Chapter IV: Part 4

Goethe was Schiller’s friend, but he was also Schiller’s rival. There is a perilous period in the lives of great men, namely, the time when they begin to feel that their position is made, that they have no more rivals to fear. Goethe was feeling this at the time when he met Schiller. He was satiated with applause, and his bearing towards the public at large became careless and offensive. In order to find men with whom he might measure himself, he began to write on the history of Art, and to devote himself to natural philosophy. Schiller, too, had gained his laurels chiefly as a dramatic poet; and though he still valued the applause of the public, yet his ambition as a poet was satisfied; he was prouder of his “Thirty Years’ War” than of his “Robbers” and “Don Carlos.” When Goethe became intimate with Schiller, and discovered in him those powers which as yet were hidden to others, he felt that there was a man with whom even he might run a race. Goethe was never jealous of Schiller. He felt conscious of his own great powers, and he was glad to have those powers again called out by one who would be more difficult to conquer than all his former rivals. Schiller, on the other hand, perceived in Goethe the true dignity of a poet. At Jena his ambition was to have the title of Professor of History; at Weimar he saw that it was a greater honor to be called a poet, and the friend of Goethe. When he saw that Goethe treated him as his friend, and that the Duke and his brilliant court looked upon him as his equal, Schiller, too modest to suppose he had earned such favors, was filled with a new zeal, and his poetical genius displayed for a time an almost inexhaustible energy. Scarcely had his “Wallenstein” been finished, in 1799, when he began his “Mary Stuart.” This play was finished in the summer of 1800, and a new one was taken in hand in the same year,—the “Maid of Orleans.” In the spring of 1801 the “Maid of Orleans” appeared on the stage, to be followed in 1803 by the “Bride of Messina,” and in 1804 by his last great work, his “William Tell.” During the same time Schiller composed his best ballads, his “Song of the Bell,” his epigrams, and his beautiful Elegy, not to mention his translations and adaptations of English and French plays for the theatre at Weimar. After his “William Tell” Schiller could feel that he no longer owed his place by the side of Goethe to favor and friendship, but to his own work and worth. His race was run, his laurels gained. His health, however, was broken, and his bodily frame too weak to support the strain of his mighty spirit. Death came to his relief, giving rest to his mind, and immortality to his name.

Let us look back once more on the life of Schiller. The lives of great men are the lives of martyrs; we cannot regard them as examples to follow, but rather as types of human excellence to study and to admire. The life of Schiller was not one which many of us would envy; it was a life of toil and suffering, of aspiration rather than of fulfillment, a long battle with scarcely a moment of rest for the conqueror to enjoy his hard-won triumphs. To an ambitious man the last ten years of the poet’s life might seem an ample reward for the thirty years’ war of life which he had to fight single-handed. But Schiller was too great a man to be ambitious. Fame with him was a means, never an object. There was a higher, a nobler aim in his life, which upheld him in all his struggles. From the very beginning of his career Schiller seems to have felt that his life was not his. He never lived for himself; he lived and worked for mankind. He discovered within himself how much there was of the good, the noble, and the beautiful in human nature; he had never been deceived in his friends. And such was his sympathy with the world at large that he could not bear to see in any rank of life the image of man, created in the likeness of God, distorted by cunning, pride, and selfishness. His whole poetry may be said to be written on the simple text, “Be true, be good, be noble!” It may seem a short text, but truth is very short, and the work of the greatest teachers of mankind has always consisted in the unflinching inculcation of these short truths. There is in Schiller’s works a kernel full of immortal growth, which will endure long after the brilliant colors of his poetry have faded away. That kernel is the man, and without it Schiller’s poetry, like all other poetry, is but the song of sirens. Schiller’s character has been subjected to that painful scrutiny to which, in modern times, the characters of great men are subjected; everything he ever did, or said, or thought, has been published; and yet it would be difficult, in the whole course of his life, to point out one act, one word, one thought, that could be called mean, untrue, or selfish. From the beginning to the end Schiller remained true to himself; he never acted a part, he never bargained with the world. We may differ from him on many points of politics, ethics, and religion; but though we differ, we must always respect and admire. His life is the best commentary on his poetry; there is never a discrepancy between the two. As mere critics, we may be able to admire a poet without admiring the man; but poetry, it should be remembered, was not meant for critics only, and its highest purpose is never fulfilled, except where, as with Schiller, we can listen to the poet and look up to the man.

