yet this mournful longingof his, evident from the Letter, and from the purpose itself, musthave touched the Father's heart with somewhat of a reconciliatoryfeeling. Schiller Senior writes accordingly, 8 December 1782, the veryday after his Son's arrival at Bauerbach, to Bookseller Schwan inMannheim: "I have not noticed here the smallest symptom that his DucalDurchlaucht has any thought of having my Son searched for andprosecuted; and indeed his post here has long since been filled up; acircumstance which visibly indicates that they can do without him. "This Letter to Schwan concludes in the following words, which arecharacteristic: "He (my Son) has, by his untimely withdrawal, againstthe advice of his true friends, plunged himself into this difficultposition; and it will profit him in soul and body that he feel thepain of it, and thereby become wiser for the future. I am not afraid, however, that want of actual necessaries should come upon him, for insuch case I should feel myself obliged to lend a hand. "

'And in effect Schiller, during his abode in Bauerbach, did once ortwice receive little subventions of money from his Father, althoughnever without earnest and not superfluous admonition to become morefrugal, and take better heed in laying-out his money. For economicswere, by Schiller's own confession, "not at all his talent; it costhim less, " he says, "to execute a whole conspiracy and tragedy-plotthan to adjust his scheme of housekeeping. "—At this time it was neverthe Father himself who wrote to Schiller, but always Christophine, byhis commission; and on the other hand, Schiller too never riskedwriting directly to his Father, as he felt but too well how little onhis part had been done to justify the flight in his Father's eyes. Hewrites accordingly, likewise on that 8th December 1782, to hisPublisher Schwan: "If you can accelerate the printing of my _Fiesco_, you will very much oblige me by doing so. You know that nothing butthe prohibition to become an Author drove me out of the Würtembergservice. If I now, on this side, don't soon let my native country hearof me, they will say the step I took was useless and without realmotive. "

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

'In September 1783, his bargainings with Dalberg had come to thisresult, That for a fixed salary of 500 gulden, ' 50_l. _ a year, 'he wasappointed Theatre-Poet here. By this means, to use his own words, theway was open to him gradually to pay-off a considerable portion of hisdebts, and so escape from the drowning whirlpool, and remain an honestman. Now, furthermore, he thought it permissible to show himself tohis Family with a certain composure of attitude; and openedstraightway a regular correspondence with his Parents again. AndCaptain Schiller volunteers a stiff-starched but true and earnestLetter to the Baron Dalberg himself; most humbly thanking thatgracious nobleman for such beneficent favour shown my poor Son; andbegs withal the far stranger favour that Dalberg would have theextreme goodness to appoint the then inexperienced young man some truefriend who might help him to arrange his housekeeping, and in moralthings might be his Mentor!

'Soon after this, an intermittent fever threw the Poet on a sick-bed;and lamed him above five weeks from all capacity of mental labour. Noteven in June of the following year was the disease quite overcome. Visits, acquaintanceships, all kinds of amusements, and more thananything else, over-hasty attempts at work, delayed his cure;—so thathis Father had a perfect right to bring before him his, Schiller's, own blame in the matter: "That thou"' (_Er_, He; the then usual tonetowards servants and children) '"for eight whole months hast welteredabout with intermittent fever, surely that does little honour to thystudy of medicine; and thou wouldst, with great justice, have pouredthe bitterest reproaches on any Patient who, in a case like thine, hadnot held himself to the diet and regimen that were prescribed tohim!"—

'In Autumn 1783, there seized Schiller so irresistible a longing tosee his kindred again, that he repeatedly expressed to his Father thegreat wish he had for a meeting, either at Mannheim or some otherplace outside the Würtemberg borders. To the fulfilment of this schemethere were, however, in the sickness which his Mother had fallen into, in the fettered position of the Father, and in the rigorously frugaleconomies of the Family, insuperable obstacles. Whereupon his Fathermade him the proposal, that he, Friedrich, either himself or by him, the Captain, should apply to the Duke Karl's Serene Highness; andpetition him for permission to return to his country and kindred. AsSchiller to this answered nothing, Christophine time after timepressingly repeated to him the Father's proposal. At the risk of againangering his Father, Schiller gave, in his answer to Christophine, of1st January 1784, the decisive declaration that his honour wouldfrightfully suffer if he, without connection with any other Prince, without character and lasting means of support, after his forcefulwithdrawal from Würtemberg, should again show face there. "That myFather, " adds he, as ground of this refusal, "give his name to such apetition can help me little; for every one will at once, so long as Icannot make it plain that I no longer need the Duke of Würtemberg, suspect in a return, obtained on petition (by myself or by another isall one), a desire to get settled in Würtemberg again. Sister, consider with serious attention these circumstances; for the happinessof thy Brother may, by rash haste in this matter, suffer an incurablewound. Great part of Germany knows of my relations to your Duke and ofthe way I left him. People have interested themselves for me at theexpense of this Duke; how horribly would the respect of the public(and on this depends my whole future fortune), how miserably would myown honour sink by the suspicion that I had sought this return; thatmy circumstances had forced me to repent my former step; that thesupport which I had sought in the wide world had misgone, and I wasseeking it anew in my Birthland! The open manlike boldness, which Ishowed in my forceful withdrawal, would get the name of a childishoutburst of mutiny, a stupid bit of impotent bluster, if I do not makeit good. Love for my dear ones, longing for my Fatherland mightperhaps excuse me in the heart of this or the other candid man; butthe world makes no account of all that. 

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

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

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

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

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

'Amid these old tormenting hindrances, affronts and embarrassments, Schiller had also many joyful experiences, to which even his Fatherwas not wholly indifferent. To these belong, besides many others, hisreception into the _Kurpfälzische Deutsche Gesellschaft_', GermanSociety of the Electoral Palatinate, 'of this year; which he himselfcalls a great step for his establishment; as well as the stormyapplause with which his third Piece, _Kabale und Liebe_, came upon theboards, in March following. His Father acknowledged receipt of thislatter Work with the words, "That I possess a copy of thy new TragedyI tell nobody; for I dare not, on account of certain passages, let anyone notice that it has pleased me. " Nevertheless the Piece, as alreadythe _Robbers_ had done, came in Stuttgart also to the acting point;and was received with loud approval. Schiller now, with new pleasureand inspiration, laid hands on his _Don Carlos_; and with the happyprogress of this Work, there began for him a more confident temper ofmind, and a clearing-up of horizon and outlook; which henceforth onlytransiently yielded to embarrassments in his outer life. 

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

"Very unwilling, " writes he, "am I to proceed to the answering of thylast Letter, 21st November of the past year; which I could rather wishnever to have read than now to taste again the bitterness containedthere. Not enough that thou, in the beginning of the said Letter, veryundeservedly reproachest me, as if I could and should have raised the300 gulden for thee, —thou continuest to blame me, in a very painfulway, for my inquiries about thee on this occasion. Dear Son, therelation between a good Father and his Son fallen into such a strait, who, although gifted with many faculties of mind, is still, in allthat belongs to true greatness and contentment, much mistaken andastray, can never justify the Son in taking up as an injury what theFather has said out of love, out of consideration and experience ofhis own, and meant only for his Son's good. As to what concerns those300 gulden, every one, alas, who knows my position here, knows that itcannot be possible for me to have even 50 gulden, not to speak of 300, before me in store; and that I should borrow such a sum, to the stillfarther disadvantage of my other children, for a Son, who of the muchthat he has promised me has been able to perform so little, —there, for certain, were I an unjust Father. " Farther on, the old man takeshim up on another side, a private family affair. Schiller had, directly and through others, in reference to the prospect of amarriage between his elder Sister Christophine and his friend Reinwaldthe Court Librarian of Meiningen, expressed himself in a doubtingmanner, and thereby delayed the settlement of this affair. In regardto which his Father tells him:

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

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

'After these incidents, Schiller bent his whole strength to disengagehimself from the crushing burden of his debts, and to attain the goalmarked out for him by his Parents' wishes, —an enduring settlement andsteady way of life. Two things essentially contributed to enliven hisactivity, and brighten his prospects into the future. One was, theoriginal beginning, which falls in next June 1784, of his friendlyintimacy with the excellent Körner; in whom he was to find not onlythe first founder of his outer fortune in life, but also a kindredspirit, and cordial friend such as he had never before had. The secondwas, that he made, what shaped his future lot, acquaintance with DukeKarl August of Weimar; who, after hearing him read the first act of_Don Carlos_ at the Court of Darmstadt, had a long conversation withthe Poet, and officially, in consequence of the same, bestowed on himthe title of Rath. This new relation to a noble German Prince gave hima certain standing-ground for the future; and at the same timeimproved his present condition, by completely securing him in respectof any risk from Würtemberg. The now Schiller, as Court-Counsellor(_Hofrath_) to the Duke of Weimar; distinguished in this way by aPrince, who was acquainted with the Muses, and accustomed only to whatwas excellent, —stept forth in much freer attitude, secure of hisposition and himself, than the poor fugitive under ban of law haddone. 

'Out of this, however, and the fact resulting from it, that he nowassumed a more decisive form of speech in the Periodical "_Thalia_"founded by him, and therein spared the players as little as thepublic, there grew for him so many and such irritating brabbles andannoyances that he determined to quit his connection with the Theatre, leave Mannheim altogether; and, at Leipzig with his new title of Rath, to begin a new honourable career. So soon as the necessary moneys andadvices from his friend' (Körner) had arrived, he repaired thither, end of March 1785; and remained there all the summer. In October ofthe same year, he followed his friend Körner to Dresden; and found inthe family of this just-minded, clear-seeing man the purest andwarmest sympathy for himself and his fortunes. The year 1787 led himat last to Weimar. But here too he had still long to struggle, underthe pressure of poverty and want of many things, while the world, inever-increasing admiration, was resounding with his name, till, in1789, his longing for a civic existence, and therewith the intensestwish of his Parents, was fulfilled. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 "FRIEDRICH. "

'In the beginning of this year (1791) the Poet had been seized with aviolent and dangerous affection of the chest. The immediate danger wasnow over; but his bodily health was, for the rest of his life, shattered to ruin, and required, for the time coming, especially forthe time just come, all manner of soft treatment and repose. Theworst, therefore, was to be feared if his friends and he could notmanage to place him, for the next few years, in a position freer fromeconomic cares than now. Unexpectedly, in this difficulty, helpappeared out of Denmark. Two warm admirers of Schiller's genius, thethen hereditary Prince of Holstein-Augustenburg' (Grandfather of thePrince Christian now, 1872, conspicuous in our English Court), 'andCount von Schimmelmann, offered the Poet a pension of 1, 000 thalers'(150_l. _) 'for three years; and this with a fineness and delicacy ofmanner, which touched the recipient more even than the offer itselfdid, and moved him to immediate assent. The Pension was to remain asecret; but how could Schiller prevail on himself to be silent of itto his Parents? With tears of thankfulness the Parents received thisglad message; in their pious minds they gathered out of this thebeneficent conviction that their Son's heavy sorrows, and the dangerin which his life hung, had only been decreed by Providence to set inits right light the love and veneration which he far and near enjoyed. Schiller himself this altogether unexpected proof of tenderestsympathy in his fate visibly cheered, and strengthened even inhealth; at lowest, the strength of his spirit, which now felt itselffree from outward embarrassments, subdued under it the weakness of hisbody. 

'In the middle of the year 1793, the love of his native country, andthe longing after his kindred, became so lively in him that hedetermined, with his Wife, to visit Swabia. He writes to Körner: "TheSwabian, whom I thought I had altogether got done with, stirs himselfstrongly in me; but indeed I have been eleven years parted fromSwabia; and Thüringen is not the country in which I can forget it. " InAugust he set out, and halted first in the then _Reichstadt_'(Imperial Free-town) 'Heilbronn, where he found the friendliestreception; and enjoyed the first indescribable emotion in seeing againhis Parents, Sisters and early friends. "My dear ones, " writes he toKörner, 27th August, from Heilbronn, "I found well to do, and, as thoucanst suppose, greatly rejoiced to meet me again. My Father, in hisseventieth year, is the image of a healthy old age; and any one whodid not know his years would not count them above sixty. He is incontinual activity, and this it is which keeps him healthy andyouthful. " In large draughts the robust old man enjoyed the pleasure, long forborne, of gazing into the eyes of his Son, who now stoodbefore him a completed man. He knew not whether more to admire thanlove him; for, in his whole appearance, and all his speeches anddoings, there stamped itself a powerful lofty spirit, a tender lovingheart, and a pure noble character. His youthful fire was softened, amild seriousness and a friendly dignity did not leave him even injest; instead of his old neglect in dress, there had come a dignifiedelegance; and his lean figure and his pale face completed theinterest of his look. To this was yet added the almost wonderful giftof conversation upon the objects that were dear to him, whenever hewas not borne down by attacks of illness. 

'From Heilbronn, soon after his arrival, Schiller wrote to Duke Karl, in the style of a grateful former Pupil, whom contradictorycircumstances had pushed away from his native country. He got noanswer from the Duke; but from Stuttgart friends he did get suretidings that the Duke, on receipt of this Letter, had publicly said, if Schiller came into Würtemberg Territory, he, the Duke, would takeno notice. To Schiller Senior, too, he had at the same time grantedthe humble petition that he might have leave to visit his Son inHeilbronn now and then. 

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

'The Duke, ill of gout, and perhaps feeling that death was nigh, seemed to make a point of strictly ignoring Schiller; and laid notthe least hindrance in his way. On the contrary, he granted SchillerSenior, on petition, the permission to make use of a certain Bath aslong as he liked; and this Bath lay so near Ludwigsburg that he couldnot but think the meaning merely was, that the Father wished to benearer his Son. Absence was at once granted by the Duke, useful andnecessary as the elder Schiller always was to him at home. For the oldman, now Major Schiller, still carried on his overseeing of the DucalGardens and Nurseries at Solitüde, and his punctual diligence, fidelity, intelligence and other excellences in that function had longbeen recognised. 

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

 [Footnote 55: _Saupe_, p. 60. ]

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

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

'In this daily relation with her delicate and loving Brother, to whomLuise looked up with a sort of timid adoration, he became ever dearerto her; with a silent delight, she would often look into the softeyes of the great and wonderful man; from whose powerful spirit shestood so distant, and to whose rich heart so near. All-too rapidly forher flew-by the bright days of his abode in his homeland, and long shelooked after the vanished one with sad longing; and Schiller also felthimself drawn closer to his Sister than before; by whose silentfaithful working his abode in Swabia had been made so smooth andagreeable. '

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

'She evinced the finest faculties of mind, and an uncommon receptivityand docility, and soon became to all that got acquainted with her adear and precious object. To declaim passages from her Brother's Poemswas her greatest joy; she did her recitation well; and her Swabianaccent and naïvety of manner gave her an additional charm for her newrelatives, and even exercised a beneficent influence on the Poet's ownfeelings. With hearty pleasure his beaming eyes rested often on thedear Swabian girl, who understood how to awaken in his heart the sweettones of childhood and home. "She is good, " writes he of her to hisfriend Körner, "and it seems as if something could be made of her. Sheis yet much the child of nature, and that is still the best she couldbe, never having been able to acquire any reasonable culture. " WithSchiller's abode in Swabia, from August 1793 till May 1794, Nanettegrew still closer to his heart, and in his enlivening and inspiringneighbourhood her spirit and character shot out so many rich blossoms, that Schiller on quitting his Father's house felt justified in thefairest hopes for the future. ' Just before her visit to Jena, SchillerSenior writes to his Son: "It is a great pity for Nanette that Icannot give her a better education. She has sense and talent and thebest of hearts; much too of my dear Fritz's turn of mind, as he willhimself see, and be able to judge. "[57]

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

'For the rest, on what childlike confidential terms Schiller livedwith his Parents at this time, one may see by the following Letter, of8th November 1793, from Ludwigsburg:

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

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

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

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

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

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

'In the new-year time 1794, Schiller spent several agreeable weeks inStuttgart; whither he had gone primarily on account of some familymatter which had required settling there. At least he informs hisfriend Körner, on the 17th March, from Stuttgart, "I hope to be notquite useless to my Father here, though, from the connections in whichI stand, I can expect nothing for myself. "

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

'Major Schiller, whom the joy to see his Son and Grandson seemed tohave made young again, lived with fresh pleasure in his idylliccalling; and in free hours busied himself with writing down histwenty-years experiences in the domain of garden- and tree-culture, —ina Work, the printing and publication of which were got managed for himby his renowned Son. In November 1794 he was informed that the youngPublisher of the first _Musen-Almanach_ had accepted his MS. For anhonorarium of twenty-four Karolins; and that the same was already goneto press. Along with this, the good old Major was valued by hisPrince, and by all who knew him. His subordinates loved him as a justimpartial man; feared him, too, however, in his stringent love oforder. Wife and children showed him the most reverent regard andtender love; but the Son was the ornament of his old age. He lived tosee the full renown of the Poet, and his close connection with Goethe, through which he was to attain complete mastership and lastingcomposure. With hands quivering for joy the old man grasped the MSS. Of his dear Son; which from Jena, _viâ_ Cotta's Stuttgart Warehouses, were before all things transmitted to him. In a paper from his hand, which is still in existence, there is found a touching expression ofthanks, That God had given him such a joy in his Son. "And Thou Beingof all beings, " says he in the same, "to Thee did I pray, at the birthof my one Son, that Thou wouldst supply to him in strength ofintellect and faculty what I, from want of learning, could notfurnish; and Thou hast heard me. Thanks to Thee, most merciful Being, that Thou hast heard the prayer of a mortal!"

'Schiller had left his loved ones at Solitüde whole and well; and withthe firm hope that he would see them all again. And the next-followingyears did pass untroubled over the prosperous Family. But "ill-luck, "as the proverb says, "comes with a long stride. " In the Spring of1796, when the French, under Jourdan and Moreau, had overrun SouthGermany, there reached Schiller, on a sudden, alarming tidings fromSolitüde. In the Austrian chief Hospital, which had been establishedin the Castle there, an epidemic fever had broken out; and had visitedthe Schiller Family among others. The youngest Daughter Nanette hadsunk under this pestilence, in the flower of her years; and whilst thesecond Daughter Luise lay like to die of the same, the Father also waslaid bedrid with gout. For fear of infection, nobody except theDoctors would risk himself at Solitüde; and so the poor weakly Motherstood forsaken there, and had, for months long, to bear alone thewhole burden of the household distress. Schiller felt it painfullythat he was unable to help his loved ones, in so terrible a posture ofaffairs; and it cost him great effort to hide these feelings from hisfriends. In his pain and anxiety, he turned himself at last to hiseldest Sister Christophine, Wife of Hofrath Reinwald in Meiningen; andpersuaded her to go to Solitüde to comfort and support her peoplethere. Had not the true Sister-heart at once acceded to her Brother'swishes, he had himself taken the firm determination to go in person toSwabia, in the middle of May, and bring his Family away fromSolitüde, and make arrangements for their nursing and accommodation. The news of his Sister's setting-out relieved him of a great andcontinual anxiety. "Heaven bless thee, " writes he to her on the 6thMay, "for this proof of thy filial love. " He earnestly entreats her toprevent his dear Parents from delaying, out of thrift, any wholesomemeans of improvement to their health; and declares himself ready, withjoy, to bear all costs, those of travelling included: she is to drawon Cotta in Tübingen for whatever money she needs. Her Husband also hethanks, in a cordial Letter, for his consent to this journey of hisWife. 

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

'Within few weeks after, 7th September 1796, the Father died; in hisseventy-third year, after a sick-bed of eight months. Though hisdeparture could not be reckoned other than a blessing, yet the goodSon was deeply shattered by the news of it. What his filially faithfulsoul suffered, in these painful days, is touchingly imaged in twoLetters, which may here make a fitting close to this Life-sketch ofSchiller's Father. It was twelve days after his Father's death when hewrote to his Brother-in-law, Reinwald, in Meiningen:

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

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

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

 "Fare right well, dear Brother. —Thine, SCHILLER. "

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

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

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

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

This earnest and manful lamentation, which contains also a justrecognition of the object lamented, may serve to prove, think Saupeand others, what is very evident, that Caspar Schiller, with hisstiff, military regulations, spirit of discipline and rugged, angularways, was, after all, the proper Father for a wide-flowing, sensitive, enthusiastic, somewhat lawless Friedrich Schiller; and didbeneficently compress him into something of the shape necessary forhis task in this world. 

 II. THE MOTHER. 

Of Schiller's Mother, Elisabetha Dorothea Kodweis, born at Marbach1733, the preliminary particulars have been given above: That she wasthe daughter of an Innkeeper, Woodmeasurer and Baker; prosperous inthe place when Schiller Senior first arrived there. We should haveadded, what Saupe omits, that the young Surgeon boarded in theirhouse; and that by the term Woodmeasurer (_Holzmesser_, Measurer ofWood) is signified an Official Person appointed not only to measureand divide into portions the wood supplied as fuel from the Ducal orRoyal Forests, but to be responsible also for payment of the same. Inwhich latter capacity, Kodweis, as Father Schiller insinuates, wasrash, imprudent and unlucky, and at one time had like to have involvedthat prudent, parsimonious Son-in-law in his disastrous economics. Wehave also said what Elisabetha's comely looks were, and particularfeatures; pleasing and hopeful, more and more, to the strict youngSurgeon, daily observant of her and them. 

'In her circle, ' Saupe continues, 'she was thought by her earlyplaymates a kind of enthusiast; because she, with average faculties ofunderstanding combined deep feeling, true piety and love of Nature, atalent for Music, nay even for Poetry. But perhaps it was the veryreverse qualities in her, the fact namely that what she wanted inculture, and it may be also in clearness and sharpness ofunderstanding, was so richly compensated by warmth and lovingness ofcharacter, —perhaps it was this which most attracted to her the heartof her deeply-reasonable Husband. And never had he cause to repent hischoice. For she was, and remained, as is unanimously testified of herby trustworthy witnesses, an unpretending, soft and dutiful Wife; and, as all her Letters testify, had the tenderest mother-heart. She read agood deal, even after her marriage, little as she had of time forreading. Favourite Books with her were those on Natural History; butshe liked best of all to study the Biographies of famous men, or todwell in the spiritual poetising of an Utz, a Gellert and Klopstock. She also liked, and in some measure had the power, to express her ownfeelings in verses; which, with all their simplicity, show a sense forrhythm and some expertness in diction. Here is one instance; hersalutation to the Husband who was her First-love, on New-year's day1757, the ninth year of their as yet childless marriage:

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

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

 [Footnote 58:

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

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

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

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

'With Father's return, the happy Mother conscientiously shared withhim the difficult and important business of bringing up their Son; andboth in union worked highly beneficially for his spiritualdevelopment. The practical and rigorous Father directed his chief aimto developing the Boy's intellect and character; the mild, pious, poetic-minded Mother, on the other hand, strove for the ennoblingnurture of his temper and his imagination. It was almost exclusivelyowing to her that his religious feeling, his tender sense of all thatwas good and beautiful, his love of mankind, tolerance, and capabilityof self-sacrifice, in the circle of his Sisters and playmates, distinguished the Boy. 

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

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

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

'But nothing did the Mother forward with more eagerness, by everyopportunity, than the kindling inclination of her Son to become aPreacher; which even showed itself in his sports. Mother or Sister hadto put a little cowl on his head, and pin round him by way of surplicea bit of black apron; then would he mount a chair and begin earnestlyto preach; ranging together in his own way, not without some traces ofcoherency, all that he had retained from teaching and church-visitingin this kind, and interweaving it with verses of songs. The Mother, who listened attentively and with silent joy, put a higher meaninginto this childish play; and, in thought, saw her Son already stand inthe Pulpit, and work, rich in blessings, in a spiritual office. Thespiritual profession was at that time greatly esteemed, and gavepromise of an honourable existence. Add to this, that the course ofstudies settled for young Würtemberg Theologians not only offeredimportant pecuniary furtherances and advantages, but also morally thefewest dangers. And thus the prudent and withal pious Father, too, sawno reason to object to this inclination of the Son and wish of theMother. 

'It had almost happened, however, that the Latin School, inLudwigsburg (where our Fritz received the immediately preparatoryteaching for his calling) had quite disgusted him with his destinationfor theology. The Teacher of Religion in the Institute, anarrow-minded, angry-tempered Pietist, ' as we have seen, 'used the sadmethod of tormenting his scholars with continual rigorous, altogethersoulless, drillings and trainings in matters of mere creed; nay hethreatened often to whip them thoroughly, if, in the repetition of thecatechism, a single word were wrong. And thus to the finely-sensitiveBoy instruction was making hateful to him what domestic influences hadmade dear. Yet these latter did outweigh and overcome, in the end; andhe remained faithful to his purpose of following a spiritual career. 

'When young Schiller, after the completion of his course at the LatinSchool, 1777, was to be confirmed, his Mother and her Husband cameacross to Ludwigsburg the day before that solemn ceremony. Just ontheir arrival, she saw her Son wandering idle and unconcerned aboutthe streets; and impressively represented to him how greatly hisindifference to the highest and most solemn transaction of his younglife troubled her. Struck and affected hereby, the Boy withdrew; and, after a few hours, handed to his Parents a German Poem, expressive ofhis feelings over the approaching renewal of his baptismal covenant. The Father, who either hadn't known the occasion of this, or hadlooked upon his Son's idling on the street with less severe eyes, washighly astonished, and received him mockingly with the question, "Hastthou lost thy senses, Fritz?" The Mother, on the other hand, wasvisibly rejoiced at that poetic outpouring, and with good cause. For, apart from all other views of the matter, she recognised in it howfirmly her Son's inclination was fixed on the study of Theology. '—(Thisanecdote, if it were of any moment whatever, appears to be a littledoubtful. )

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

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

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

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

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

'In reality, it was to the poor Mother a hard and lamentable time. Remembrance of the lately bright and safe-looking situation, nowsuddenly rent asunder and committed to the dubious unknown; anxietyabout their own household and the fate of her Son; the Father's justanger, and perhaps some tacit self-reproach that she had favoured adangerous game by keeping it concealed from her honest-heartedHusband, —lay like crushing burdens on her heart. And if many a thingdid smooth itself, and many a thing, which at first was to be feared, did not take place, one thing remained fixed continually, —painfulanxiety about her Son. To the afflicted Mother, in this heavy time, Frau von Wolzogen devoted the most sincere and beneficent sympathy; aLady of singular goodness of heart, who, during Schiller's eighthidden months at Bauerbach, frequently went out to see his Family atSolitüde. By her oral reports about Schiller, whom she herself severaltimes visited at Bauerbach, his Parents were more soothed than by hisown somewhat excited Letters. With reference to this magnanimousservice of friendship, Schiller wrote to her at Stuttgart in February1783: "A Letter to my Parents is getting on its way; yet, much as Ihad to speak of you, I have said nothing whatever" (from prudentmotives) "of your late appearance here, or of the joyful moments ofour conversation together. You yourself still, therefore, have allthat to tell, and you will presumably find a pair of attentivehearers. " Frau von Wolzogen ventured also to apply to a high courtlady, Countess von Hohenheim' (Duke's _finale_ in the _illicit_ way, whom he at length wedded), 'personally favourable to Schiller, and todirect her attention, before all, upon the heavy-laden Parents. Norwas this without effect. For the Countess's persuasion seemsessentially to have contributed to the result that Duke Karl, out ofrespect for the deserving Father, left the evasion of his own Pupilunpunished. 

'It must, therefore, have appeared to the still-agitated Mother, whoreverenced the Frau von Wolzogen as her helpful guardian, a flagrantpiece of ingratitude, when she learnt that her Son was allowinghimself to be led into a passionate love for the blooming youngDaughter of his Benefactress. She grieved and mourned in secret to seehim exposed to new storms; foreseeing clearly, in this passion, aready cause for his removal from Bauerbach. To such agitations herbody was no longer equal; a creeping, eating misery undermined herhealth. She wrote to her Son at Mannheim, with a soft shadow ofreproof, that in this year, since his absence, she had become tenyears older in health and looks. Not long after, she had actually totake to bed, because of painful cramps, which, proceeding from thestomach, spread themselves over breast, head, back and loins. Themedicines which the Son, upon express account of symptoms by theFather, prescribed for her, had no effect. By degrees, indeed, thesecramps abated or left-off; but she tottered about in a state ofsickness, years long: the suffering mind would not let the body cometo strength. For though her true heart was filled with a pious love, which hopes all, believes and suffers all, yet she was neither blindto the faults of her Son, nor indifferent to the thought of seeing herFamily's good repute and well-being threatened by his non-performancesand financial confusions. 

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

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

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

'The Mother likewise soon felt herself at home and happy in thetrusted circle of her children; only too fast flew-by the beautifuland happy days, which seemed to her richly to make amends for so manyyears of sorrows and cares. Especially it did her heart good to seefor herself what a beneficent influence the real and beautifulwomanhood of her Daughter-in-law exercised upon her Son. Daily shelearnt to know the great advantages of mind and heart in her; dailyshe more deeply thanked God that for her Son, who, on account even ofhis weak health, was not an altogether convenient Husband, there hadbeen so tender-hearted and so finely-cultivated a Wife given him aslife-companion. The conviction that the domestic happiness of her Sonwas secure contributed essentially also to alleviate the pain ofdeparture. 

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

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

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

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

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

Christophine failed not to go, as we saw above. 'From the time of herarrival there, no week passed without Schiller's writing home; and hisLetters much contributed to strengthen and support the heavy-ladenMother. The assurance of being tenderly loved by such a Son wasinfinitely grateful to her; she considered him as a tried faithfulfriend, to whom one, without reluctance, yields his part in one's ownsorrows. Schiller thus expressed himself on this matter in a Letter toChristophine of 9th May. "The last Letter of my dear good Mother hasdeeply affected me. Ah, how much has this good Mother alreadyundergone; and with what patience and courage has she borne it! Howtouching is it that she opened her heart to me; and what woe was minethat I cannot immediately comfort and soothe her! Hadst thou not gone, I could not have stayed here. The situation of our dear ones washorrible; so solitary, without help from loving friends, and as ifforsaken by their two children, living far away! I dare not think ofit. What did not our good Mother do for _her_ Parents; and how greatlyhas she deserved the like from us! Thou wilt comfort her, dear Sister;and me thou wilt find heartily ready for all that thou canst proposeto me. Salute our dear Parents in the tenderest way, and tell themthat their Son feels their sorrows. "

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

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

'The Widow had a Pension granted by the Duke, of 200 gulden' (near20_l. _); 'and therein a comfortable proof that official peoplerecognised the worth of her late Husband, and held him in honour. Sheremained in her native country; and lived the next three years, according to her Son's counsel, with Luise in the little village ofLeonberg, near to Solitüde, where an arrangement had been made forher. Here a certain Herr Roos, a native of Würtemberg, had made someacquaintance with her, in the winter 1797-8; to whom we owe thefollowing sketch of portraiture. "She was a still-agreeable old personof sixty-five or six, whose lean wrinkly face still bespokecheerfulness and kindliness. Her thin hair was all gray; she was ofshort" (middle) "stature, and her attitude slightly stooping; she hada pleasant tone of voice; and her speech flowed light and cheerful. Her bearing generally showed native grace, and practical acquaintancewith social life. "

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

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

'Almost contemporary with the removal of the Son from Jena to Weimarwas the Mother's with her Daughter to Clever-Sulzbach. The peacefulsilence which now environed them in their rural abode had the mostsalutary influence both on her temper of mind and on her health; allthe more as Daughter and Son-in-law vied with each other in respectfulattention to her. The considerable distance from her Son, when attimes it fell heavy on her, she forgot in reading his Letters; whichwere ever the unaltered expression of the purest and truestchild-love. She forgot it too, as often, over the immortal works outof which his powerful spirit spoke to her. She lived to hear the nameof Friedrich Schiller celebrated over all Germany with reverententhusiasm; and ennobled by the German People sooner and moregloriously than an Imperial Patent could do it. Truly a Mother thathas had such joys in her Son is a happy one; and can and may say, "Lord, now let me depart in peace; I have lived enough!"

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

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

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

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

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

 "Your true Brother, "SCHILLER. "

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

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

 III. THE SISTERS. 

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

_Christophine (born 4 Sept. 1757; married 'June 1786;' died 31 August1847). _[61]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Till Schiller's flight, in which what endless interest and industriesChristophine had we have already seen, the young girls, —Christophine25, Luise 16, Nanette a rosy little creature of 5, —had known nomisfortune; nor, except Christophine's feelings on the death of thetwo little Sisters, years ago, no heavy sorrow. At Solitüde, but forthe general cloud of anxiety and grief about their loved and giftedBrother and his exile, their lives were of the peaceablestdescription: diligence in household business, sewing, spinning, contented punctuality in all things; in leisure hours eager reading(or at times, on Christophine's part, drawing and painting, in whichshe attained considerable excellence), and, as choicest recreation, walks amid the flourishing Nurseries, Tree-avenues, and fine solidindustries and forest achievements of Papa. Mention is made of aCavalry Regiment stationed at Solitüde; the young officers of which, without society in that dull place, and with no employment exceptparade, were considerably awake to the comely Jungfers Schiller andtheir promenadings in those pleasant woods: one Lieutenant of them(afterwards a Colonel, 'Obrist von Miller of Stuttgart') is said tohave manifested honourable aspirations and intentions towardsChristophine, —which, however, and all connection with whom or hiscomrades, the rigorously prudent Father strictly forbade; his piouslyobedient Daughters, Christophine it is rather thought with someregret, immediately conforming. A Portrait of this Von Miller, paintedby Christophine, still exists, it would appear, among the papers ofthe Schillers. [62]

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

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

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

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

To the candid observer Reinwald's gloomy ways were not without theirexcuse. Scarcely above once before this, in his now longish life, hadany gleam of joy or success shone on him, to cheer the strenuous andnever-abated struggle. His father had been Tutor to the Prince ofMeiningen, who became Duke afterwards, and always continued to holdhim in honour. Father's death had taken place in 1751, young Reinwaldthen in his fourteenth year. After passing with distinction histhree-years curriculum at Jena, Reinwald returned to Meiningen, expecting employment and preferment;—the rather perhaps as hisMother's bit of property got much ruined in the Seven-Years War thenraging. Employment Reinwald got, but of the meanest _Kanzlist_(Clerkship) kind; and year after year, in spite of his merits, patientfaithfulness and undeniable talent, no preferment whatever. At length, however, in 1762, the Duke, perhaps enlightened by experience as toReinwald, or by personal need of such a talent, did send him as_Geheimer Kanzlist_ (kind of Private Secretary) to Vienna, with aview to have from him reports "about politics and literary objects"there. This was an extremely enjoyable position for the young man; butit lasted only till the Duke's death, which followed within two years. Reinwald was then immediately recalled by the new Duke (who, I think, had rather been in controversy with his Predecessor), and thrown backto nearly his old position; where, without any regard had to his realtalents and merits, he continued thirteen years, under the title of_Consistorial Kanzlist_; and, with the miserablest fraction of yearlypay, 'carried on the slavish, spirit-killing labours required of him. 'In 1776, —uncertain whether as promotion or as mere abridgment oflabour, —he was placed in the Library as now; that is to say, hadbecome _Sub_-Librarian, at a salary of about 15_l. _, with all theLibrary duties to do; an older and more favoured gentleman, perhaps inlieu of pension, enjoying the Upper Office, and doing none of thework. 

Under these continual pressures and discouragements poor Reinwald'sheart had got hardened into mutinous indignation, and his health hadbroken down: so that, by this time, he was noted in his little worldas a solitary, taciturn, morose and gloomy man; but greatly respectedby the few who knew him better, as a clear-headed, true and faithfulperson, much distinguished by intellectual clearness and veracity, bysolid scholarly acquirements and sterling worth of character. To bringa little help or cheerful alleviation to such a down-pressed man, if awise and gentle Christophine could accomplish it, would surely be abit of well-doing; but it was an extremely difficult one!

The marriage was childless; not, in the first, or in any times of it, to be called unhappy; but, as the weight of years was added, Christophine's problem grew ever more difficult. She was of acompassionate nature, and had a loving, patient and noble heart;prudent she was; the skilfulest and thriftiest of financiers; couldwell keep silence, too, and with a gentle stoicism endure much smallunreason. Saupe says withal, 'Nobody liked a laugh better, or couldlaugh more heartily than she, even in her extreme old age. '—Christophineherself makes no complaint, on looking back upon her poor Reinwald, thirty years after all was over. Her final record of it is: "fortwenty-nine years we lived contentedly together. " But her ruggedhypochondriac of a Husband, morbidly sensitive to the leastinterruption of his whims and habitudes, never absent from their onedim sitting-room, except on the days in which he had to attend at theLibrary, was in practice infinitely difficult to deal with; and seemsto have kept her matchless qualities in continual exercise. Hebelonged to the class called in Germany _Stubengelehrten_ (ClosetLiterary-men), who publish little or nothing that brings them profit, but are continually poring and studying. Study was the one consolationhe had in life; and formed his continual employment to the end of hisdays. He was deep in various departments, Antiquarian, Philological, Historical; deep especially in Gothic philology, in which last he didwhat is reckoned a real feat, —he, Reinwald, though again it wasanother who got the reward. He had procured somewhere, 'a Transcriptof the famous Anglo-Saxon Poem _Heliand_ (Saviour) from the CottonLibrary in England, ' this he, with unwearied labour and to greatperfection, had at last got ready for the press; Translation, Glossary, Original all in readiness;—but could find no Publisher, nobody that would print without a premium. Not to earn _less_ thannothing by his labour, he sent the Work to the München Library; where, in after years, one Schmeller found it, and used it for an _editioprinceps_ of his own. _Sic vos non vobis_; heavy-laden Reinwald![64]—

 [Footnote 64: _Schiller's Beziehungen_ (where many of Christophine's _Letters_, beautiful all of them, are given). ]

To Reinwald himself Christophine's presence and presidency in his dimhousehold were an infinite benefit, —though not much recognised byhim, but accepted rather as a natural tribute due to unfortunatedown-pressed worth, till towards the very end, when the singular meritof it began to dawn upon him, like the brightness of the Sun when itis setting. Poor man, he anxiously spent the last two weeks of hislife in purchasing and settling about a neat little cottage forChristophine; where accordingly she passed her long widowhood, onstiller terms, though not on less beneficent and humbly beautiful, than her marriage had offered. 

Christophine, by pious prudence, faith in Heaven, and in the goodfruits of real goodness even on Earth, had greatly comforted thegloomy, disappointed, pain-stricken man; enlightened his darkness, andmade his poverty noble. _Simplex munditiis_ might have been her mottoin all things. Her beautiful Letters to her Brother are full ofcheerful, though also, it is true, sad enough, allusions to herdifficulties with Reinwald, and partial successes. Poor soul, herhopes, too, are gently turned sometimes on a blessed future, whichmight still lie ahead: of her at last coming, as a Widow, to live withher Brother, in serene affection, like that of their childhoodtogether; in a calm blessedness such as the world held no other forher! But gloomy Reinwald survived bright Schiller for above ten years;and she had thirty more of lone widowhood, under limited conditions, to spend after him, still in a noble, humbly-admirable, and evenhappy and contented manner. She was the flower of the SchillerSisterhood, though all three are beautiful to us; and in poor Nane, there is even something of poetic, and tragically pathetic. For oneblessing, Christophine 'lived almost always in good health. ' Throughlife it may be said of her, she was helpful to all about her, neverhindersome to any; and merited, and had, the universal esteem, fromhigh and low, of those she had lived among. At Meiningen, 31st August1847, within a few days of her ninety-first year, without almost oneday's sickness, a gentle stroke of apoplexy took her suddenly away, and so ended what may be called a _Secular_ Saintlike existence, mournfully beautiful, wise and noble to all that had beheld it. 

_Nanette (born 8th September 1777, died 23d March 1796; age not yet19). _

Of Nanette we were told how, in 1792, she charmed her Brother and hisJena circle, by her recitations and her amiable enthusiastic nature;and how, next year, on Schiller's Swabian visit, his love of her grewto something of admiration, and practical hope of helping such a richtalent and noble heart into some clear development, —when, two yearsafterwards, death put, to the dear Nanette and his hopes about her, acruel end. We are now to give the first budding-out of those finetalents and tendencies of poor Nanette, and that is all the historythe dear little Being has. Saupe proceeds:

'Some two years after Schiller's flight, Nanette as a child of six orseven had, with her elder Sister Luise, witnessed the firstrepresentation of Schiller's _Kabale und Liebe_ in the Stuttgarttheatre. With great excitement, and breath held-in, she had watchedthe rolling-up of the curtain; and during the whole play no wordescaped her lips; but the excited glance of her eyes, and herheightened colour, from act to act, testified her intense emotion. Thestormy applause with which her Brother's Play was received by theaudience made an indelible impression on her. 

'The Players, in particular, had shone before her as in a magic light;the splendour of which, in the course of years, rather increased thandiminished. The child's bright fancy loved to linger on thosenever-to-be-forgotten people, by whom her Brother's Poem had been ledinto her sight and understanding. The dawning thought, how glorious itmight be to work such wonders herself, gradually settled, the more sheread and heard of her dear Brother's poetic achievements, into theardent but secret wish of being herself able to represent hisTragedies upon the stage. On her visit to Jena, and during herBrother's abode in Swabia, she was never more attentive than whenSchiller spoke occasionally of the acting of his Pieces, or unfoldedhis opinion of the Player's Art. 