1859.

V. WILHELM MÜLLER.(13) 1794-1827.

Seldom has a poet in a short life of thirty years engraven his name so deeply on the memorial tablets of the history of German poetry as Wilhelm Müller. Although the youthful efforts of a poet may be appreciated by those few who are able to admire what is good and beautiful, even though it has never before been admired by others, yet in order permanently to win the ear and heart of his people, a poet must live with the people, and take part in the movements and struggles of his age. Thus only can he hope to stir and mould the thoughts of his contemporaries, and to remain a permanent living power in the recollections of his countrymen. Wilhelm Müller died at the very moment when the rich blossoms of his poetic genius were forming fruit; and after he had warmed and quickened the hearts of the youth of Germany with the lyric songs of his own youth, only a short span of time was granted him to show the world, as he did more especially in his “Greek Songs” and “Epigrams,” the higher goal toward which he aspired. In these his last works one readily perceives that his poetry would not have reflected the happy dreams of youth only, but that he could perceive the poetry of life in its sorrows as clearly as in its joys, and depict it in true and vivid colors.

One may, I think, divide the friends and admirers of Wilhelm Müller into two classes: those who rejoice and delight in his fresh and joyous songs, and those who admire the nobleness and force of his character as shown in the poems celebrating the war of Greek independence, and in his epigrams. All poetry is not for every one, nor for every one at all times. There are critics and historians of literature who cannot tolerate songs of youth, of love, and of wine; they always ask “why?” and “wherefore?” and they demand in all poetry, before anything else, high or deep thoughts. No doubt there can be no poetry without thought, but there are thoughts which are poetical without being drawn from the deepest depths of the heart and brain, nay, which are poetical just because they are as simple and true and natural as the flowers of the field or the stars of heaven. There is a poetry for the old, but there is also a poetry for the young. The young demand in poetry an interpretation of their own youthful feelings, and first learn truly to understand themselves through those poets who speak for them as they would speak for themselves, had nature endowed them with melody of thought and harmony of diction. Youth is and will remain the majority of the world, and will let no gloomy brow rob it of its poetic enthusiasm for young love and old wine. True, youth is not over-critical; true, it does not know how to speak or write in learned phrases of the merits of its favorite poets. But for all that, where is the poet who would not rather live in the warm recollection of the never-dying youth of his nation than in voluminous encyclopædias, or even in the marble Walhallas of Germany? The story and the songs of a miller’s man who loves his master’s daughter, and of a miller’s daughter who loves a huntsman better, may seem very trivial, commonplace, and unpoetical to many a man of forty or fifty. But there are men of forty and fifty who have never lost sight of the bright but now far-off days of their own youth, who can still rejoice with those that rejoice, and weep with those that weep, and love with those that love,—aye, who can still fill their glasses with old and young, and in whose eyes every-day life has not destroyed the poetic bloom that rests everywhere on life so long as it is lived with warm and natural feelings. Songs which, like the “Beautiful Miller’s Daughter” and the “Winter Journey,” could so penetrate and again spring forth from the soul of Franz Schubert, may well stir the very depths of our own hearts, without the need of fearing the wise looks of those who possess the art of saying nothing in many words. Why should poetry be less free than painting to seek for what is beautiful wherever a human eye can discover, wherever human art can imitate it? No one blames the painter if, instead of giddy peaks or towering waves, he delineates on his canvas a quiet narrow valley, filled with a green mist, and enlivened only by a gray mill and a dark brown mill-wheel, from which the spray rises like silver dust, and then floats away, and vanishes in the rays of the sun. Is what is not too common for the painter, too common for the poet? Is an idyl in the truest, warmest, softest colors of the soul, like the “Beautiful Miller’s Daughter,” less a work of art than a landscape by Ruysdael? And observe in these songs how the execution suits the subject; their tone is thoroughly popular, and reminds many of us, perhaps too much, of the popular songs collected by Arnim and Brentano in “Des Knaben Wunderhorn.” But this could not be helped. Theocritus could not write his idyls in grand Attic Greek; he needed the homeliness of the Bœotian dialect. It was the same with Wilhelm Müller, who must not be blamed for expressions which now perhaps, more than formerly, may sound, to fastidious ears, too homely or commonplace.