'The wish of Nanette, secretly nourished in this manner, to be able, on the stage, which represents the world, to contribute to the gloryof her Brother, seized her now after his return with such force andconstancy, that Schiller's Sister-in-law, Caroline von Wolzogen, urgedhim to yield to the same; to try his Sister's talent; and if it wasreally distinguished, to let her enter this longed-for career. Schiller had no love for the Player Profession; but as, in his theninfluential connections in Weimar, he might steer clear of many adanger, he promised to think the thing over. And thus this kind andamiable protectress had the satisfaction of cheering Nanette's lastmonths with the friendly prospect that her wishes might befulfilled. —Schiller's hope, after a dialogue with Goethe on thesubject, had risen to certainty, when with the liveliest sorrow helearnt that Nanette was ill of that contagious Hospital Fever, and, ina few days more, that she was gone forever. '[65]

 [Footnote 65: _Saupe_, pp. 150-5. ]

Beautiful Nanette; with such a softly-glowing soul, and such a brieftragically-beautiful little life! Like a Daughter of the rosy-fingeredMorn; her existence all a sun-gilt soft auroral cloud, and no sultryDay, with its dusts and disfigurements, permitted to follow. FatherSchiller seems, in his rugged way, to have loved Nanette best of themall; in an embarrassed manner, we find him more than once recommendingher to Schiller's help, and intimating what a glorious thing for her, were it a possible one, education might be. He followed her in fewmonths to her long home; and, by his own direction, 'was buried in theChurchyard at Gerlingen by her side. '

_Luise (born 24th January 1766; married 20th October 1799; died 14thSeptember 1836). _

Of Luise's life too, except what was shown above, there need little besaid. In the dismal pestilential days at Solitüde, while her Fatherlay dying, and poor Nanette caught the infection, Luise, with all hertender assiduities and household talent, was there; but, soon afterNanette's death, the fever seized her too; and she long laydangerously ill in that forlorn household; still weak, but slowlyrecovering, when Christophine arrived. 

The Father, a short while before his death, summoned to him thatexcellent young Clergyman, Frankh, who had been so unweariedly kind tothem in this time of sickness when all neighbours feared to look in, To ask him what his intentions towards Luise were. It was in presenceof the good old man that they made solemn promise to each other; andat Leonberg, where thenceforth the now-widowed Mother's dwelling was, they were formally betrothed; and some two years after that weremarried. 

Her Mother's death, so tenderly watched over, took place at theirParsonage at Clever-Sulzbach, as we saw above. Frankh, about two yearsafter, was promoted to a better living, Möckmühl by name; and livedthere, a well-doing and respected Parson, till his death, in 1834;which Luise's followed in September of the second year afterwards. Their marriage lasted thirty-five years. Luise had brought him threechildren; and seems to have been, in all respects, an excellent Wife. She was ingenious in intellectuals as well as economics; had a tastefor poetry; a boundless enthusiasm for her Brother; seems to have beenan anxious Mother, often ailing herself but strenuously doing her bestat all times. 

A touching memorial of Luise is Schiller's last Letter to her, Letterof affectionate apology for long silence, —apology, and hope of doingbetter, —written only a few weeks before his own death. It is asfollows:

 "Weimar, 27th March 1805. 

 "Yes, it is a long time indeed, good dear Luise, since I have written to thee; but it was not for amusements that I forgot thee; it was because in this time I have had so many hard illnesses to suffer, which put me altogether out of my regular way; for many months I had lost all courage and cheerfulness, and given up all hope of my recovery. In such a humour one does not like to speak; and since then, on feeling myself again better, there was, after the long silence, a kind of embarrassment; and so it was still put off. But now, when I have been anew encouraged by thy sisterly love, I gladly join the thread again; and it shall, if God will, not again be broken. 

 "Thy dear Husband's promotion to Möckmühl, which I learned eight days ago from our Sister" (Christophine), "has given us great joy, not only because it so much improves your position, but also because it is so honourable a testimony for my dear Brother-in-law's deserts. May you feel yourselves right happy in these new relations, and right long enjoy them! We too are got thereby a few miles nearer you; and on a future journey to Franconia, which we are every year projecting, we may the more easily get over to you. 

 "How sorry am I, dear Sister, that thy health has suffered so much; and that thou wert again so unfortunate with thy confinement! Perhaps your new situation might permit you, this summer, to visit some tonic watering-place, which might do thee a great deal of good. "—

 "Of our Family here, my Wife will write thee more at large. Our Children, this winter, have all had chicken-pox; and poor little Emilie" (a babe of four months) "had much to suffer in the affair. Thank God, things are all come round with us again, and my own health too begins to confirm itself. 

 "A thousand times I embrace thee, dear Sister, and my dear Brother-in-law as well, whom I always wish from the heart to have more acquaintance with. Kiss thy Children in my name; may all go right happily with you, and much joy be in store! How would our dear Parents have rejoiced in your good fortune; and especially our dear Mother, had she been spared to see it! Adieu, dear Luise. With my whole soul, "Thy faithful Brother, "SCHILLER. "

Schiller's tone and behaviour to his Sisters is always beautifullyhuman and brotherlike, as here. Full of affection, sincerity and thewarmest truest desire to help and cheer. The noble loving Schiller;so mindful always of the lowly, from his own wildly-dangerous andlofty path! He was never rich, poor rather always; but of a spiritroyally munificent in these respects; never forgets the poor"birthdays" of his Sisters, whom one finds afterwards gratefullyrecognising their "beautiful dress" or the like!—

 * * * * *

Of date some six weeks after this Letter to Luise, let us take fromEyewitnesses one glimpse of Schiller's own deathbed. It is the eighthday of his illness; his last day but one in this world:

'_Morning of 8th May 1805. _— —Schiller, on awakening from sleep, asked to see his youngest Child. The Baby' Emilie, spoken of above, 'was brought. He turned his head round; took the little hand in his, and, with an inexpressible look of love and sorrow, gazed into thelittle face; then burst into bitter weeping, hid his face among thepillows; and made a sign to take the child away. '—This little Emilieis now the Baroness von Gleichen, Co-editress with her Cousin Wolzogenof the clear and useful Book, _Beziehungen_, often quoted above. Itwas to that same Cousin Wolzogen's Mother (Caroline von Wolzogen, Authoress of the Biography), and in the course of this same day, thatSchiller made the memorable response, "Calmer, and calmer. "—'Towardsevening he asked to see the Sun once more. The curtain was opened;with bright eyes and face he gazed into the beautiful sunset. It washis last farewell to Nature. 

'_Thursday 9th May. _ All the morning, his mind was wandering; he spokeincoherent words, mostly in Latin. About three in the afternoon, complete weakness came on; his breathing began to be interrupted. About four, he asked for naphtha, but the last syllable died on histongue. He tried to write, but produced only three letters; in which, however, the character of his hand was still visible. Till towardssix, no change. His Wife was kneeling at the bedside; he still pressedher offered hand. His Sister-in-law stood, with the Doctor, at thefoot of the bed, and laid warm pillows on his feet, which were growingcold. There now darted, as it were, an electrical spasm over all hiscountenance; the head sank back; the profoundest repose transfiguredhis face. His features were as those of one softly sleeping, '—wraptin hard-won Victory and Peace forevermore![66]—

 [Footnote 66: _Schwab_, p. 627, citing Voss, an eyewitness; and Caroline von Wolzogen herself. ]

 APPENDIX I. 

 NO. 1. PAGE 31. 

 DANIEL SCHUBART. 

The enthusiastic discontent so manifest in the _Robbers_ has by somebeen in part attributed to Schiller's intercourse with Schubart. Thisseems as wise as the hypothesis of Gray's Alderman, who, after half acentury of turtle-soup, imputed the ruin of his health to eating twounripe grapes: 'he felt them cold upon his stomach, the moment theywere over; he never got the better of them. ' Schiller, it appears, sawSchubart only once, and their conversation was not of a confidentialkind. For any influence this interview could have produced upon theformer, the latter could have merited no mention here: it is on othergrounds that we refer to him. Schubart's history, not devoid ofinterest in itself, unfolds in a striking light the circumstancesunder which Schiller stood at present; and may serve to justify theviolence of his alarms, which to the happy natives of our Island mightotherwise appear pusillanimous and excessive. For these reasons wesubjoin a sketch of it. 

Schubart's character is not a new one in literature; nor is it strangethat his life should have been unfortunate. A warm genial spirit; aglowing fancy, and a friendly heart; every faculty but diligence, andevery virtue but 'the understrapping virtue of discretion:' such isfrequently the constitution of the poet; the natural result of it alsohas frequently been pointed out, and sufficiently bewailed. This manwas one of the many who navigate the ocean of life with 'more sailthan ballast;' his voyage contradicted every rule of seamanship, andnecessarily ended in a wreck. 

Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart was born at Obersontheim inSwabia, on the 26th of April 1739. His father, a well-meaning soul, officiated there in the multiple capacity of schoolmaster, precentor, and curate; dignities which, with various mutations and improvements, he subsequently held in several successive villages of the samedistrict. Daniel, from the first, was a thing of inconsistencies; hislife proceeded as if by fits and starts. At school, for a while, helay dormant: at the age of seven he could not read, and had acquiredthe reputation of a perfect dunce. But 'all at once, ' says hisbiographer, 'the rind which enclosed his spirit started asunder;' andDaniel became the prodigy of the school! His good father determined tomake a learned man of him: he sent him at the age of fourteen to theNordlingen Lyceum, and two years afterwards to a similar establishmentat Nürnberg. Here Schubart began to flourish with all his naturalluxuriance; read classical and domestic poets; spouted, speculated;wrote flowing songs; discovered 'a decided turn for music, ' and evencomposed tunes for the harpsichord! In short, he became anacknowledged _genius_: and his parents consented that he should go toJena, and perform his _cursus_ of Theology. 

Schubart's purposes were not at all like the decrees of Fate: he setout towards Jena; and on arriving at Erlangen, resolved to proceed nofarther, but perform his _cursus_ where he was. For a time he studiedwell; but afterwards 'tumultuously, ' that is, in violent fits, alternating with fits as violent of idleness and debauchery. He becamea _Bursche_ of the first water; drank and declaimed, rioted and ran indebt; till his parents, unable any longer to support such expenses, were glad to seize the first opening in his _cursus_, and recall him. He returned to them with a mind fevered by intemperance, and aconstitution permanently injured; his heart burning with regret, andvanity, and love of pleasure; his head without habits of activity orprinciples of judgment, a whirlpool where fantasies and hallucinationsand 'fragments of science' were chaotically jumbled to and fro. Buthe could babble college-latin; and talk with a trenchant tone aboutthe 'revolutions of Philosophy. ' Such accomplishments procured himpardon from his parents: the precentorial spirit of his father wasmore than reconciled on discovering that Daniel could also preach andplay upon the organ. The good old people still loved their prodigal, and would not cease to hope in him. 

As a preacher Schubart was at first very popular; he imitated Cramer;but at the same time manifested first-rate pulpit talents of his own. These, however, he entirely neglected to improve: presuming on hisgifts and their acceptance, he began to 'play such fantastic tricksbefore high Heaven, ' as made his audience sink to yawning, or explodein downright laughter. He often preached extempore; once he preachedin verse! His love of company and ease diverted him from study: hismusical propensities diverted him still farther. He had special giftsas an organist; but to handle the concordance and to make 'the heavingbellows learn to blow' were inconsistent things. 

Yet withal it was impossible to hate poor Schubart, or even seriouslyto dislike him. A joyful, piping, guileless mortal, good nature, innocence of heart, and love of frolic beamed from every feature ofhis countenance; he wished no ill to any son of Adam. He was musicaland poetical, a maker and a singer of sweet songs; humorous also, speculative, discursive; his speech, though aimless and redundant, glittered with the hues of fancy, and here and there with the keenestrays of intellect. He was vain, but had no touch of pride; and theexcellencies which he loved in himself, he acknowledged and as warmlyloved in others. He was a man of few or no principles, but his nervoussystem was very good. Amid his chosen comrades, a jug of indifferentbeer and a pipe of tobacco could change the earth into elysium forhim, and make his brethren demigods. To look at his laughing eyes, andhis effulgent honest face, you were tempted to forget that he was aperjured priest, that the world had duties for him which he wasneglecting. Had life been all a may-game, Schubart was the best ofmen, and the wisest of philosophers. 

Unluckily it was not: the voice of Duty had addressed him in vain; butthat of Want was more impressive. He left his father's house, andengaged himself as tutor in a family at Königsbronn. To teach theyoung idea how to shoot had few delights for Schubart: he soon gave upthis place in favour of a younger brother; and endeavoured to subsist, for some time, by affording miscellaneous assistance to the clergy ofthe neighbouring villages. Ere long, preferring even pedagogy tostarvation, he again became a teacher. The bitter morsel was sweetenedwith a seasoning of music; he was appointed not only schoolmaster butalso organist of Geisslingen. A fit of diligence now seized him: hislate difficulties had impressed him; and the parson of the place, whosubsequently married Schubart's sister, was friendly and skilfulenough to turn the impression to account. Had poor Schubart alwaysbeen in such hands, the epithet 'poor' could never have belonged tohim. In this little village-school he introduced some importantreforms and improvements, and in consequence attracted severalvaluable scholars. Also for his own behoof, he studied honestly. Hisconduct here, if not irreprehensible, was at least very much amended. His marriage, in his twenty-fifth year, might have improved it stillfarther; for his wife was a good, soft-hearted, amiable creature, wholoved him with her whole heart, and would have died to serve him. 

But new preferments awaited Schubart, and with them new temptations. His fame as a musician was deservedly extending: in time it reachedLudwigsburg, and the Grand Duke of Würtemberg himself heard Schubartspoken of! The schoolmaster of Geisslingen was, in 1768, promoted tobe organist and band-director in this gay and pompous court. With abounding heart, he tossed away his ferula, and hastened to the scene, where joys for evermore seemed calling on him. He plunged into theheart of business and amusement. Besides the music which he taught andplayed, publicly and privately, with great applause, he gave themilitary officers instruction in various branches of science; hetalked and feasted; he indited songs and rhapsodies; he lectured onHistory and the Belles Lettres. All this was more than Schubart's headcould stand. In a little time he fell in debt; took up with virtuosi;began to read Voltaire, and talk against religion in his drink. Fromthe rank of genius, he was fast degenerating into that of profligate:his affairs grew more and more embarrassed; and he had no gift ofputting any order in them. Prudence was not one of Schubart's virtues;the nearest approximation he could make to it was now and then alittle touch of cunning. His wife still loved him; loved him with thatperverseness of affection, which increases in the inverse ratio of itsrequital: she had long patiently endured his follies and neglect, happy if she could obtain a transient hour of kindness from him. Buthis endless course of riot, and the straits to which it had reducedtheir hapless family, at length overcame her spirits: she grewmelancholy, almost broken-hearted; and her father took her home tohim, with her children, from the spendthrift who had been her ruin. Schubart's course in Ludwigsburg was verging to its close; hisextravagance increased, and debts pressed heavier and heavier on him:for some scandal with a young woman of the place, he was cast intoprison; and let out of it, with an injunction forthwith to quit thedominions of the Grand Duke. 

Forlorn and homeless, here then was Schubart footing the hard highway, with a staff in his hand, and one solitary _thaler_ in his purse, notknowing whither he should go. At Heilbronn, the Bürgermeister Wachspermitted him to teach his Bürgermeisterinn the harpsichord; andSchubart did not die of hunger. For a space of time he wandered to andfro, with numerous impracticable plans; now talking for his victuals;now lecturing or teaching music; kind people now attracted to him byhis genius and misfortunes, and anon repelled from him by the faultswhich had abased him. Once a gleam of court-preferment revisited hispath: the Elector Palatine was made acquainted with his gifts, andsent for him to Schwetzingen to play before him. His playing gratifiedthe Electoral ear; he would have been provided for, had he not inconversation with his Highness happened to express a rather freeopinion of the Mannheim Academy, which at that time was his Highness'shobby. On the instant of this luckless oversight, the door ofpatronage was slammed in Schubart's face, and he stood solitary on thepavement as before. 

One Count Schmettau took pity on him; offered him his purse and home;both of which the way-worn wanderer was happy to accept. AtSchmettau's he fell in with Baron Leiden, the Bavarian envoy, whoadvised him to turn Catholic, and accompany the returning embassy toMunich. Schubart hesitated to become a renegade; but departed with hisnew patron, upon trial. In the way, he played before the Bishop ofWürzburg; was rewarded by his Princely Reverence with gold as well aspraise; and arrived under happy omens at Munich. Here for a whilefortune seemed to smile on him again. The houses of the great werethrown open to him; he talked and played, and fared sumptuously everyday. He took serious counsel with himself about the great Popishquestion; now inclining this way, now that: he was puzzling which tochoose, when Chance entirely relieved him of the trouble. 'A person ofrespectability' in Munich wrote to Würtemberg to make inquiries who orwhat this general favourite was; and received for answer, that thegeneral favourite was a villain, and had been banished fromLudwigsburg for denying that there was a Holy Ghost!—Schubart washappy to evacuate Munich without tap of drum. 

Once more upon the road without an aim, the wanderer turned toAugsburg, simply as the nearest city, and—set up a Newspaper! The_Deutsche Chronik_ flourished in his hands; in a little while it hadacquired a decided character for sprightliness and talent; in time itbecame the most widely circulated journal of the country. Schubart wasagain a prosperous man: his writings, stamped with the vigorousimpress of his own genius, travelled over Europe; artists and men ofletters gathered round him; he had money, he had fame; the rich andnoble threw their parlours open to him, and listened with delight tohis overflowing, many-coloured conversation. He wrote paragraphs andpoetry; he taught music and gave concerts; he set up a spoutingestablishment, recited newly-published poems, read Klopstock's_Messias_ to crowded and enraptured audiences. Schubart's evil geniusseemed asleep, but Schubart himself awoke it. He had borne a grudgeagainst the clergy, ever since his banishment from Ludwigsburg; and henow employed the facilities of his journal for giving vent to it. Hecriticised the priesthood of Augsburg; speculated on their selfishnessand cant, and took every opportunity of turning them and theirproceedings into ridicule. The Jesuits especially, whom he regarded asa fallen body, he treated with extreme freedom; exposing theirdeceptions, and holding up to public contumely certain quacks whomthey patronised. The Jesuitic Beast was prostrate, but not dead: ithad still strength enough to lend a dangerous kick to any one who cametoo near it. One evening an official person waited upon Schubart, andmentioned an _arrest_ by virtue of a warrant from the CatholicBürgermeister! Schubart was obliged to go to prison. The heads of theProtestant party made an effort in his favour: they procured hisliberty, but not without a stipulation that he should immediatelydepart from Augsburg. Schubart asked to know his crime; but theCouncil answered him: "We have our reasons; let that satisfy you:" andwith this very moderate satisfaction he was forced to leave theircity. 

But Schubart was now grown an adept in banishment; so trifling anevent could not unhinge his equanimity. Driven out of Augsburg, thephilosophic editor sought refuge in Ulm, where the publication of hisjournal had, for other reasons, already been appointed to take place. The _Deutsche Chronik_ was as brilliant here as ever: it extended moreand more through Germany; 'copies of it even came to London, Paris, Amsterdam, and Petersburg. ' Nor had its author's fortune altered much;he had still the same employments, and remunerations, andextravagances; the same sort of friends, the same sort of enemies. Thelatter were a little busier than formerly: they propagated scandals;engraved caricatures, indited lampoons against him; but this hethought a very small matter. A man that has been three or four timesbanished, and as often put in prison, and for many years on the pointof starving, will not trouble himself much about a gross or two ofpasquinades. Schubart had his wife and family again beside him, he hadmoney also to support them; so he sang and fiddled, talked and wrote, and 'built the lofty rhyme, ' and cared no fig for any one. 

But enemies, more fell than these, were lurking for the thoughtlessMan of Paragraphs. The Jesuits had still their feline eyes upon him, and longed to have their talons in his flesh. They found a certainGeneral Ried, who joined them on a quarrel of his own. This GeneralRied, the Austrian Agent at Ulm, had vowed inexpiable hatred againstSchubart, it would seem, for a very slight cause indeed: once Schubarthad engaged to play before him, and then finding that the harpsichordwas out of order, had refused, flatly refused! The General's elevatedspirit called for vengeance on this impudent plebeian; the Jesuitsencouraged him; and thus all lay in eager watch. An opportunity erelong occurred. One week in 1778, there appeared in Schubart'snewspaper an Extract of a Letter from Vienna, stating that 'theEmpress Maria Theresa had been struck by apoplexy. ' On reading which, the General made instant application to his Ducal Highness, requestingthat the publisher of this 'atrocious libel' should be given up to himand 'sent to expiate his crime in Hungary, ' by imprisonment—for life. The Duke desired his gallant friend to be at ease, for that _he_ hadlong had his own eye on this man, and would himself take charge ofhim. Accordingly, a few days afterwards, Herr von Scholl, Comptrollerof the Convent of Blaubeuren, came to Schubart with a multitude ofcompliments, inviting him to dinner, "as there was a stranger wishingto be introduced to him. " Schubart sprang into the _Schlitten_ withthis wolf in sheep's clothing, and away they drove to Blaubeuren. Arrived here, the honourable Herr von Scholl left him in a privateroom, and soon returned with a posse of official Majors and Amtmen, the chief of whom advanced to Schubart, and declared him—_an arrestedman_! The hapless Schubart thought it was a jest; but alas here was nojesting! Schubart then said with a composure scarcely to be lookedfor, that "he hoped the Duke would not condemn him unheard. " In thistoo he was deceived; the men of office made him mount a carriage withthem, and set off without delay for Hohenasperg. The Duke himself wasthere with his Duchess, when these bloodhounds and their prey arrived:the princely couple gazed from a window as the group went past them, and a fellow-creature took his farewell look of sun and sky!

If hitherto the follies of this man have cast an air of farce upon hissufferings, even when in part unmerited, such sentiments must now giveplace to that of indignation at his cruel and cold-bloodedpersecutors. Schubart, who never had the heart to hurt a fly, and withall his indiscretions, had been no man's enemy but his own, wasconducted to a narrow subterraneous dungeon, and left, without book orpen, or any sort of occupation or society, to chew the cud of bitterthought, and count the leaden months as they passed over him, andbrought no mitigation of his misery. His Serene Transparency ofWürtemberg, nay the heroic General himself, might have been satisfied, could they have seen him: physical squalor, combined with moral agony, were at work on Schubart; at the end of a year, he was grown so weak, that he could not stand except by leaning on the walls of his cell. Alittle while, and he bade fair to get beyond the reach of all histyrants. This, however, was not what they wanted. The prisoner wasremoved to a wholesome upper room; allowed the use of certain books, the sight of certain company, and had, at least, the privilege tothink and breathe without obstruction. He was farther gratified byhearing that his wife and children had been treated kindly: the boyshad been admitted to the Stuttgard school, where Schiller was nowstudying; to their mother there had been assigned a pension of twohundred gulden. Charles of Würtemberg was undoubtedly a weak andheartless man, but we know not that he was a savage one: in thepunishment of Schubart, it is possible enough that he believed himselfto be discharging an important duty to the world. The only subject ofregret is, that any duty to the world, beyond the duty of existinginoffensively, should be committed to such hands; that men likeCharles and Ried, endowed with so very small a fraction of the commonfaculties of manhood, should have the destiny of any living thing attheir control. 

Another mitigating circumstance in Schubart's lot was the character ofhis gaoler. This humane person had himself tasted the tender merciesof 'paternal' government; he knew the nature of a dungeon better eventhan his prisoner. 'For four years, ' we are told, 'he had seen nohuman face; his scanty food had been lowered to him through atrap-door; neither chair nor table were allowed him, his cell wasnever swept, his beard and nails were left to grow, the humblestconveniences of civilised humanity were denied him!'[67] On this manaffliction had produced its softening, not its hardening influence: hehad grown religious, and merciful in heart; he studied to alleviateSchubart's hard fate by every means within his power. He spokecomfortingly to him; ministered to his infirmities, and, in spite oforders, lent him all his books. These, it is true, were only treatiseson theosophy and mystical devotion; but they were the best he had; andto Schubart, in his first lonely dungeon, they afforded occupation andsolace. 

 [Footnote 67: And yet Mr. Fox is reported to have said: _There was one_ FREE _Government on the Continent, and that one was—Würtemberg. _ They had a parliament and 'three estates' like the English. —So much for paper Constitutions!]

Human nature will accommodate itself to anything. The King of Pontustaught himself to eat poison: Schubart, cut out from intemperance andjollity, did not pine away in confinement and abstemiousness; he hadlost Voltaire and gay company, he found delight in solitude and JacobBöhm. Nature had been too good to him to let his misery in any case beunalloyed. The vague unguided ebullience of spirit, which had so oftenset the table in a roar, and made him the most fascinating ofdebauchees, was now mellowed into a cloudy enthusiasm, the sable ofwhich was still copiously blended with rainbow colours. His brain hadreceived a slight though incurable crack; there was a certainexasperation mixed with his unsettled fervour; but he was notwretched, often even not uncomfortable. His religion was not real; butit had reality enough for present purposes; he was at once a scepticand a mystic, a true disciple of Böhm as well as of Voltaire. Forafflicted, irresolute, imaginative men like Schubart, this is not arare or altogether ineffectual resource: at the bottom of their mindsthey doubt or disbelieve, but their hearts exclaim against theslightest whisper of it; they dare not look into the fathomless abyssof Infidelity, so they cover it over with the dense andstrangely-tinted smoke of Theosophy. Schubart henceforth now and thenemployed the phrases and figures of religion; but its principles hadmade no change in his theory of human duties: it was not food tostrengthen the weakness of his spirit, but an opiate to stay itscraving. 

Schubart had still farther resources: like other great men incaptivity, he set about composing the history of his life. It is true, he had no pens or paper; but this could not deter him. Afellow-prisoner, to whom, as he one day saw him pass by the grating ofhis window, he had communicated his desire, entered eagerly into thescheme: the two contrived to unfasten a stone in a wall that dividedtheir apartments; when the prison-doors were bolted for the night, this volunteer amanuensis took his place, Schubart trailed hismattress to the friendly orifice, and there lay down, and dictated inwhispers the record of his fitful story. These memoirs have beenpreserved; they were published and completed by a son of Schubart's:we have often wished to see them, but in vain. 

By day, Schubart had liberty to speak with certain visitors. One ofthese, as we have said above, was Schiller. That Schubart, in theirsingle interview, was pleased with the enthusiastic friendly boy, wecould have conjectured, and he has himself informed us. 'ExceptingSchiller, ' said the veteran garreteer, in writing afterwards to Gleim, 'I scarcely know of any German youth in whom the sacred spark ofgenius has mounted up within the soul like flame upon the altar of aDeity. We are fallen into the shameful times, when women bear ruleover men; and make the toilet a tribunal before which the mostgigantic minds must plead. Hence the stunted spirit of our poets;hence the dwarf products of their imagination; hence the frivolouswitticism, the heartless sentiment, crippled and ricketed by soups, ragouts and sweetmeats, which you find in fashionable balladmongers. '

Time and hours wear out the roughest day. The world began to feel aninterest in Schubart, and to take some pity on him: his songs andpoems were collected and published; their merit and their author'smisery exhibited a shocking contrast. His Highness of Würtemberg atlength condescended to remember that a mortal, of wants and feelingslike his own, had been forced by him to spend, in sorrow and inaction, the third part of an ordinary lifetime; to waste, and worse thanwaste, ten years of precious time; time, of which not all the dukesand princes in the universe could give him back one instant. Hecommanded Schubart to be liberated; and the rejoicing Editor(unacquitted, unjudged, unaccused!) once more beheld the blue zenithand the full ring of the horizon. He joined his wife at Stuttgard, andrecommenced his newspaper. The _Deutsche Chronik_ was again popular;the notoriety of its conductor made amends for the decay which criticsdid not fail to notice in his faculties. Schubart's sufferings had infact permanently injured him; his mind was warped and weakened bytheosophy and solitude; bleak northern vapours often flitted over it, and chilled its tropical luxuriance. Yet he wrote and rhymed;discoursed on the corruption of the times, and on the means of theirimprovement. He published the first portion of his Life, and oftentalked amazingly about the Wandering Jew, and a romance of which hewas to form the subject. The idea of making old _Joannes atemporibus_, the 'Wandering, ' or as Schubart's countrymen denominatehim the 'Eternal Jew, ' into a novel hero, was a mighty favourite withhim. In this antique cordwainer, as on a raft at anchor in the streamof time, he would survey the changes and wonders of two thousandyears: the Roman and the Arab were to figure there; the Crusader andthe Circumnavigator, the Eremite of the Thebaid and the Pope of Rome. Joannes himself, the Man existing out of Time and Space, Joannes theunresting and undying, was to be a deeply tragic personage. Schubartwarmed himself with this idea; and talked about it in his cups, to theastonishment of simple souls. He even wrote a certain rhapsodyconnected with it, which is published in his poems. But here herested; and the project of the Wandering Jew, which Goethe likewisemeditated in his youth, is still unexecuted. Goethe turned to otherobjects: and poor Schubart was surprised by death, in the midst of hisschemes, on the 10th of October 1791. 

Of Schubart's character as a man, this record of his life leaves but amean impression. Unstable in his goings, without principle or plan, heflickered through existence like an _ignis-fatuus_; now shooting intomomentary gleams of happiness and generosity, now quenched in themephitic marshes over which his zig-zag path conducted him. He hadmany amiable qualities, but scarcely any moral worth. From first tolast his circumstances were against him; his education wasunfortunate, its fluctuating aimless wanderings enhanced its illeffects. The thrall of the passing moment, he had no will; the fineendowments of his heart were left to riot in chaotic turbulence, andtheir forces cancelled one another. With better models and advisers, with more rigid habits, and a happier fortune, he might have been anadmirable man: as it is, he is far from admirable. 

The same defects have told with equal influence on his character as awriter. Schubart had a quick sense of the beautiful, the moving, andthe true; his nature was susceptible and fervid; he had a keenintellect, a fiery imagination; and his 'iron memory' secured foreverthe various produce of so many gifts. But he had no diligence, nopower of self-denial. His knowledge lay around him like the plunder ofa sacked city. Like this too, it was squandered in pursuit of casualobjects. He wrote in gusts; the _labor limæ et mora_ was a thing hedid not know. Yet his writings have great merit. His newspaper essaysabound in happy illustration and brilliant careless thought. Hissongs, excluding those of a devotional and theosophic cast, are oftenfull of nature, heartiness and true simplicity. 'From his youthupwards, ' we are told, 'he studied the true Old-German _Volkslied_; hewatched the artisan on the street, the craftsman in his workshop, thesoldier in his guardhouse, the maid by the spinning-wheel; andtransferred the genuine spirit of primeval Germanism, which he foundin them, to his own songs. ' Hence their popularity, which many of themstill retain. 'In his larger lyrical pieces, ' observes the same notinjudicious critic, 'we discover fearless singularity; wildimagination, dwelling rather on the grand and frightful than on thebeautiful and soft; deep, but seldom long-continued feeling; at timesfar-darting thoughts, original images, stormy vehemence; and generallya glowing, self-created, figurative diction. He never wrote to showhis art; but poured forth, from the inward call of his nature, thethought or feeling which happened for the hour to have dominion inhim. '[68]

 [Footnote 68: _Jördens Lexicon_: from which most part of the above details are taken. —There exists now a decidedly compact, intelligent and intelligible _Life of Schubart_, done, in three little volumes, by Strauss, some years ago. (_Note of_ 1857. )]

Such were Schubart and his works and fortunes; the _disjecta membra_of a richly-gifted but ill-starred and infatuated poet! The image ofhis persecutions added speed to Schiller's flight from Stuttgard; maythe image of his wasted talents and ineffectual life add strength toour resolves of living otherwise!

 LETTERS OF SCHILLER. 

A few Extracts from Schiller's correspondence may be gratifying tosome readers. The _Letters to Dalberg_, which constitute the chiefpart of it as yet before the public, are on the whole less interestingthan might have been expected, if we did not recollect that the writerof them was still an inexperienced youth, overawed by his idea ofDalberg, to whom he could communicate with freedom only on a singletopic; and besides oppressed with grievances, which of themselveswould have weighed down his spirit, and prevented any frank or cordialexposition of its feelings. 

Of the Reichsfreiherr von Dalberg himself, this correspondence givesus little information, and we have gleaned little elsewhere. He ismentioned incidentally in almost every literary history connected withhis time; and generally as a mild gentlemanly person, a judiciouscritic, and a warm lover of the arts and their cultivators. The followingnotice of his death is extracted from the _Conversations-Lexicon_, Part III. P. 12: 'Died at Mannheim, on the 27th of December 1806, inhis 85th year, Wolfgang Heribert, Reichsfreiherr von Dalberg; knightedby the Emperor Leopold on his coronation at Frankfort. A warm friendand patron of the arts and sciences; while the German Societyflourished at Mannheim, he was its first President; and the theatre ofthat town, the school of the best actors in Germany, of Iffland, Beck, Beil, and many others, owes to him its foundation, and its maintenancethroughout his long Intendancy, which he held till 1803. As a writerand a poet, he is no less favourably known. We need only refer to his_Cora_, a musical drama, and to 'the _Monch von Carmel_. '—Theseletters of Schiller were found among his papers at his death; rescuedfrom destruction by two of his executors, and published at Carlsruhe, in a small duodecimo, in the year 1819. There is a verbose preface, but no note or comment, though some such aid is now and then a littlewanted. 

The letters most worthy of our notice are those relating to theexhibition of the _Robbers_ on the Mannheim stage, and to Schiller'sconsequent embarrassments and flight. From these, accordingly, themost of our selections shall be taken. It is curious to see with whattimidity the intercourse on Schiller's part commences; and how thisawkward shyness gradually gives place to some degree of confidence, ashe becomes acquainted with his patron, or is called to treat ofsubjects where he feels that he himself has a dignity, and rights ofhis own, forlorn and humble as he is. At first he never mentionsDalberg but with all his titles, some of which to our unceremoniousears seem ludicrous enough. Thus in the full style of Germanreverence, he avoids directly naming his correspondent, but uses theoblique designation of 'your Excellency, ' or something equallyexalted: and he begins his two earliest letters with an address, which, literally interpreted, runs thus: 'Empire-free, Highly-wellborn, Particularly-much-to-be-venerated, Lord Privy Counsellor!' Suchsounding phrases make us smile: but they entirely depend on custom fortheir import, and the smile which they excite is not by any means aphilosophic one. It is but fair that in our version we omit them, orrender them by some more grave equivalent. 

The first letter is as follows:

 [No date. ]

 'The proud judgment, passed upon me in the flattering letter which I had the honour to receive from your Excellency, is enough to set the prudence of an Author on a very slippery eminence. The authority of the quarter it proceeds from, would almost communicate to that sentence the stamp of infallibility, if I could regard it as anything but a mere encouragement of my Muse. More than this a deep feeling of my weakness will not let me think it; but if my strength shall ever climb to the height of a masterpiece, I certainly shall have this warm approval of your Excellency alone to thank for it, and so will the world. For several years I have had the happiness to know you from the public papers: long ago the splendour of the Mannheim theatre attracted my attention. And, I confess, ever since I felt any touch of dramatic talent in myself, it has been among my darling projects some time or other to remove to Mannheim, the true temple of Thalia; a project, however, which my _closer_ connection with Würtemberg might possibly impede. 

 'Your Excellency's very kind proposal on the subject of the _Robbers_, and such other pieces as I may produce in future, is infinitely precious to me; the maturing of it well deserves a narrower investigation of your Excellency's theatre, its special mode of management, its actors, the _non plus ultra_ of its machinery; in a word, a full conception of it, such as I shall never get while my only scale of estimation is this Stuttgard theatre of ours, an establishment still in its minority. Unhappily my _economical_ circumstances render it impossible for me to travel much; though I could travel now with the greater happiness and confidence, as I have still some _pregnant ideas_ for the Mannheim theatre, which I could wish to have the honour of communicating to your Excellency. For the rest, I remain, ' &c. 

From the second letter we learn that Schiller had engaged to_theatrilise_ his original edition of the _Robbers_, and still wishedmuch to be connected in some shape with Mannheim. The third explainsitself:

 'Stuttgard, 6th October 1781. 

 'Here then at last returns the luckless prodigal, the remodelled _Robbers_! I am sorry that I have not kept the time, appointed by myself; but a transitory glance at the number and extent of the changes I have made, will, I trust, be sufficient to excuse me. Add to this, that a contagious epidemic was at work in our military Hospital, which, of course, interfered very often with my _otia poetica_. After finishing my work, I may assure you I could engage with less effort of mind, and certainly with far more contentment, to compose a new piece, than to undergo the labour I have just concluded. The task was complicated and tedious. Here I had to correct an error, which naturally was rooted in the very groundwork of the play; there perhaps to sacrifice a beauty to the limits of the stage, the humour of the pit, the stupidity of the gallery, or some such sorrowful convention; and I need not tell you, that as in nature, so on the stage, an idea, an emotion, can have only one suitable expression, one proper tone. A single alteration in a trait of character may give a new tendency to the whole personage, and, consequently, to his actions, and the mechanism of the piece which depends on them. 

 'In the original, the Robbers are exhibited in strong contrast with each other; and I dare maintain that it is difficult to draw half a dozen robbers in strong contrast, without in some of them offending the delicacy of the stage. In my first conception of the piece, I excluded the idea of its ever being represented in a theatre; hence came it that Franz was planned as a _reasoning_ villain; a plan which, though it may content the thinking Reader, cannot fail to vex and weary the Spectator, who does not come to think, and who wants not philosophy, but action. 

 'In the new edition, I could not overturn this arrangement without breaking-down the whole economy of the piece. Accordingly I can predict, with tolerable certainty, that Franz when he appears on the stage, will not play the part which he has played with the reader. And, at all events, the rushing stream of the action will hurry the spectator over all the finer shadings, and rob him of a third part of the whole character. 

 'Karl von Moor might chance to form an era on the stage; except a few speculations, which, however, work as indispensable colours in the general picture, he is all action, all visible life. Spiegelberg, Schweitzer, Hermann, are, in the strictest sense, personages for the stage; in a less degree, Amelia and the Father. 

 'Written and oral criticisms I have endeavoured to turn to advantage. The alterations are important; certain scenes are altogether new. Of this number, are Hermann's counter-plots to undermine the schemes of Franz; his interview with that personage, which, in the first composition of the work, was entirely and very unhappily forgotten. His interview with Amelia in the garden has been postponed to the succeeding act; and my friends tell me that I could have fixed upon no better act than this, no better time than a few moments prior to the meeting of Amelia with Moor. Franz is brought a little nearer human nature; but the mode of it is rather strange. A scene like his condemnation in the fifth act has never, to my knowledge, been exhibited on any stage; and the same may be said of the scene where Amelia is sacrificed by her lover. 

 'If the piece should be too long, it stands at the discretion of the manager to abbreviate the speculative parts of it, or here and there, without prejudice to the general impression, to omit them altogether. But in the _printing_, I use the freedom humbly to protest against the leaving out of anything. I had satisfactory reasons of my own for all that I allowed to pass; and my submission to the stage does not extend so far, that I can leave _holes_ in my work, and mutilate the characters of men for the convenience of actors. 

 'In regard to the selection of costume, without wishing to prescribe any rules, I may be permitted to remark, that though in nature dress is unimportant, on the stage it is never so. In this particular, the taste of my Robber Moor will not be difficult to hit. He wears a plume; for this is mentioned expressly in the play, at the time when he abdicates his office. I have also given him a baton. His dress should always be noble without ornament, unstudied but not negligent. 

 'A young but excellent composer is working at a symphony for my unhappy prodigal: I know it will be masterly. So soon as it is finished, I shall take the liberty of offering it to you. 

 'I must also beg you to excuse the irregular state of the manuscript, the incorrectness of the penmanship. I was in haste to get the piece ready for you; hence the double sort of handwriting in it; hence also my forbearing to correct it. My copyist, according to the custom of all _reforming_ caligraphers, I find, has wofully abused the spelling. To conclude, I recommend myself and my endeavours to the kindness of an honoured judge. I am, ' &c. 

 'Stuttgard, 12th December 1781. 

 'With the change projected by your Excellency, in regard to the publishing of my play, I feel entirely contented, especially as I perceive that by this means two interests that had become very alien, are again made one, without, as I hope, any prejudice to the results and the success of my work. Your Excellency, however, touches on some other _very_ weighty changes, which the piece has undergone from your hands; and these, in respect of myself, I feel to be so important, that I shall beg to explain my mind at some length regarding them. At the outset, then, I must honestly confess to you, I hold the projected transference of the action represented in my play to the epoch of the _Landfried_, and the Suppression of Private Wars, with the whole accompaniment which it gains by this new position, as infinitely better than mine; and must hold it so, although the whole piece should go to ruin thereby. Doubtless it is an objection, that in our enlightened century, with our watchful police and fixedness of statute, such a reckless gang should have arisen in the very bosom of the laws, and still more, have taken root and subsisted for years: doubtless the objection is well founded, and I have nothing to allege against it, but the license of Poetry to raise the probabilities of the real world to the rank of true, and its possibilities to the rank of probable. 