His simple and natural conception of nature is shown most beautifully in the “Wanderer’s Songs,” and in the “Spring Wreath from the Plauen Valley.” Nowhere do we find a labored thought or a labored word. The lovely spring world is depicted exactly as it is, but over all is thrown the life and inspiration of a poet’s eye and a poet’s mind, which perceives and gives utterance to what others fail to see, and silent nature cannot utter. It is this recognition of the beautiful in what is insignificant, of greatness in what is small, of the marvelous in ordinary life,—yes, this perception of the divine in every earthly enjoyment,—which gives its own charm to each of Wilhelm Müller’s smallest poems, and endears them so truly to those who, amidst the hurry of life, have not forgotten the delight of absorption in nature, who have never lost their faith in the mystery of the divine presence in all that is beautiful, good, and true on earth. We need only read the “Frühlingsmahl,” or “Pfingsten” to see how a whole world, aye, a whole heaven, may be mirrored in the tiniest drop of dew.

And as enjoyment of nature finds so clear an echo in the poetry of Wilhelm Müller, so also does the delight which man should have in man. Drinking songs and table songs do not belong to the highest flights of poetry; but if the delights of friendly meetings and greetings belong to some of the brightest moments of human happiness, why should a poet hold them to be beneath his muse? There is something especially German in all drinking songs, and no other nation has held its wine in such honor. Can one imagine English poems on port and sherry? or has a Frenchman much to tell us of his Bordeaux, or even of his Burgundy? The reason that the poetry of wine is unknown in England and France is, that in these countries people know nothing of what lends its poetry to wine, namely, the joyous consciousness of mutual pleasure, the outpouring of hearts, the feeling of common brotherhood, which makes learned professors and divines, generals and ministers, men once more at the sound of the ringing glasses. This purely human delight in the enjoyment of life, in the flavor of the German wine, and in the yet higher flavor of the German Symposium, finds it happiest expression in the drinking songs of Wilhelm Müller. They have often been set to music by the best masters, and have long been sung by the happy and joyous. The name of the poet is often forgotten, whilst many of his songs have become popular songs, just because they were sung from the heart and soul of the German people, as the people were fifty years ago, and as the best of them still are, in spite of many changes in the Fatherland.

It is easy to see that a serious tone is not wanting even in the drinking songs. The wine was good, but the times were bad. Those who, like Wilhelm Müller, had shared in the great sufferings and the great hopes of the German people, and who then saw that after all the sacrifices that had been made, all was in vain, all was again as bad or even worse than before, could with difficulty conceal their disaffection, however helpless they felt themselves against the brutalities of those in power. Many, who like Wilhelm Müller had labored to reanimate German popular feeling; who like him had left the university to sacrifice as common soldiers their life and life’s happiness to the freedom of the Fatherland, and who then saw how the terror felt by the scarcely rescued princes of their deliverers, and the fear of foreign nations of a united and strong Germany, joined hand in hand to destroy the precious seed sown in blood and tears,—could not always suppress their gloomy anger at such faint-hearted, weak-minded policy. On the first of January, 1820, Wilhelm Müller wrote thus, in the dedication of the second part of his “Letters from Rome” to his friend Atterbom, the Swedish poet, with whom he had but a short time before passed the Carnival time in Italy joyously and carelessly: “And thus I greet you in your old sacred Fatherland, not jokingly and merrily, like the book, whose writer seems to have become a stranger to me, but earnestly and briefly; for the great fast of the European world, expecting the passion, and waiting for deliverance, can endure no indifferent shrug of the shoulders and no hollow compromises and excuses. He who cannot act at this time, can yet rest and mourn.” For such words, veiled as they were, resigned as they were, the fortress of Mayence was at that time the usual answer.