 'This excuse, it must be owned, is little adequate to the objection it opposes. But when I grant your Excellency so much (and I grant it honestly, and with complete conviction), what will follow? Simply that my play has got an ugly fault at its birth, which fault, if I may say so, it must carry with it to its grave, the fault being interwoven with its very nature, and not to be removed without destruction of the whole. 

 'In the first place, all my personages speak in a style too modern, too enlightened for that ancient time. The dialect is not the right one. That simplicity so vividly presented to us by the author of _Götz von Berlichingen_, is altogether wanting. Many long tirades, touches great and small, nay entire characters, are taken from the aspect of the present world, and would not answer for the age of Maximilian. In a word, this change would reduce the piece into something like a certain woodcut which I remember meeting with in an edition of Virgil. The Trojans wore hussar boots, and King Agamemnon had a pair of pistols in his belt. I should commit a _crime_ against the age of Maximilian, to avoid an _error_ against the age of Frederick the Second. 

 'Again, my whole episode of Amelia's love would make a frightful contrast with the simple chivalry attachment of that period. Amelia would, at all hazards, need to be re-moulded into a chivalry maiden; and I need not tell you that this character, and the sort of love which reigns in my work, are so deeply and broadly tinted into the whole picture of the Robber Moor, nay, into the whole piece, that every part of the delineation would require to be re-painted, before those tints could be removed. So likewise is it with the character of Franz, that speculative, metaphysico-refining knave. 

 'In a word, I think I may affirm, that this projected transposition of my work, which, prior to the commencement, would have lent it the highest splendour and completeness, could not fail now, when the piece is planned and finished, to change it into a defective _quodlibet_, a crow with peacock's feathers. 

 'Your Excellency will forgive a father this earnest pleading in behalf of his son. These are but words, and in the long-run every theatre can make of any piece what they think proper; the author must content himself. In the present case, he looks upon it as a happiness that he has fallen into such hands. With Herr Schwann, however, I will make it a condition that, at least, he _print_ the piece according to the first plan. In the theatre I pretend to no vote whatever. 

 'That other change relating to Amelia's death was perhaps even more interesting to me. Believe me, your Excellency, this was the portion of my play which cost me the greatest effort and deliberation, of all which the result was nothing else than this, that Moor _must_ kill his Amelia, and that the action is even a _positive beauty_, in his character; on the one hand painting the ardent lover, on the other the Bandit Captain, with the liveliest colours. But the vindication of this part is not to be exhausted in a single letter. For the rest, the few words which you propose to substitute in place of this scene, are truly exquisite, and altogether worthy of the situation. I should be proud of having written them. 

 'As Herr Schwann informs me that the piece, with the music and indispensably necessary pauses, will last about five hours (too long for any piece!), a second curtailment of it will be called for. I should not wish that any but myself undertook this task, and I myself, _without the sight of a rehearsal, or of the first representation_, cannot undertake it. 

 'If it were possible that your Excellency could fix the general rehearsal of the piece some time between the twentieth and the thirtieth of this month, and make good to me the main expenses of a journey to you, I should hope, in some few days, I might unite the interest of the stage with my own, and give the piece that proper rounding-off, which, without an actual view of the representation, cannot well be given it. On this point, may I request the favour of your Excellency's decision soon, that I may be prepared for the event. 

 'Herr Schwann writes me that a Baron von Gemmingen has given himself the trouble and done me the honour to read my piece. This Herr von Gemmingen, I also hear, is author of the _Deutsche Hausvater_. I long to have the honour of assuring him that I liked his _Hausvater_ uncommonly, and admired in it the traces of a most accomplished man and writer. But what does the author of the _Deutsche Hausvater_ care about the babble of a young apprentice? If I should ever have the honour of meeting Dalberg at Mannheim, and testifying the affection and reverence I bear him, I will then also press into the arms of that other, and tell him how dear to me such souls are as Dalberg and Gemmingen. 

 'Your thought about the small Advertisement, before our production of the piece, I exceedingly approve of; along with this I have enclosed a sketch of one. For the rest, I have the honour, with perfect respect, to be always, ' &c. 

 This is the enclosed scheme of an Advertisement; which was afterwards adopted:

 'THE ROBBERS, 'A PLAY. 

 'The picture of a great, misguided soul, furnished with every gift for excellence, and lost in spite of all its gifts: unchecked ardour and bad companionship contaminate his heart; hurry him from vice to vice, till at last he stands at the head of a gang of murderers, heaps horror upon horror, plunges from abyss to abyss into all the depths of desperation. Great and majestic in misfortune; and by misfortune improved, led back to virtue. Such a man in the Robber Moor you shall "bewail and hate, abhor and love. A hypocritical, malicious deceiver, you shall likewise see unmasked, and blown to pieces in his own mines. A feeble, fond, and too indulgent father. The sorrows of enthusiastic love, and the torture of ungoverned passion. Here also, not without abhorrence, you shall cast a look into the interior economy of vice, and from the stage be taught how all the gilding of fortune cannot kill the inward worm; how terror, anguish, remorse, and despair follow close upon the heels of the wicked. Let the spectator weep today before our scene, and shudder, and learn to bend his passions under the laws of reason and religion. Let the youth behold with affright the end of unbridled extravagance; nor let the man depart from our theatre, without a feeling that Providence makes even villains instruments of His purposes and judgments, and can marvellously unravel the most intricate perplexities of fate. '

Whatever reverence Schiller entertained for Dalberg as a critic and apatron, and however ready to adopt his alterations when they seemedjudicious, it is plain, from various passages of these extracts, thatin regard to writing, he had also firm persuasions of his own, andconscientiousness enough to adhere to them while they continued such. In regard to the conducting of his life, his views as yet were farless clear. The following fragments serve to trace him from the firstexhibition of his play at Mannheim to his flight from Stuttgard:

 'Stuttgard, 17th January 1782. 

 'I here in writing repeat my warmest thanks for the courtesies received from your Excellency, for your attention to my slender efforts, for the dignity and splendour you bestowed upon my piece, for all your Excellency did to exalt its little merits and hide its weaknesses by the greatest outlay of theatric art. The shortness of my stay at Mannheim would not allow me to go into details respecting the play or its representation; and as I could not say all, my time being meted out to me so sparingly, I thought it better to say absolutely nothing. I observed much, I learned much; and I believe, if Germany shall ever find in me a true dramatic poet, I must reckon the date of my commencement from the past week. ' * * *

 * * * * *

 'Stuttgard, 24th May 1782. 

 * * * 'My impatient wish to see the piece played a second time, and the absence of my Sovereign favouring that purpose, have induced me, with some ladies and male friends as full of curiosity respecting Dalberg's theatre and _Robbers_ as myself, to undertake a little journey to Mannheim, which we are to set about tomorrow. As this is the principal aim of our journey, and to me a more perfect enjoyment of my play is an exceedingly important object, especially since this would put it in my power to set about _Fiesco_ under better auspices, I make it my earnest request of your Excellency, if possible, to procure me this enjoyment on Tuesday the 28th current. ' * * *

 * * * * *

 'Stuttgard, 4th June 1782. 

 'The satisfaction I enjoyed at Mannheim in such copious fulness, I have paid, since my return, by this epidemical disorder, which has made me till today entirely unfit to thank your Excellency for so much regard and kindness. And yet I am forced almost to repent the happiest journey of my life; for by a truly mortifying contrast of Mannheim with my native country, it has pained me so much, that Stuttgard and all Swabian scenes are become intolerable to me. Unhappier than I am can no one be. I have feeling enough of my bad condition, perhaps also feeling enough of my meriting a better; and in both points of view but _one_ prospect of relief. 

 'May I dare to cast myself into your arms, my generous benefactor? I know how soon your noble heart inflames when sympathy and humanity appeal to it; I know how strong your courage is to undertake a noble action, and how warm your zeal to finish it. My new friends in Mannheim, whose respect for you is boundless, told me this: but their assurance was not necessary; I myself in that hour of your time, which I had the happiness exclusively to enjoy, read in your countenance far more than they had told me. It is this which makes me bold to _give_ myself without reserve to you, to put my whole fate into your hands, and look to you for the happiness of my life. As yet I am little or nothing. In this Arctic Zone of taste, I shall never grow to anything, unless happier stars and a _Grecian climate_ warm me into genuine poetry. Need I say more, to expect from Dalberg all support?

 'Your Excellency gave me every hope to this effect; the squeeze of the hand that sealed your promise, I shall forever feel. If your Excellency will adopt the two or three hints I have subjoined, and use them in a letter to the Duke, I have no very great misgivings as to the result. 

 'And now with a burning heart, I repeat the request, the soul of all this letter. Could you look into the interior of my soul, could you see what feelings agitate it, could I paint to you in proper colours how my spirit strains against the grievances of my condition, you would not, I know you would not, delay one hour the aid which an application from you to the Duke might procure me. 

 'Again I throw myself into your arms, and wish nothing more than soon, very soon, to have it in my power to show by personal exertions in your service, the reverence with which I could devote to you myself and all that I am. '

The 'hints' above alluded to, are given in a separate enclosure, themain part of which is this:

 'I earnestly desire that you could secure my union with the Mannheim Theatre for a specified period (which at your request might be lengthened), at the end of which I might again belong to the Duke. It will thus have the air rather of an excursion than a final abdication of my country, and will not strike them so ungraciously. In this case, however, it would be useful to suggest that means of practising and studying medicine might be afforded me at Mannheim. This will be peculiarly necessary, lest they sham, and higgle about letting me away. '

 'Stuttgard, 15th July 1782. 

 'My long silence must have almost drawn upon me the reproach of folly from your Excellency, especially as I have not only delayed answering your last kind letter, but also retained the two books by me. All this was occasioned by a harassing affair which I have had to do with here. Your Excellency will doubtless be surprised when you learn that, for my last journey to you, I have been confined a fortnight under arrest. Everything was punctually communicated to the Duke. On this matter I have had an interview with him. 

 'If your Excellency think my prospects of coming to you anywise attainable, my only prayer is to _accelerate the fulfilment of them_. The reason why I now wish this with double earnestness, is one which I dare trust no whisper of to paper. This alone I can declare for certain, that within a month or two, if I have not the happiness of being with you, there will remain no further hope of my ever being there. Ere that time, I shall be forced to take a _step_, which will render it impossible for me to stay at Mannheim. ' * * *

 * * * * *

The next two extracts are from letters to another correspondent. Doering quotes them without name or date: their purport sufficientlypoints out their place. 

 'I must haste to get away from this: in the end they might find me an apartment in the Hohenasperg, as they have found the honest and ill-fated Schubart. They talk of better culture that I need. It is possible enough, they might cultivate me differently in Hohenasperg: but I had rather try to make shift with what culture I have got, or may still get, by my unassisted efforts. This at least I owe to no one but my own free choice, and volition that disdains constraint. '

 * * * * *

 'In regard to those affairs, concerning which they wish to put my spirit under wardship, I have long reckoned my minority to be concluded. The best of it is, that one can cast away such clumsy manacles: me at least they shall not fetter. '

 * * * * *

 [No date. ]

 'Your Excellency will have learned from my friends at Mannheim, what the history of my affairs was up to your arrival, which unhappily I could not wait for. When I tell you _that I am flying my country_, I have painted my whole fortune. But the worst is yet behind. I have not the necessary _means_ of setting my mishap at defiance. For the sake of safety, I had to withdraw from Stuttgard with the utmost speed, at the time of the Prince's arrival. Thus were my economical arrangements suddenly snapped asunder: I could not even pay my debts. My hopes had been set on a removal to Mannheim; there I trusted, by your Excellency's assistance, that my new play might not only have cleared me of debt, but have permanently put me into better circumstances. All this was frustrated by the necessity for hastening my removal. I went empty away; empty in purse and hope. I blush at being forced to make such disclosures to you; though I know they do not disgrace me. Sad enough for me to see realised in myself the hateful saying, that mental growth and full stature are things denied to every Swabian!

 'If my former conduct, if all that your Excellency knows of my character, inspires you with confidence in my love of honour, permit me frankly to ask your assistance. Pressingly as I now need the profit I expect from my _Fiesco_, it will be impossible for me to have the piece in readiness before three weeks: my heart was oppressed; the feeling of my own situation drove me back from my poetic dreams. But if at the specified period, I could make the play not only _ready_, but, as I also hope, _worthy_, I take courage from that persuasion, respectfully to ask that your Excellency would be so obliging as _advance_ for me the price that will then become due. I need it now, perhaps more than I shall ever do again throughout my life. I had near 200 florins of debt in Stuttgard, which I could not pay. I may confess to you, that this gives me more uneasiness than anything about my future destiny. I shall have no rest till I am free on _that_ side. 

 'In eight days, too, my travelling purse will be exhausted. It is yet utterly impossible for me to labour with my mind. In my hand, therefore, are at present no resources. 

 * * * * *

 'My actual situation being clear enough from what I have already said, I hold it needless to afflict your Excellency with any _importuning picture_ of my want. Speedy aid is all that I can now think of or wish. Herr Meyer has been requested to communicate your Excellency's resolution to me, and to save you from the task of writing to me in person at all. With peculiar respect, I call myself, ' &c. 

 * * * * *

It is pleasing to record that the humble aid so earnestly and modestlysolicited by Schiller, was afforded him; and that he never forgot tolove the man who had afforded it; who had assisted him, whenassistance was of such essential value. In the first fervour of hisgratitude, for this and other favours, the poet warmly declared that'he owed all, all to Dalberg;' and in a state of society wherePatronage, as Miss Edgeworth has observed, directly the antipodes ofMercy, is in general 'twice cursed, ' cursing him that gives and himthat takes, it says not a little for the character both of the obligedand the obliger in the present instance, that neither of them everceased to remember their connexion with pleasure. Schiller's firstplay had been introduced to the Stage by Dalberg, and his last wasdedicated to him. [69] The venerable critic, in his eighty-third year, must have received with a calm joy the tragedy of _Tell_, accompaniedby an address so full of kindness and respect: it must have gratifiedhim to think that the youth who was once his, and had now become theworld's, could, after long experience, still say of him, And fearlessly to thee may _Tell_ be shown, For every noble feeling is thy own. 

 [Footnote 69: It clearly appears I am wrong here; I have confounded the Freiherr Wolfgang Heribert von Dalberg, Director of the Mannheim Theatre, with Archduke and _Fürst Primas_ Karl Theodor Dalberg, his younger Brother, —a man justly eminent in the Politico-Ecclesiastical world of his time, and still more distinguished for his patronage of letters, and other benefactions to his country, than the Freiherr was. Neither is the play of _Tell_ 'dedicated' to him, as stated in the text; there is merely a copy presented, with some verses by the Author inscribed in it; at which time Karl Theodor was in his _sixtieth_ year. A man of conspicuous station, of wide activity, and high influence and esteem in Germany. He was the personal friend of Herder, Goethe, Schiller, Wieland; by Napoleon he was made _Fürst Primas_, Prince Primate of the Confederation of the Rhine, being already Archbishop, Elector of Mentz, &c. The good and brave deeds he did in his time appear to have been many, public and private. Pensions to deserving men of letters were among the number: Zacharias Werner, I remember, had a pension from him, —and still more to the purpose, Jean Paul. He died in 1817. There was a third Brother also memorable for his encouragement of Letters and Arts. "_Ist kein Dalberg da_, Is there no Dalberg here?" the Herald cries on a certain occasion. (See _Conv. Lexicon_, B. Iii. )

 To Sir Edward Bulwer, in his _Sketch of the Life of Schiller_ (p. C. ), I am indebted for very kindly pointing out this error; as well as for much other satisfaction derived from that work. (_Note of_ 1845. )]

Except this early correspondence, very few of Schiller's letters havebeen given to the world. [70] In Doering's Appendix, we have found onewritten six years after the poet's voluntary exile, and agreeablycontrasted in its purport with the agitation and despondency of thatunhappy period. We translate it for the sake of those who, along withus, regret that while the world is deluged with insipidcorrespondences, and 'pictures of mind' that were not worth drawing, the correspondence of a man who never wrote unwisely should liemouldering in private repositories, ere long to be irretrievablydestroyed; that the 'picture of a mind' who was among the conscriptfathers of the human race should still be left so vague and dim. Thisletter is addressed to Schwann, during Schiller's first residence inWeimar: it has already been referred to in the Text. 

 [Footnote 70: There have since been copious contributions: _Correspondence with Goethe, Correspondence with Madam von Wolzogen_, and perhaps others which I have not seen. (_Note of_ 1845. )]

 * * * * *

 'Weimar, 2d May 1788. 

 'You apologise for your long silence to spare _me_ the pain of an apology. I feel this kindness, and thank you for it. You do not impute my silence to decay of friendship; a proof that you have read my heart more justly than my evil conscience allowed me to hope. Continue to believe that the memory of you lives ineffaceably in my mind, and needs not to be brightened up by the routine of visits, or letters of assurance. So no more of this. 

 'The peace and calmness of existence which breathes throughout your letter, gives me joy; I who am yet drifting to and fro between wind and waves, am forced to envy you that uniformity, that health of soul and body. To me also in time it will be granted, as a recompense for labours I have yet to undergo. 

 'I have now been in Weimar nearly three quarters of a year: after finishing my _Carlos_, I at last accomplished this long-projected journey. To speak honestly, I cannot say but that I am exceedingly contented with the place; and my reasons are not difficult to see. 

 'The utmost political tranquillity and freedom, a very tolerable disposition in the people, little constraint in social intercourse, a select circle of interesting persons and thinking heads, the respect paid to literary diligence: add to this the unexpensiveness to me of such a town as Weimar. Why should I not be satisfied?

 'With Wieland I am pretty intimate, and to him I must attribute no small influence on my present happiness; for I like him, and have reason to believe that he likes me in return. My intercourse with Herder is more limited, though I esteem him highly as a writer and a man. It is the caprice of chance alone which causes this; for we opened our acquaintance under happy enough omens. Besides, I have not always time to act according to my likings. With Bode no one can be very friendly. I know not whether you think here as I do. Goethe is still but _expected_ out of Italy. The Duchess Dowager is a lady of sense and talent, in whose society one does not feel constrained. 

 'I thank you for your tidings of the fate of _Carlos_ on your stage. To speak candidly, my hopes of its success on any stage were not high; and I know my reasons. It is but fair that the Goddess of the Theatre avenge herself on me, for the little gallantry with which I was inspired in writing. In the mean time, though _Carlos_ prove a never so decided failure on the stage, I engage for it, our public shall see it ten times acted, before they understand and fully estimate the merit that should counterbalance its defects. When one has seen the beauty of a work, and not till then, I think one is entitled to pronounce on its deformity. I hear, however, that the second representation succeeded better than the first. This arises either from the changes made upon the piece by Dalberg, or from the fact, that on a second view, the public comprehended certain things, which on a first, they—did not comprehend. 

 'For the rest, no one can be more satisfied than I am that _Carlos_, from causes honourable as well as causes dishonorable to it, is no speculation for the stage. Its very length were enough to banish it. Nor was it out of confidence or self-love that I forced the piece on such a trial; perhaps out of self-interest rather. If in the affair my vanity played any part, it was in this, that I thought the work had solid stuff in it sufficient to outweigh its sorry fortune on the boards. 

 'The present of your portrait gives me true pleasure. I think it a striking likeness; that of Schubart a little less so, though this opinion may proceed from my faulty memory as much as from the faultiness of Lobauer's drawing. The engraver merits all attention and encouragement; what I can do for the extension of his good repute shall not be wanting. 

 'To your dear children present my warmest love. At Wieland's I hear much and often of _your eldest daughter_; there in a few days she has won no little estimation and affection. Do I still hold any place in her remembrance? Indeed, I ought to blush, that by my long silence I so ill deserve it. 

 'That you are going to my dear native country, and will not pass my Father without seeing him, was most welcome news to me. The Swabians are a good people; this I more and more discover, the more I grow acquainted with the other provinces of Germany. To my family you will be cordially welcome. Will you take a pack of compliments from me to them? Salute my Father in my name; to my Mother and my Sisters _your daughter_ will take my kiss. '

 * * * * *

'And with these hearty words, ' as Doering says, 'we shall concludethis paper. '

 FRIENDSHIP WITH GOETHE. 

The history of Schiller's first intercourse with Goethe has beenrecorded by the latter in a paper published a few years ago in the_Morphologie_, a periodical work, which we believe he stilloccasionally continues, or purposes to continue. The paper is entitled_Happy Incident_; and may be found in Part I. Volume 1 (pp. 90-96) ofthe work referred to. The introductory portion of it we have insertedin the text at page 109; the remainder, relating to certain scientificmatters, and anticipating some facts of our narrative, we judged itbetter to reserve for the Appendix. After mentioning the publicationof _Don Carlos_, and adding that 'each continued to go on his wayapart, ' he proceeds:

 'His Essay on _Grace and Dignity_ was yet less of a kind to reconcile me. The Philosophy of Kant, which exalts the dignity of mind so highly, while appearing to restrict it, Schiller had joyfully embraced: it unfolded the extraordinary qualities which Nature had implanted in him; and in the lively feeling of freedom and self-direction, he showed himself unthankful to the Great Mother, who surely had not acted like a step-dame towards him. Instead of viewing her as self-subsisting, as producing with a living force, and according to appointed laws, alike the highest and the lowest of her works, he took her up under the aspect of some empirical native qualities of the human mind. Certain harsh passages I could even directly apply to myself: they exhibited my confession of faith in a false light; and I felt that if written without particular attention to me, they were still worse; for in that case, the vast chasm which lay between us gaped but so much the more distinctly. 

 'There was no union to be dreamed of. Even the mild persuasion of Dalberg, who valued Schiller as he ought, was fruitless: indeed the reasons I set forth against any project of a union were difficult to contradict. No one could deny that between two spiritual antipodes there was more intervening than a simple diameter of the sphere: antipodes of that sort act as a sort of poles, and so can never coalesce. But that some relation may exist between them will appear from what follows. 

 'Schiller went to live at Jena, where I still continued unacquainted with him. About this time Batsch had set in motion a Society for Natural History, aided by some handsome collections, and an extensive apparatus. I used to attend their periodical meetings: one day I found Schiller there; we happened to go out together; some discourse arose between us. He appeared to take an interest in what had been exhibited; but observed, with great acuteness and good sense, and much to my satisfaction, that such a disconnected way of treating Nature was by no means grateful to the exoteric, who desired to penetrate her mysteries. 

 'I answered, that perhaps the initiated themselves were never rightly at their ease in it, and that there surely was another way of representing Nature, not separated and disunited, but active and alive, and expanding from the whole into the parts. On this point he requested explanations, but did not hide his doubts; he would not allow that such a mode, as I was recommending, had been already pointed out by experiment. 

 'We reached his house; the talk induced me to go in. I then expounded to him with as much vivacity as possible, the _Metamorphosis of Plants_, [71] drawing out on paper, with many characteristic strokes, a symbolic Plant for him, as I proceeded. He heard and saw all this with much interest and distinct comprehension; but when I had done, he shook his head and said: "This is no experiment, this is an idea. " I stopped with some degree of irritation; for the point which separated us was most luminously marked by this expression. The opinions in _Dignity and Grace_ again occurred to me; the old grudge was just awakening; but I smothered it, and merely said: "I was happy to find that I had got ideas without knowing it, nay that I saw them before my eyes. "

 [Footnote 71: A curious physiologico-botanical theory by Goethe, which appears to be entirely unknown in this country; though several eminent continental botanists have noticed it with commendation. It is explained at considerable length in this same _Morphologie_. ]

 'Schiller had much more prudence and dexterity of management than I: he was also thinking of his periodical the _Horen_, about this time, and of course rather wished to attract than repel me. Accordingly he answered me like an accomplished Kantite; and as my stiff necked Realism gave occasion to many contradictions, much battling took place between us, and at last a truce, in which neither party would consent to yield the victory, but each held himself invincible. Positions like the following grieved me to the very soul: _How can there ever be an experiment that shall correspond with an idea? The specific quality of an idea is, that no experiment can reach it or agree with it. _ Yet if he held as an idea the same thing which I looked upon as an experiment, there must certainly, I thought, be some community between us, some ground whereon both of us might meet! The first step was now taken; Schiller's attractive power was great, he held all firmly to him that came within his reach: I expressed an interest in his purposes, and promised to give out in the _Horen_ many notions that were lying in my head; his wife, whom I had loved and valued since her childhood, did her part to strengthen our reciprocal intelligence; all friends on both sides rejoiced in it; and thus by means of that mighty and interminable controversy between _object_ and _subject_, we two concluded an alliance, which remained unbroken, and produced much benefit to ourselves and others. '

The friendship of Schiller and Goethe forms so delightful a chapter intheir history, that we long for more and more details respecting it. Sincerity, true estimation of each other's merit, true sympathy ineach other's character and purposes appear to have formed the basis ofit, and maintained it unimpaired to the end. Goethe, we are told, wasminute and sedulous in his attention to Schiller, whom he venerated asa good man and sympathised with as an afflicted one: when in mixedcompanies together, he constantly endeavoured to draw out the storesof his modest and retiring friend; or to guard his sick and sensitivemind from annoyances that might have irritated him; now softening, nowexciting conversation, guiding it with the address of a gifted andpolished man, or lashing out of it with the scorpion-whip of hissatire much that would have vexed the more soft and simple spirit ofthe valetudinarian. These are things which it is good to think of: itis good to know that there _are_ literary men, who have otherprinciples besides vanity; who can divide the approbation of theirfellow mortals, without quarrelling over the lots; who in theirsolicitude about their 'fame' do not forget the common charities ofnature, in exchange for which the 'fame' of most authors were but apoor bargain. 

 No. 4. Page 125. 

 DEATH OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. 

As a specimen of Schiller's historical style, we have extracted a fewscenes from his masterly description of the Battle of Lützen. Thewhole forms a picture, executed in the spirit of Salvator; and thoughthis is but a fragment, the importance of the figure represented in itwill perhaps counterbalance that deficiency. 

'At last the dreaded morning dawned; but a thick fog, which laybrooding over all the field, delayed the attack till noon. Kneeling infront of his lines, the King offered up his devotions; the whole army, at the same moment, dropping on their right knees, uplifted a movinghymn, and the field-music accompanied their singing. The King thenmounted his horse; dressed in a jerkin of buff, with a surtout (for alate wound hindered him from wearing armour), he rode through theranks, rousing the courage of his troops to a cheerful confidence, which his own forecasting bosom contradicted. _God with us_ was thebattle-word of the Swedes; that of the Imperialists was _Jesus Maria_. About eleven o'clock, the fog began to break, and Wallenstein's linesbecame visible. At the same time, too, were seen the flames of Lützen, which the Duke had ordered to be set on fire, that he might not beoutflanked on this side. At length the signal pealed; the horse dashedforward on the enemy; the infantry advanced against his trenches. 

 * * * * *

'Meanwhile the right wing, led on by the King in person, had fallenon the left wing of the Friedlanders. The first strong onset of theheavy Finland Cuirassiers scattered the light-mounted Poles andCroats, who were stationed here, and their tumultuous flight spreadfear and disorder over the rest of the cavalry. At this moment noticereached the King that his infantry were losing ground, and likely tobe driven back from the trenches they had stormed; and also that hisleft, exposed to a tremendous fire from the Windmills behind Lützen, could no longer keep their place. With quick decision, he committed toVon Horn the task of pursuing the already beaten left wing of theenemy; and himself hastened, at the head of Steinbock's regiment, torestore the confusion of his own. His gallant horse bore him over thetrenches with the speed of lightning; but the squadrons that cameafter him could not pass so rapidly; and none but a few horsemen, among whom Franz Albert, Duke of Sachsen-Lauenburg, is mentioned, werealert enough to keep beside him. He galloped right to the place wherehis infantry was most oppressed; and while looking round to spy outsome weak point, on which his attack might be directed, hisshort-sightedness led him too near the enemy's lines. An Imperialsergeant (_gefreiter_), observing that every one respectfully maderoom for the advancing horseman, ordered a musketeer to fire on him. "Aim at _him_ there, " cried he; "that must be a man of consequence. "The soldier drew his trigger; and the King's left arm was shattered bythe ball. At this instant, his cavalry came galloping up, and aconfused cry of "_The King bleeds! The King is shot!_" spread horrorand dismay through their ranks. "It is nothing: follow me!" exclaimedthe King, collecting all his strength; but overcome with pain, and onthe point of fainting, he desired the Duke of Lauenburg, in French, totake him without notice from the tumult. The Duke then turned with himto the right wing, making a wide circuit to conceal this accident fromthe desponding infantry; but as they rode along, the King received asecond bullet through the back, which took from him the last remainderof his strength. "I have got enough, brother, " said he with a dyingvoice: "haste, save thyself. " With these words he sank from his horse;and here, struck by several other bullets, far from his attendants, hebreathed out his life beneath the plundering hands of a troop ofCroats. His horse flying on without its rider, and bathed in blood, soon announced to the Swedish cavalry the fall of their King; withwild yells they rush to the spot, to snatch that sacred spoil from theenemy. A deadly fight ensues around the corpse, and the mangledremains are buried under a hill of slain men. 

'The dreadful tidings hasten in a few minutes over all the Swedisharmy: but instead of deadening the courage of these hardy troops, theyrouse it to a fierce consuming fire. Life falls in value, since theholiest of all lives is gone; and death has now no terror for thelowly, since it has not spared the anointed head. With the grim furyof lions, the Upland, Smäland, Finnish, East and West Gothlandregiments dash a second time upon the left wing of the enemy, which, already making but a feeble opposition to Von Horn, is now utterlydriven from the field. 

 * * * * *

'But how dear a victory, how sad a triumph! Now first when the rage ofbattle has grown cold, do they feel the whole greatness of their loss, and the shout of the conqueror dies in a mute and gloomy despair. Hewho led them on to battle has not returned with them. Apart he lies, in his victorious field, confounded with the common heaps of humbledead. After long fruitless searching, they found the royal corpse, notfar from the great stone, which had already stood for centuriesbetween Lützen and the Merseburg Canal, but which, ever since thismemorable incident, has borne the name of _Schwedenstein_, the Stoneof the Swede. Defaced with wounds and blood, so as scarcely to berecognised, trodden under the hoofs of horses, stripped of hisornaments, even of his clothes, he is drawn from beneath a heap ofdead bodies, brought to Weissenfels, and there delivered to thelamentations of his troops and the last embraces of his Queen. Vengeance had first required its tribute, and blood must flow as anoffering to the Monarch; now Love assumes its rights, and mild tearsare shed for the Man. Individual grief is lost in the universalsorrow. Astounded by this overwhelming stroke, the generals in blankdespondency stand round his bier, and none yet ventures to conceivethe full extent of his loss. '

The descriptive powers of the Historian, though the most popular, areamong the lowest of his endowments. That Schiller was not wanting inthe nobler requisites of his art, might he proved from his reflectionson this very incident, 'striking like a hand from the clouds into thecalculated horologe of men's affairs, and directing the consideratemind to a higher plan of things. ' But the limits of our Work arealready reached. Of Schiller's histories and dramas we can give nofarther specimens: of his lyrical, didactic, moral poems we must takeour leave without giving any. Perhaps the time may come, when all hiswritings, transplanted to our own soil, may be offered in their entiredimensions to the thinkers of these Islands; a conquest by which ourliterature, rich as it is, might be enriched still farther. 

 APPENDIX II. 

The preceding Appendix, which is here marked "Appendix _First_, " hashitherto, in all Editions, been the only one, and has ended the Book. As indeed, for the common run of English readers, it still essentiallymay, or even must. But now, for a more select class, and oninducements that are accidental and peculiar, there is, in this finalor farewell Edition, which stands without change otherwise, somethingto be added as Appendix _Second_, by the opportunity that offers. 

Schiller has now many readers of his own in England: perhaps the mostand best that read this my poor Account of his _Life_ know somethingof Germany and him at first-hand; and have their curiosity awake inregard to things German:—to such readers, if not to others, I canexpect that the following Reprint or Reproduction of a Piece from thegreatest of Germans, which connects itself with Schiller and this Bookon Schiller, may not be unwelcome. To myself it has become symbolical, touching and memorable; and much invites my insertion of it here, since there happens to be room. 

Certainly an interesting little circumstance in the history of thisBook, and to me the one circumstance that now has any interest, is, That a German Translation of it had the altogether unexpected honourof an Introductory Preface by Goethe, in the last years of his life. Abeautiful small event to me and mine, in our then remote circle;coming suddenly upon us, like a little outbreak of sunshine and azure, in the common gray element there! It was one of the more salientpoints of a certain individual relation, and far-off personalintercourse, which had arisen some years before, with the great manwhom we had never seen, and never saw; and which was very beautiful, high, singular and dear to us, —to myself, and to ANOTHER who is notwith me now. A little gleam as of celestial radiancy, miraculousalmost, but indisputable, shining out on us always from time to time;somewhat ennobling for us the much of impediment that lay there, andforbidding it altogether to impede. Truly there are few things I nowremember with a more bright or pious feeling than our then relation, amid the Scottish moors, to the man whom of all others I the mosthonoured, and felt that I was the most indebted to. Looking back onall this, through the vista of almost forty years, and what they havebrought and have taken, I decide to reproduce this Goethe_Introduction_, as a little pillar of memorial, while time yet is. 

Many of my present readers, too, readers especially of this Volume, may have their curiosities about the "Introduction (_Einleitung_)" ofso small a thing by so great a man (which withal is a Piece not to befound in the great man's _Collected Works_, or elsewhere that I knowof):—and will good-naturedly allow me to have my own way with it, namely to reprint it here in the original words. And will not evenquarrel with me if I reproduce in _facsimile_ those poor"_Verzierungen_ (Copperplates)" of Goethe's devising, Shadows of HumanDwellings far away; judging well how beautiful and full of meaning thepoorest of them now is to me. 

Subjoined, on the next page, is Goethe's List or 'special Indication'of these latter; the only words of his which, on this occasion, Itranslate as well (_Note of 1868_):

 'SPECIAL INDICATION OF THE LOCALITIES REPRESENTED. 

 '_Frontispiece_, Thomas Carlyle's House in the County of Dumfries, South of Scotland. 

 '_Titlepage Vignette_, The Same in the distance. 

 '_Upper-side of Cover_, Schiller's House in Weimar. 

 '_Under-side of Cover_, Solitary small Apartment in Schiller's Garden, over the Leutra Brook in Jena, built by himself; where, in the completest seclusion, he wrote many things, _Maria Stuart_ in particular. After his removal from Jena, and subsequent decease, the little Edifice was taken away as threatening to fall ruinous; and we wished here to preserve the remembrance of it. '

[Illustration]

 Nähere Bezeichnung der dargestellten Lokalitäten. 

 Titelkupfer, Thomas Carlyles Wohnung in der Graffschaft Dumfries, des südlichen Schottlands. 

 Titel-Vignette, dieselbe in der Ferne. 

 Vorderseite des Umschlags, Wohnung Schillers in Weimar. 

 Rückseite des Umschlags, einsames Häuschen in Schillers Garten, über der Jenaischen Leutra, von ihm selbst errichtet; wo er in vollkommenster Einsamkeit manches, besonders Maria Stuart schrieb. Nach seiner Entfernung und erfolgtem Scheiden, trug man es ab, wegen Wandelbarkeit, und man gedachte hier das Andenken desselben zu erhalten. 

[Illustration]

[Illustration]

 Thomas Carlyle

 Leben Schillers, aus dem Englischen;

 eingeleitet

 durch

 Goethe. 

 Frankfurt am Main, 1830. 

 Verlag von Heinrich Wilmans. 

 Der hochansehnlichen

 Gesellschaft

 für ausländische

 schöne Literatur, zu

 Berlin. 

Als gegen Ende des vergangenen Jahres ich die angenehme Nachrichterhielt, dass eine mir freundlich bekannte Gesellschaft, welche bisherihre Aufmerksamkeit inländischer Literatur gewidmet hatte, nunmehrdieselbe auf die ausländische zu wenden gedenke, konnte ich in meinerdamaligen Lage nicht ausführlich und gründlich genug darlegen, wiesehr ich ein Unternehmen, bey welchen man auch meiner auf dasgeneigteste gedacht hatte, zu schätzen wisse. 

Selbst mit gegenwärtigem öffentlichen Ausdruck meines dankbarenAntheils geschieht nur fragmentarisch was ich im bessern Zusammenhangzu überliefern gewünscht hätte. Ich will aber auch das wie es mirvorliegt nicht zurückweisen, indem ich meinen Hauptzweck dadurch zuerreichen hoffe, dass ich nämlich meine Freunde mit einem Manne inBerührung bringe, welchen ich unter diejenigen zähle, die in späterenJahren sich an mich thätig angeschlossen, mich durch einemitschreitende Theilnahme zum Handeln und Wirken aufgemuntert, unddurch ein edles, reines wohlgerichtetes Bestreben wieder selbstverjüngt, mich, der ich sie heranzog, mit sich fortgezogen haben. Esist der Verfasser des hier übersetzten Werkes, Herr #Thomas Carlyle#, ein Schotte, von dessen Thätigkeit und Vorzügen, so wie von dessennäheren Zuständen nachstehende Blätter ein Mehreres eröffnen werden. 

Wie ich denselben und meine Berliner Freunde zu kennen glaube, so wirdzwischen ihnen und ihm eine frohe wirksame Verbindung sich einleitenund beide Theile werden, wie ich hoffen darf, in einer Reihe vonJahren sich dieses Vermächtnisses und seines fruchtbaren Erfolgeszusammen erfreuen, so dass ich ein fortdauerndes Andenken, um welchesich hier schliesslich bitten möchte, schon als dauernd gegönnt, mitanmuthigen Empfindungen voraus geniessen kann. 

in treuer Anhänglichkeit und Theilnahme. 

Weimar April1830. 

#J. W. V. Goethe. #

Es ist schon einige Zeit von einer allgemeinen Weltliteratur die Redeund zwar nicht mit Unrecht: denn die sämmtlichen Nationen, in denfürchterlichsten Kriegen durcheinander geschüttelt, sodann wieder aufsich selbst einzeln zurückgeführt, hatten zu bemerken, dass siemanches Fremde gewahr worden, in sich aufgenommen, bisher unbekanntegeistige Bedürfnisse hie und da empfunden. Daraus entstand das Gefühlnachbarlicher Verhältnisse, und anstatt dass man sich bisherzugeschlossen hatte, kam der Geist nach und nach zu dem Verlangen, auch in den mehr oder weniger freyen geistigen Handelsverkehr mitaufgenommen zu werden. 

Diese Bewegung währt zwar erst eine kurze Weile, aber doch immer langgenug, um schon einige Betrachtungen darüber anzustellen, und aus ihrbald möglichst, wie man es im Waarenhandel ja auch thun muss, Vortheilund Genuss zu gewinnen. 

 * * * * *

Gegenwärtiges, zum Andenken #Schillers#, geschriebene Werk kann, übersetzt, für uns kaum etwas Neues bringen; der Verfasser nahm seineKenntnisse aus Schriften, die uns längst bekannt sind, so wie dennauch überhaupt die hier verhandelten Angelegenheiten bey uns öftersdurchgesprochen und durchgefochten worden. 

Was aber den Verehrern #Schillers#, und also einem jeden Deutschen, wieman kühnlich sagen darf, höchst erfreulich seyn muss, ist: unmittelbarzu erfahren, wie ein zartfühlender, strebsamer, einsichtiger Mann überdem Meere, in seinen besten Jahren, durch #Schillers# Productionenberührt, bewegt, erregt und nun zum weitern Studium der deutschenLiteratur angetrieben worden. 

Mir wenigstens war es rührend, zu sehen, wie dieser, rein und ruhigdenkende Fremde, selbst in jenen ersten, oft harten, fast rohenProductionen unsres verewigten Freundes, immer den edlen, wohldenkenden, wohlwollenden Mann gewahr ward und sich ein Ideal desvortrefflichsten Sterblichen an ihm auferbauen konnte. 

Ich halte deshalb dafür dass dieses Werk, als von einem Jünglinggeschrieben, der deutschen Jugend zu empfehlen seyn möchte: denn wennein munteres Lebensalter einen Wunsch haben darf und soll, so ist esder: in allem Geleisteten das Löbliche, Gute, Bildsame, Hochstrebende, genug das Ideelle, und selbst in dem nicht Musterhaften, dasallgemeine Musterbild der Menschheit zu erblicken. 

 * * * * *

Ferner kann uns dieses Werk von Bedeutung seyn, wenn wir ernstlichbetrachten: wie ein fremder Mann die #Schillerischen# Werke, denen wirso mannigfaltige Kultur verdanken, auch als Quelle der seinigenschätzt, verehrt und dies, ohne irgend eine Absicht, rein und ruhigzu erkennen giebt. 

Eine Bemerkung möchte sodann hier wohl am Platze seyn: dass sogardasjenige, was unter uns beynahe ausgewirkt hat, nun, gerade in demAugenblicke welcher auswärts der deutschen Literatur günstig ist, abermals seine kräftige Wirkung beginne und dadurch zeige, wie es aufeiner gewissen Stufe der Literatur immer nützlich und wirksam seynwerde. 

So sind z. B. #Herders# Ideen bey uns dergestalt in die Kenntnisse derganzen Masse übergegangen, dass nur wenige, die sie lesen, dadurcherst belehrt werden, weil sie, durch hundertfache Ableitungen, vondemjenigen was damals von grosser Bedeutung war, in anderemZusammenhange schon völlig unterrichtet worden. Dieses Werk ist vorkurzem ins Französische übersetzt; wohl in keiner andern Ueberzeugungals dass tausend gebildete Menschen in Frankreich sich immer noch andiesen Ideen zu erbauen haben. 

 * * * * *

In Bezug auf das dem gegenwärtigen Bande vorgesetzte Bild seyfolgendes gemeldet: Unser Freund, als wir mit ihm in Verhältnisstraten, war damals in Edinburgh wohnhaft, wo er in der Stille lebend, sich im besten Sinne auszubilden suchte, und, wir dürfen es ohneRuhmredigkeit sagen, in der deutschen Literatur hiezu die meisteFörderniss fand. 

Später, um sich selbst und seinen redlichen literarischen Studienunabhängig zu leben, begab er sich, etwa zehen deutsche Meilensüdlicher, ein eignes Besitzthum zu bewohnen und zu benutzen, in dieGrafschaft Dumfries. Hier, in einer gebirgigen Gegend, in welcher derFluss Nithe dem nahen Meere zuströmt, ohnfern der Stadt Dumfries, aneiner Stelle welche Craigenputtock genannt wird, schlug er mit einerschönen und höchst gebildeten Lebensgefährtin seine ländlich einfacheWohnung auf, wovon treue Nachbildungen eigentlich die Veranlassung zugegenwärtigem Vorworte gegeben haben. 

 * * * * *

Gebildete Geister, zartfühlende Gemüther, welche nach fernem Gutensich bestreben, in die Ferne Gutes zu wirken geneigt sind, erwehrensich kaum des Wunsches, von geehrten, geliebten, weitabgesondertenPersonen das Portrait, sodann die Abbildung ihrer Wohnung, so wie dernächsten Zustände, sich vor Augen gebracht zu sehen. 

Wie oft wiederholt man noch heutiges Tags die Abbildung von Petrarch'sAufenthalt in Vaucluse, Tasso's Wohnung in Sorent! Und ist nicht immerdie Bieler Insel, der Schutzort Rousseau's, ein seinen Verehrern niegenugsam dargestelltes Local?

In eben diesem Sinne hab' ich mir die Umgebungen meiner entferntenFreunde im Bilde zu verschaffen gesucht, und ich war um so mehr aufdie Wohnung Hrn. #Thomas Carlyle# begierig, als er seinen Aufenthalt ineiner fast rauhen Gebirgsgegend unter dem 55ten Grade gewählt hatte. 

Ich glaube durch solch eine treue Nachbildung der neulicheingesendeten Originalzeichnungen gegenwärtiges Buch zu zieren und demjetzigen gefühlvollen Leser, vielleicht noch mehr dem künftigen, einen freundlichen Gefallen zu erweisen und dadurch, so wie durcheingeschaltete Auszüge aus den Briefen des werthen Mannes, dasInteresse an einer edlen allgemeinen Länder- und Weltannäherung zuvermehren. 

 * * * * *

 #Thomas Carlyle# an #Goethe#. 

Craigenputtock den 25. Septbr. 1828. 

"Sie forschen mit so warmer Neigung nach unserem gegenwärtigenAufenthalt und Beschäftigung, dass ich einige Worte hierüber sagenmuss, da noch Raum dazu übrig bleibt. Dumfries ist eine artige Stadt, mit etwa 15000 Einwohnern und als Mittelpunct des Handels und derGerichtsbarkeit anzusehen eines bedeutenden Districkts in demschottischen Geschäftskreis. Unser Wohnort ist nicht darin, sondern 15Meilen (zwei Stunden zu reiten) nordwestlich davon entfernt, zwischenden Granitgebirgen und dem schwarzen Moorgefilde, welche sichwestwärts durch Gallovay meist bis an die irische See ziehen. Indieser Wüste von Heide und Felsen stellt unser Besitzthum eine grüneOase vor, einen Raum von geackertem, theilweise umzäumten undgeschmückten Boden, wo Korn reift und Bäume Schatten gewähren, obgleich ringsumher von Seemöven und hartwolligen Schaafen umgeben. Hier, mit nicht geringer Anstrengung, haben wir für uns eine reine, dauerhafte Wohnung erbaut und eingerichtet; hier wohnen wir inErmangelung einer Lehr- oder andern öffentlichen Stelle, um uns derLiteratur zu befleissigen, nach eigenen Kräften uns damit zubeschäftigen. Wir wünschen dass unsre Rosen und Gartenbüsche fröhlichheranwachsen, hoffen Gesundheit und eine friedliche Gemüthsstimmung, um uns zu fordern. Die Rosen sind freylich zum Theil noch zu pflanzen, aber sie blühen doch schon in Hoffnung. 

Zwei leichte Pferde, die uns überall hintragen, und die Bergluft sinddie besten Aerzte für zarte Nerven. Diese tägliche Bewegung, der ichsehr ergeben bin, ist meine einzige Zerstreuung; denn dieser Winkelist der einsamste in Brittanien, sechs Meilen von einer jeden Personentfernt die mich allenfalls besuchen möchte. Hier würde sich Rousseaueben so gut gefallen haben, als auf seiner Insel St. Pierre. 

Fürwahr meine städtischen Freunde schreiben mein Hierhergehen einerähnlichen Gesinnung zu und weissagen mir nichts Gutes; aber ich zoghierher, allein zu dem Zweck meine Lebensweise zu vereinfachen undeine Unabhängigkeit zu erwerben, damit ich mir selbst treu bleibenkönne. Dieser Erdraum ist unser, hier können wir leben, schreiben unddenken wie es uns am besten däucht, und wenn Zoilus selbst König derLiteratur werden sollte. 

Auch ist die Einsamkeit nicht so bedeutend, eine Lohnkutsche bringtuns leicht nach Edinburgh, das wir als unser brittisch Weimar ansehen. Habe ich denn nicht auch gegenwärtig eine ganze Ladung vonfranzösischen, deutschen, amerikanischen, englischen Journalen undZeitschriften, von welchem Werth sie auch seyn mögen, auf den Tischenmeiner kleinen Bibliothek aufgehäuft!

Auch an alterthümlichen Studien fehlt es nicht. Von einigen unsrerHöhen entdeck' ich, ohngefähr eine Tagereise westwärts, den Hügel, woAgrikola und seine Römer ein Lager zurückliessen; am Fusse desselbenwar ich geboren, wo Vater und Mutter noch leben um mich zu lieben. Undso muss man die Zeit wirken lassen. Doch wo gerath ich hin! Lassen Siemich noch gestehen, ich bin ungewiss über meine künftige literarischeThätigkeit, worüber ich gern Ihr Urtheil vernehmen möchte; gewissschreiben Sie mir wieder und bald, damit ich mich immer mit Ihnenvereint fühlen möge. "

 * * * * *

Wir, nach allen Seiten hin wohlgesinnten, nach allgemeinster Bildungstrebenden Deutschen, wir wissen schon seit vielen Jahren dieVerdienste würdiger schottischer Männer zu schätzen. Uns blieb nichtunbekannt, was sie früher in den Naturwissenschaften geleistet, worausdenn nachher die Franzosen ein so grosses Uebergewicht erlangten. 

In der neuern Zeit verfehlten wir nicht den lichen Inflowsanzuerkennen, den ihre Philosophie auf die Sinnesänderung derFranzosen ausübte, um sie von dem starren Sensualism zu einergeschmeidigern Denkart auf dem Wege des gemeinen Menschenverstandeshinzuleiten. Wir verdankten ihnen gar manche gründliche Einsicht indie wichtigsten Fächer brittischer Zustände und Bemühungen. 

Dagegen mussten wir vor nicht gar langer Zeit unsreethisch-ästhetischen Bestrebungen in ihren Zeitschriften auf eineWeise behandelt sehen, wo es zweifelhaft blieb, ob Mangel an Einsichtoder böser Wille dabey obwaltete; ob eine oberflächliche, nicht genugdurchdringende Ansicht, oder ein widerwilliges Vorurtheil im Spielesey. Dieses Ereigniss haben wir jedoch geduldig abgewartet, da uns jadergleichen im eignen Vaterlande zu ertragen genügsam von jeherauferlegt worden. 

In den letzten Jahren jedoch erfreuen uns aus jenen Gegenden dieliebevollsten Blicke, welche zu erwiedern wir uns verpflichtet fühlenund worauf wir in gegenwärtigen Blättern unsre wohldenkendenLandsleute, insofern es nöthig seyn sollte, aufmerksam zu machengedenken. 

 * * * * *

Herr #Thomas Carlyle# hatte schon den #Wilhelm Meister# übersetzt und gabsodann vorliegendes Leben #Schillers# im Jahre 1825 heraus. 

Im Jahre 1827 erschien _German Romances_ in 4 Bänden, wo er, aus denErzählungen und Mährchen deutscher Schriftsteller als: #Musäus#, #LaMotte Fouqué#, #Tieck#, #Hoffmann#, #Jean Paul# und #Goethe#, heraushob, was er seiner Nation am gemässesten zu seyn glaubte. 

Die einer jeden Abtheilung vorausgeschickten Nachrichten von demLeben, den Schriften, der Richtung des genannten Dichters undSchriftstellers geben ein Zeugniss von der einfach wohlwollendenWeise, wie der Freund sich möglichst von der Persönlichkeit und denZuständen eines jeden zu unterrichten gesucht, und wie er dadurch aufden rechten Weg gelangt, seine Kenntnisse immer mehr zuvervollständigen. 

In den Edinburgher Zeitschriften, vorzüglich in denen welcheeigentlich fremder Literatur gewidmet sind, finden sich nun, ausserden schon genannten deutschen Autoren, auch #Ernst Schulz#, #Klingemann#, #Franz Horn#, #Zacharias Werner#, Graf #Platen# und manche andere, vonverschiedenen Referenten, am meisten aber von unserm Freunde, beurtheilt und eingeführt. 

Höchst wichtig ist bey dieser Gelegenheit zu bemerken, dass sieeigentlich ein jedes Werk nur zum Text und Gelegenheit nehmen, um überdas eigentliche Feld und Fach, so wie alsdann über das besondereIndividuelle, ihre Gedanken zu eröffnen und ihr Gutachten meisterhaftabzuschliessen. 

Diese _Edinburgh Reviews_, sie seyen dem Innern und Allgemeinen, oderden auswärtigen Literaturen besonders gewidmet, haben Freunde derWissenschaften aufmerksam zu beachten; denn es ist höchst merkwürdig, wie der gründlichste Ernst mit der freysten Uebersicht, ein strengerPatriotismus mit einem einfachen reinen Freysinn, in diesen Vorträgensich gepaart findet. 

 * * * * *

Geniessen wir nun von dort, in demjenigen was uns hier so nah angeht, eine reine einfache Theilnahme an unsern ethisch-ästhetischenBestrebungen, welche für einen besondern Charakterzug der Deutschengelten können, so haben wir uns gleichfalls nach dem umzusehen, wasihnen dort von dieser Art eigentlich am Herzen liegt. Wir nennen hiergleich den Namen #Burns#, von welchem ein Schreiben des Herrn #Carlyle's#folgende Stelle enthält. 

"Das einzige einigermassen Bedeutende, was ich seit meinem Hierseynschrieb, ist ein Versuch über #Burns#. Vielleicht habt Ihr niemals vondiesem Mann gehört, und doch war er einer der entschiedensten Genies;aber in der tiefsten Classe der Landleute geboren und durch dieVerwicklungen sonderbarer Lagen zuletzt jammervoll zu Grundegerichtet, so dass was er wirkte verhältnissmässig geringfügig ist; erstarb in der Mitte der Manns-Jahre (1796). "

"Wir Engländer, besonders wir Schottländer, lieben #Burns# mehr alsirgend einen Dichter seit Jahrhunderten. Oft war ich von der Bemerkungbetroffen, er sey wenig Monate vor #Schiller#, in dem Jahr 1759 geborenund keiner dieser beiden habe jemals des andern Namen vernommen. Sieglänzten als Sterne in entgegengesetzten Hemisphären, oder, wenn manwill, eine trübe Erdatmosphäre fing ihr gegenseitiges Licht auf. "

Mehr jedoch als unser Freund vermuthen mochte, war uns #Robert Burns#bekannt; das allerliebste Gedicht _John Barley-Corn_ war anonym zu unsgekommen, und verdienter Weise geschätzt, veranlasste solches mancheVersuche unsrer Sprache es anzueignen. _Hans Gerstenkorn_, einwackerer Mann, hat viele Feinde, die ihn unablässig verfolgen undbeschädigen, ja zuletzt gar zu vernichten drohen. Aus allen diesenUnbilden geht er aber doch am Ende triumphirend hervor, besonders zuHeil und Fröhlichkeit der leidenschaftlichen Biertrinker. Gerade indiesem heitern genialischen Anthropomorphismus zeigt sich #Burns# alswahrhaften Dichter. 

Auf weitere Nachforschung fanden wir dieses Gedicht in der Ausgabeseiner poetischen Werke von 1822, welcher eine Skizze seines Lebensvoransteht, die uns wenigstens von den Aeusserlichkeiten seinerZustände bis auf einen gewissen Grad belehrte. Was wir von seinenGedichten uns zueignen konnten, überzeugte uns von seinemausserordentlichen Talent, und wir bedauerten, dass uns dieSchottische Sprache gerade da hinderlich war, wo er des reinstennatürlichsten Ausdrucks sich gewiss bemächtigt hatte. Im Ganzen jedochhaben wir unsre Studien so weit geführt, dass wir die nachstehenderühmliche Darstellung auch als unsrer Ueberzeugung gemässunterschreiben können. 

Inwiefern übrigens unser #Burns# auch in Deutschland bekannt sey, mehrals das Conversations-Lexicon von ihm überliefert, wüsste ich, als derneuen literarischen Bewegungen in Deutschland unkundig, nicht zusagen; auf alle Fälle jedoch gedenke ich die Freunde auswärtigerLiteratur auf die kürzesten Wege zu weisen: _The Life of Robert Burns. By J. G. Lockhart. Edinburgh 1828_, rezensirt von unserm Freunde im_Edinburgh Review_, December 1828. 

Nachfolgende Stellen daraus übersetzt, werden den Wunsch, das Ganzeund den genannten Mann auf jede Weise zu kennen, hoffentlich lebhafterregen. 

 * * * * *

"#Burns# war in einem höchst prosaischen Zeitalter, dergleichenBrittanien nur je erlebt hatte, geboren, in den aller ungünstigstenVerhältnissen, wo sein Geist nach hoher Bildung strebend ihr unter demDruck täglich harter körperlicher Arbeit nach zu ringen hatte, jaunter Mangel und trostlosesten Aussichten auf die Zukunft; ohneFörderniss als die Begriffe, wie sie in eines armen Mannes Hüttewohnen, und allenfalls die Reime von Ferguson und Ramsay, als dasMuster der Schönheit aufgesteckt. Aber unter diesen Lasten versinkt ernicht; durch Nebel und Finsterniss einer so düstern Region entdecktsein Adlerauge die richtigen Verhältnisse der Welt und desMenschenlebens, er wächst an geistiger Kraft und drängt sich mitGewalt zu verständiger Erfahrung. Angetrieben durch dieunwiderstehliche Regsamkeit seines inneren Geistes strauchelt ervorwärts und zu allgemeinen Ansichten, und mit stolzer Bescheidenheitreicht er uns die Frucht seiner Bemühungen, eine Gabe dar, welchenunmehr durch die Zeit als unvergänglich anerkannt worden. "

"Ein wahrer Dichter, ein Mann in dessen Herzen die Anlage eines reinenWissens keimt, die Töne himmlischer Melodien vorklingen, ist dieköstlichste Gabe, die einem Zeitalter mag verliehen werden. Wir sehenin ihm eine freyere, reinere Entwicklung alles dessen was in uns dasEdelste zu nennen ist; sein Leben ist uns ein reicher Unterricht undwir betrauern seinen Tod als eines Wohlthäters, der uns liebte so wiebelehrte. "

"Solch eine Gabe hat die Natur in ihrer Güte uns an #Robert Burns#gegönnt; aber mit allzuvornehmer Gleichgültigkeit warf sie ihn aus derHand als ein Wesen ohne Bedeutung. Es war entstellt und zerstört ehewir es anerkannten, ein ungünstiger Stern hatte dem Jüngling dieGewalt gegeben, das menschliche Daseyn ehrwürdiger zu machen, aber ihmwar eine weisliche Führung seines eigenen nicht geworden. DasGeschick—denn so müssen wir in unserer Beschränktheit reden—seineFehler, die Fehler der Andern lasteten zu schwer auf ihm, und dieserGeist, der sich erhoben hatte, wäre es ihm nur zu wandern geglückt, sank in den Staub; seine herrlichen Fähigkeiten wurden in der Blüthemit Füssen getreten. Er starb, wir dürfen wohl sagen, ohne jemalsgelebt zu haben. Und so eine freundlich warme Seele, so voll voneingebornen Reichthümern, solcher Liebe zu allen lebendigen undleblosen Dingen! Das späte Tausendschönchen fällt nicht unbemerktunter seine Pflugschar, so wenig als das wohlversorgte Nest derfurchtsamen Feldmaus, das er hervorwühlt. Der wilde Anblick desWinters ergötzt ihn; mit einer trüben, oft wiederkehrendenZärtlichkeit, verweilt er in diesen ernsten Scenen der Verwüstung;aber die Stimme des Windes wird ein Psalm in seinem Ohr; wie gern mager in den sausenden Wäldern dahin wandern: denn er fühlt seineGedanken erhoben zu dem, der auf den Schwingen des Windeseinherschreitet. Eine wahre Poetenseele! sie darf nur berührt werdenund ihr Klang ist Musik. "

"Welch ein warmes allumfassendes Gleichheitsgefühl! welchevertrauenvolle, gränzenlose Liebe! welch edelmuthiges Ueberschätzendes geliebten Gegenstandes! Der Bauer, sein Freund, sein nussbraunesMädchen sind nicht länger gering und dörfisch, Held vielmehr undKönigin, er rühmt sie als gleich würdig des Höchsten auf der Erde. Dierauhen Scenen schottischen Lebens sieht er nicht im arkadischenLichte, aber in dem Rauche, in dem unebenen Tennenboden einer solchenrohen Wirthlichkeit findet er noch immer Liebenswürdiges genug. Armuthfürwahr ist sein Gefährte, aber auch Liebe und Muth zugleich; dieeinfachen Gefühle, der Werth, der Edelsinn, welche unter dem Strohdachwohnen, sind lieb und ehrwürdig seinem Herzen. Und so über dieniedrigsten Regionen des menschlichen Daseyns ergiesst er die Glorieseines eigenen Gemüths und sie steigen, durch Schatten undSonnenschein gesänftigt und verherrlicht, zu einer Schönheit, welchesonst die Menschen kaum in dem Höchsten erblicken. "

"Hat er auch ein Selbstbewusstseyn, welches oft in Stolz ausartet, soist es ein edler Stolz, um abzuwehren, nicht um anzugreifen, keinkaltes misslaunisches Gefühl, ein freyes und geselliges. Dieserpoetische Landmann beträgt sich, möchten wir sagen, wie ein König inder Verbannung; er ist unter die Niedrigsten gedrängt und fühlt sichgleich den Höchsten; er verlangt keinen Rang, damit man ihm keinenstreitig mache. Den Zudringlichen kann er abstossen, den Stolzendemüthigen, Vorurtheil auf Reichthum oder Altgeschlecht haben bey ihmkeinen Werth. In diesem dunklen Auge ist ein Feuer, woran sich eineabwürdigende Herablassung nicht wagen darf; in seiner Erniedrigung, inder äussersten Noth vergisst er nicht für einen Augenblick dieMajestät der Poesie und Mannheit. Und doch, so hoch er sich übergewöhnlichen Menschen fühlt, sondert er sich nicht von ihnen ab, mitWärme nimmt er an ihrem Interesse Theil, ja er wirft sich in ihre Armeund, wie sie auch seyen, bittet er um ihre Liebe. Es ist rührend zusehen, wie in den düstersten Zuständen dieses stolze Wesen in derFreundschaft Hülfe sucht, und oft seinen Busen dem Unwürdigenaufschliesst; oft unter Thränen an sein glühendes Herz ein Herzandrückt, das Freundschaft nur als Namen kennt. Doch war er scharf undschnellsichtig, ein Mann vom durchdringendsten Blick, vor welchemgemeine Verstellung sich nicht bergen konnte. Sein Verstand sah durchdie Tiefen des vollkommensten Betrügers, und zugleich war einegrossmüthige Leichtgläubigkeit in seinem Herzen. So zeigte sich dieserLandmann unter uns: Eine Seele wie Aeolsharfe, deren Saiten vomgemeinsten Winde berührt, ihn zu gesetzlicher Melodie verwandelten. Und ein solcher Mann war es für den die Welt kein schicklicherGeschäft zu finden wusste, als sich mit Schmugglern und Schenkenherumzuzanken, Accise auf den Talg zu berechnen und Bierfässer zuvisiren. In solchem Abmühen ward dieser mächtige Geist kummervollvergeudet, und hundert Jahre mögen vorüber gehen, eh uns ein gleichergegeben wird, um vielleicht ihn abermals zu vergeuden. "

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Und wie wir den Deutschen zu ihrem #Schiller# Glück wünschen, so wollenwir in eben diesem Sinne auch die Schottländer segnen. Haben diesejedoch unserm Freunde so viel Aufmerksamkeit und Theilnahme erwiesen, so wär' es billig, dass wir auf gleiche Weise ihren #Burns# bey unseinführten. Ein junges Mitglied der hochachtbaren Gesellschaft, derwir gegenwärtiges im Ganzen empfohlen haben, wird Zeit und Mühehöchlich belohnt sehen, wenn er diesen freundlichen Gegendienst einerso verehrungswürdigen Nation zu leisten den Entschluss fassen und dasGeschäft treulich durchführen will. Auch wir rechnen den belobten#Robert Burns# zu den ersten Dichtergeistern, welche das vergangeneJahrhundert hervorgebracht hat. 

Im Jahr 1829 kam uns ein sehr sauber und augenfällig gedrucktesOctavbändchen zur Hand: _Catalogue of German Publications, selectedand systematically arranged for W. H. Koller and Jul. Cahlmann. London. _

Dieses Büchlein, mit besonderer Kenntniss der deutschen Literatur, ineiner die Uebersicht erleichternden Methode verfasst, macht demjenigender es ausgearbeitet und den Buchhändlern Ehre, welche ernstlich dasbedeutende Geschäft übernehmen eine fremde Literatur in ihr Vaterlandeinzuführen, und zwar so dass mann in allen Fächern übersehen könnewas dort geleistet worden, um so wohl den Gelehrten den denkendenLeser als auch den fühlenden und Unterhaltung suchenden anzulocken undzu befriedigen. Neugierig wird jeder deutsche Schriftsteller undLiterator, der sich in irgend einem Fache hervorgethan, diesen Catalogaufschlagen um zu forschen: ob denn auch seiner darin gedacht, seineWerke, mit andern Verwandten, freundlich aufgenommen worden. Allendeutschen Buchhändlern wird es angelegen seyn zu erfahren: wie manihren Verlag über dem Canal betrachte, welchen Preis man auf dasEinzelne setze und sie werden nichts verabsäumen um mit jenen dieAngelegenheit so ernsthaft angreifenden Männern in Verhältniss zukommen, und dasselbe immerfort lebendig erhalten. 

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Wenn ich nun aber das von unserm Schottischen Freunde vor sovielJahren verfasste Leben #Schillers#, auf das er mit einer ihm so wohlanstehenden Bescheidenheit zurücksieht, hiedurch einleite undgegenwärtig an den Tag fördere, so erlaube er mir einige seinerneusten Aeusserungen hinzuzufügen, welche die bisherigen gemeinsamenFortschritte am besten deutlich machen möchten. 

 * * * * *

 #Thomas Carlyle an Goethe. #

den 22. December 1829. 

"Ich habe zu nicht geringer Befriedigung zum zweitenmale den#Briefwechsel# gelesen und sende heute einen darauf gegründeten Aufsatzüber #Schiller# ab für das _Foreign Review_. Es wird Ihnen angenehm seynzu hören, dass die Kentniss und Schätzung der auswärtigen, besondersder deutschen Literatur, sich mit wachsender Schnelle verbreitet soweit die englische Zunge herrscht; so dass bey den Antipoden, selbstin Neuholland, die Weisen Ihres Landes ihre Weisheit predigen. Ichhabe kürzlich gehört, dass sogar in Oxford und Cambridge, unsernbeiden englischen Universitäten, die bis jetzt als die Haltpuncte derinsularischen eigenthümlichen Beharrlichkeit sind betrachtet worden, es sich in solchen Dingen zu regen anfängt. Ihr #Niebuhr# hat inCambridge einen geschickten Uebersetzer gefunden und in Oxford habenzwei bis drei Deutsche schon hinlängliche Beschäftigung als Lehrerihrer Sprache. Das neue Licht mag für gewisse Augen zu stark seyn;jedoch kann Niemand an den guten Folgen zweifeln, die am Ende daraushervorgehen werden. Lasst Nationen wie Individuen sich nur einanderkennen und der gegenseitige Hass wird sich in gegenwärtigeHülfleistung verwandeln, und anstatt natürlicher Feinde, wiebenachbarte Länder zuweilen genannt sind, werden wir alle natürlicheFreunde seyn. "

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Wenn uns nach allen diesem nun die Hoffnung schmeichelt, eineUebereinstimmung der Nationen, ein allgemeineres Wohlwollen werde sichdurch nähere Kentniss der verschiedenen Sprachen und Denkweisen, nachund nach erzeugen; so wage ich von einem bedeutenden Inflows derdeutschen Literatur zu sprechen, welcher sich in einem besondern Fallehöchst wirksam erweisen möchte. 

Es ist nämlich bekannt genug, dass die Bewohner der drei brittischenKönigreiche nicht gerade in dem besten Einverständnisse leben, sonderndass vielmehr ein Nachbar an dem andern genügsam zu tadeln findet, umeine heimliche Abneigung bey sich zu rechtfertigen. 

Nun aber bin ich überzeugt, dass wie die deutsche ethisch-ästhetischeLiteratur durch das dreifache Brittanien sich verbreitet, zugleichauch eine stille Gemeinschaft von #Philogermanen# sich bilden werde, welche in der Neigung zu einer vierten, so nahverwandten Völkerschaft, auch unter einander, als vereinigt und verschmolzen sich empfindenwerden. 

 #Schillers Leben. #

 #Erster Abschnitt. #

 #Seine Jugend# (1759-1784. )

Unter allen Schriftstellern ist am Schluss des letzten Jahrhundertswohl keiner der Aufmerksamkeit würdiger, als #Friedrich Schiller#. Ausgezeichnet durch glänzenden Geist, erhabenes Gefühl und edlenGeschmack liess er den schönsten Abdruck dieser selten vereinigtenEigenschaften in seinen Werken zurück. Der ausgebreitete Ruhm, welcherihm dadurch geworden, . . . 

. . . Es sind neue Formen der Wahrheiten, neue Grundsätze der Weisheit, neue Bilder und Scenen der Schönheit, die er dem leeren formlosenunendlichen Raum abgenommen; zum κτημα εις αει oder zum ewigen Eigenthumaller Geschlechter dieses Erdballs. [s. 301. ]

. . . Die unsere Literatur, so reich sie auch schon an sich ist, nochungleich mehr bereichern würde. 

[_Anhang_, s. 54. ]

 SUMMARY AND INDEX. 

 SUMMARY. 

 PART I. 

 SCHILLER'S YOUTH. 

 (1759-1784. )

Introductory remarks: Schiller's high destiny. His Father's career:Parental example and influences. Boyish caprices and aspirations. (p. 3. )—His first schoolmaster: Training for the Church: Poeticalglimmerings. The Duke of Würtemberg, and his Free Seminary: Irksomeformality there. Aversion to the study of Law and Medicine. (9. )—Literary ambition and strivings: Economic obstacles and pedantichindrances: Silent passionate rebellion. Bursts his fetters. (13. )—_The Robbers_: An emblem of its young author's baffled, madlystruggling spirit: Criticism of the Characters in the Play, and of thestyle of the work. Extraordinary ferment produced by its publication:Exaggerated praises and condemnations: Schiller's own opinion of itsmoral tendency. (17. )—Discouragement and persecution from the Duke ofWürtemberg. Dalberg's generous sympathy and assistance. Schillerescapes from Stuttgard, empty in purse and hope: Dalberg supplies hisimmediate wants: He finds hospitable friends. (28. )—Earnest literaryefforts. Publishes two tragedies, _Fiesco_ and _Kabale und Liebe_. Hismental growth. Critical account of the Conspiracy of Fiesco: Fiesco'sgenial ambition: The Characters of the Play nearer to actual humanity. How all things in the Drama of Life hang inseparably together. (35. )—_Kabale und Liebe_, a domestic tragedy of high merit: Noble andinteresting characters of hero and heroine. (42. )—The stormyconfusions of Schiller's youth now subsiding. Appointed poet to theMannheim Theatre. Nothing to fear from the Duke of Würtemberg. ThePublic, his only friend and sovereign. A Man of Letters for the restof his days. (46. )

 PART II. 

 FROM HIS SETTLEMENT AT MANNHEIM TO HIS SETTLEMENT AT JENA. 

 (1784-1790. )

Reflections: Difference between knowing and doing: Temptations andperils of a literary life: True Heroism. Schiller's earnest andsteadfast devotion to his Ideal Good: Misery of idleness andindecision. (p. 51. )—German esteem for the Theatre. Theatrical, anddeeper than theatrical activities: The _Rheinische Thalia_ and_Philosophische Briefe_. The two Eternities: The bog of Infidelitysurveyed but not crossed. (56. )—Insufficiency of Mannheim. A pleasanttribute of regard. Letter to Huber: Domestic tastes. Removes toLeipzig. Letter to his friend Schwann: A marriage proposal. Fluctuations of life. (63. )—Goes to Dresden. _Don Carlos_: Evidencesof a matured mind: Analysis of the Characters: Scene of the King andPosa. Alfieri and Schiller contrasted. (73. )—Popularity: Crowned withlaurels, but without a home. Forsakes the Drama. Lyrical productions:_Freigeisterei der Leidenschaft_. The _Geisterseher_, a Novel. Tiresof fiction. Studies and tries History. (95. )—Habits at Dresden. Visits Weimar and Bauerbach. The Fraülein Lengefeld: Thoughts onMarriage. (102. )—First interview with Goethe: Diversity in theirgifts: Their mistaken impression of each other. Become betteracquainted: Lasting friendship. (106. )—History of the _Revolt of theNetherlands_. The truest form of History-writing. Appointed Professorat Jena. Friendly intercourse with Goethe. Marriage. (112. )

 PART III. 

 FROM HIS SETTLEMENT AT JENA TO HIS DEATH. 

 (1790-1805. )

Academical duties. Study of History: Cosmopolitan philosophy, andnational instincts. History of the _Thirty-Years War_. (p. 119. )—Sickness, and help in it. Heavy trial for a literary man. Schiller's unabated zeal. (125. )—Enthusiasm and conflicts excited byKant's Philosophy. Schiller's growing interest in the subject: Letterson _Æsthetic Culture_, &c. Claims of Kant's system to a respectfultreatment. (129. )—Fastidiousness and refinement of taste. Literaryprojects: Epic poems: Returns to the Drama. Outbreak of the FrenchRevolution. (137. )—Edits the _Horen_: Connexion with Goethe. Apleasant visit to his parents. Mode of life at Jena: Night-studies, and bodily stimulants. (143. )—_Wallenstein_: Brief sketch of itscharacter and compass: Specimen scenes, Max Piccolomini and hisFather; Max and the Princess Thekla; Thekla's frenzied grief: Nonobler or more earnest dramatic work. (152. )—Removes to Weimar:Generosity of the Duke. Tragedy of _Maria Stuart_. (178. )—The _Maidof Orleans_: Character of Jeanne d'Arc: Scenes, Joanna and herSuitors; Death of Talbot; Joanna and Lionel. Enthusiastic reception ofthe play. (181. )—Daily and nightly habits at Weimar. The _Bride ofMessina_. _Wilhelm Tell_: Truthfulness of the Characters and Scenery:Scene, the Death of Gossler. (201. )—Schiller's dangerous illness. Questionings of Futurity. The last sickness: Many things grow clearer:Death. (219. )—General sorrow for his loss. His personal aspect:Modesty and simplicity of manner: Mental gifts. (222. )—Definitions ofgenius. Poetic sensibilities and wretchedness: In such miseriesSchiller had no share. A fine example of the German character: Nocant; no cowardly compromising with his own conscience: Childlikesimplicity. Literary Heroism. (227. )

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 SUPPLEMENT OF 1872. 

Small Book by Herr Saupe, entitled _Schiller and his Father'sHousehold_. Really interesting and instructive. Translation, withslight corrections and additions. (p. 241. )

 SCHILLER'S FATHER. 

Johann Caspar Schiller, born in Würtemberg, 27th October 1723. At tenyears a fatherless Boy poorly educated, he is apprenticed to abarber-surgeon. Becomes 'Army Doctor' to a Bavarian regiment. Settlesin Marbach, and marries the daughter of a respectable townsman, afterwards reduced to extreme poverty. The marriage, childless for thefirst eight years. Six children in all: The Poet Schiller the onlyBoy. (p. 243. )—Very meagre circumstances. At breaking-out of theSeven-Years War returns to the Army. At the Ball of Fulda; at theBattle of Leuthen. Cheerfully undertakes anything useful. Earnestlydiligent and studious. Greatly improves in general culture, and evensaves money. (244. )—Boards his poor Wife with her Father. His firstDaughter and his only Son born there. At the close of the War hecarries his Wife and Children to his own quarters. A just man; simple, strong, expert; if also somewhat quick and rough. (246. ) Solicitudefor his Son's education. Appointed Recruiting Officer, with permissionto live with his Family at Lorch. The children soon feel themselves athome and happy. Little Fritz receives his first regular schoolinstruction, much to the comfort of his Father. Holiday rambles amongthe neighbouring hills: Brotherly and Sisterly affection. Touches ofboyish fearlessness: Where does the lightning come from? (248. )—TheFamily run over to Ludwigsburg. Fritz to prepare for the clericalprofession. At the Latin School, cannot satisfy his Father's anxiouswishes. One of his first poems. (253. )—The Duke of Würtemberg noticeshis Father's worth, and appoints him Overseer of all his Forestoperations: With residence at his beautiful Forest-Castle, DieSolitüde. Fritz remains at the Ludwigsburg Latin School: Continualexhortations and corrections from Father and Teacher. Youthful heresy. First acquaintance with a Theatre. (255. )—The Duke proposes to takeFritz into his Military Training-School. Consternation of the SchillerFamily. Ineffectual expostulations: Go he must. Studies Medicine. Altogether withdrawn from his Father's care. Rigorous seclusion andconstraint. The Duke means well to him. (258. )—Leaves the School, andbecomes Regimental-Doctor at Stuttgard. His Father's pride in him. Extravagance and debt. His personal appearance. (260. )—Publication ofthe _Robbers_. His Father's mingled feelings of anxiety andadmiration. Peremptory command from the Duke to write no more poetry, on pain of Military Imprisonment. Prepares for flight with his friendStreicher. Parting visit to his Family at Solitüde: His poor Mother'sbitter grief. Escapes to Mannheim. Consternation of his Father. Happily the Duke takes no hostile step. (263. )—Disappointments andstraits at Mannheim. Help from his good friend Streicher. He sells_Fiesco_, and prepares to leave Mannheim. Through the kindness of Frauvon Wolzogen he finds refuge in Bauerbach. Affectionate Letter to hisParents. His Father's stern solicitude for his welfare. (268. )—Eightmonths in Bauerbach, under the name of Doctor Ritter. Unreturnedattachment to Charlotte Wolzogen. Returns to Mannheim. Forms a settledengagement with Dalberg, to whom his Father writes his thanks andanxieties. Thrown on a sick-bed: His Father's admonitions. He vainlyurges his Son to petition the Duke for permission to return toWürtemberg; the poor Father earnestly wishes to have him near himagain. Increasing financial difficulties. More earnest fatherlyadmonition and advice. Enthusiastic reception of _Kabale und Liebe_. _Don Carlos_ well in hand. A friend in trouble through mutual debts. Applies to his Father for unreasonable help. Annoyance at theinevitable refusal. His Father's loving and faithful expostulation. His Sister's proposed marriage with Reinwald. (273. )—Beginning of hisfriendly intimacy with the excellent Körner. The Duke of Weimarbestows on him the title of Rath. No farther risk for him fromWürtemberg. At Leipzig, Dresden, Weimar. Settles at last as Professorin Jena. Marriage and comfortable home: His Father well satisfied, andjoyful of heart. Affectionate Letter to his good Father. (282. )—Seized with a dangerous affection of the chest. Generousassistance from Denmark. Joyful visit to his Family, after an absenceof eleven years. Writes a conciliatory Letter to the Duke. Birth of aSon. The Duke's considerateness for Schiller's Father. The Duke'sdeath. (286. )—Schiller's delight in his Sisters, Luise and Nanette. Letter to his Father. Visits Stuttgard. Returns with Wife and Child toJena. Assists his Father in publishing the results of his longexperiences of gardens and trees. Beautiful and venerable old age. (290. )—Thick-coming troubles for the Schiller Family. Death of thebeautiful Nanette in the flower of her years: Dangerous illness ofLuise: The Father bedrid with gout. The poor weakly Mother bears thewhole burden of the household distress. Sister Christophine, nowReinwald's Wife, hastens to their help. Schiller's anxious sympathy. His Father's death. Grateful letters to Reinwald and to his poorMother. (296. )

 HIS MOTHER. 

Elizabetha Dorothea Kodweis, born at Marbach, 1733. An unpretending, soft and dutiful Wife, with the tenderest Mother-heart. A talent formusic and even for poetry. Verses to her Husband. Troubles during theSeven-Years War. Birth of little Fritz. The Father returns from theWar. Mutual helpfulness, and affectionate care for their children. Sheearnestly desires her Son may become a Preacher. His confirmation. Herdisappointment that it was not to be. (p. 300. )—Her joy and care forhim whenever he visited his Home. Her innocent delight at seeing herSon's name honoured and wondered at. Her anguish and illness at theirlong parting. Brighter days for them all. She visits her Son at Jena. He returns the visit with Wife and Child. Her strength in adversity. Comfort in her excellent Daughter Christophine. Her Husband's death. Loving and helpful sympathy from her Son. (307. )—Receives a pensionfrom the Duke. Removes with Luise to Leonberg. Marriage of Luise. Happy in her children's love and in their success in life. Her lastillness and death. Letters from Schiller to his Sister Luise and herkind husband. (318. )

 HIS SISTERS. 

Till their Brother's flight the young girls had known no misfortune. Diligent household occupations, and peaceful contentment. Alove-passage in Christophine's young life. Her marriage with Reinwald. His unsuccessful career: Broken down in health and hope. Christophine's loving, patient and noble heart. For twenty-nine yearsthey lived contentedly together. Through life she was helpful to allabout her; never hindersome to any. (p. 324. )—Poor Nanette's briefhistory. Her excitement, when a child, on witnessing the performanceof her Brother's _Kabale und Liebe_. Her ardent secret wish, herselfto represent his Tragedies on the Stage. All her young glowing hopesstilled in death. (331. )—Luise's betrothal and marriage. An anxiousMother, and in all respects an excellent Wife. Her Brother's lastloving Letter to her. His last illness, and peaceful death. (333. )

 APPENDIX I. 

 No. 1. DANIEL SCHUBART. 

Influence of Schubart's persecutions on Schiller's mind. His Birth andBoyhood. Sent to Jena to study Theology: Profligate life: Returnshome. Popular as a preacher: Skilful in music. A joyful, piping, guileless mortal. (p. 341. )—Prefers pedagogy to starvation. Marries. Organist to the Duke of Würtemberg. Headlong business, amusement anddissipation. His poor Wife returns to her Father: Ruin and banishment. A vagabond life. (343. )—Settles at Augsburg, and sets up a Newspaper:Again a prosperous man: Enmity of the Jesuits. Seeks refuge in Ulm:His Wife and Family return to him. The Jesuits on the watch. Imprisoned for ten years: Interview with young Schiller. (346. )—Is atlength liberated. Joins his Wife at Stuttgard, and reëstablishes hisNewspaper. Literary enterprises: Death. Summary of his character. (351. )

 No. 2. LETTERS OF SCHILLER TO DALBERG. 

Brief account of Dalberg. Schiller's desire to remove to Mannheim. Adaptation of the _Robbers_ to the stage. (p. 354. )—Struggles to getfree from Stuttgard and his Ducal Jailor: Dalberg's friendly help. Friendly letter to his friend Schwann. (362. )

 No. 3. FRIENDSHIP WITH GOETHE. 

Goethe's feeling of the difference in their thoughts and aims: GreatNature _not_ a phantasm of her children's brains. Growing sympathy andesteem, unbroken to the end. (p. 371. )

 No. 4. DEATH OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. 

Schiller's historical style. A higher than descriptive power. (p. 375. )

 APPENDIX II. 

Schiller's Life into German; Author's Note thereon. (p. 380. )—Goethe's introduction (in German), with Four Prints. (393. )