“Deutsch und frei und stark und lauter
In dem deutschen Land
Ist der Wein allein geblieben
An der Rheines Strand.
Ist _der_ nicht ein Demagoge,
Wer soll einer sein?
Mainz, du stolze Bundesfeste,
Sperr ihn nur nicht ein.”(14)

That Wilhelm Müller escaped the petty and annoying persecutions of the then police system, he owed partly to the retired life he led in his little native country, partly to his own good spirits, which prevented him from entirely sinking the man in the politician. He had some enemies in the little court, whose Duke and Duchess were personally so attached to him. A prosperous life such as his could not fail to attract envy, and his frank, guileless character gave plenty of occasion for suspicion. But the only answer which he vouchsafed to his detractors was:—

“Und lasst mir doch mein volles Glass, Und lasst mir meinen guten Spass, Mit unsrer schlechten Zeit! Wer bei dem Weine singt und lacht, Den thut, ihr Herrn, nicht in die Acht! Ein Kind ist Fröhligkeit.”(15)

Wilhelm Müller evidently felt that when words are not deeds, or do not lead to deeds, silence is more worthy of a man than speech. He never became a political poet, at least never in his own country. But when the rising of the Greeks appealed to those human sympathies of Christian nations which can never be quite extinguished, and when here, too, the faint-hearted policy of the great powers played and bargained over the great events in the east of Europe instead of trusting to those principles which alone can secure the true and lasting well-being of states, as well as of individuals, then the long accumulated wrath of the poet and of the man burst forth and found utterance in the songs on the Greek war of independence. Human, Christian, political, and classical sympathies stirred his heart, and breathed that life into his poems, which most of them still possess. It is astonishing how a young man in a small isolated town like Dessau, almost shut out from intercourse with the great world, could have followed step by step the events of the Greek revolution, seizing on all the right, the beauty, the grandeur of the struggle, making himself intimately acquainted with the dominant characters, whilst he at the same time mastered the peculiar local coloring of the passing events. Wilhelm Müller was not only a poet, but he was intimately acquainted with classic antiquity. He _knew_ the Greeks and the Romans. And just as during his stay in Rome he recognized at all points the old in what was new, and everywhere sought to find what was eternal in the eternal city, so now with him the modern Greeks were inseparably joined with the ancient. A knowledge of the modern Greek language appeared to him the natural completion of the study of old Greek; and it was his acquaintance with the popular songs of modern as well as of ancient Hellas that gave the color which imparted such a vivid expression of truth and naturalness to his own Greek songs. It was thus that the “Griechen Lieder” arose, which appeared in separate but rapid numbers, and found great favor with the people. But even these “Griechen Lieder” caused anxiety to the paternal governments of those days:—

“Ruh und Friede will Europa—warum hast du sie gestört? Warum mit dem Wahn der Freiheit eigenmächtig dich bethört? Hoff’ auf keines Herren Hülfe gegen eines Herren Frohn: Auch des Türkenkaisers Polster nennt Europa einen Thron.”(16)

His last poems were suppressed by the Censor, as well as his “Hymn on the Death of Raphael Riego.” Some of these were first published long after his death; others must have been lost whilst in the Censor’s hands.

Two of the Greek songs, “Mark Bozzaris,” and “Song before Battle,” may help the English reader to form his own opinion both of the poetical genius and of the character of Wilhelm Müller:—

MARK BOZZARI.(17)

Oeffne deine hohen Thore, Missolunghi, Stadt der Ehren, Wo der Helden Leichen ruhen, die uns fröhlich sterben lehren, Oeffne deine hohen Thore, öffne deine tiefen Grüfte, Auf, und streue Lorberreiser auf den Pfad und in die Lüfte; Mark Bozzari’s edlen Leib bringen wir zu dir getragen. Mark Bozzari’s! Wer darf’s wagen, solchen Helden zu beklagen? Willst zuerst du seine Wunden oder seine Siege zählen? Keinem Sieg wird eine Wunde, keiner Wund’ ein Sieg hier fehlen. Sieh auf unsern Lanzenspitzen sich die Turbanhäupter drehen, Sieh, wie über seiner Bahre die Osmanenfahnen wehen, Sieh, o sieh die letzten Werke, die vollbracht des Helden Rechte In dem Feld von Karpinissi, wo sein Stahl im Blute zechte! In der schwarzen Geisterstunde rief er unsre Schar zusammen. Funken sprühten unsre Augen durch die Racht wie Wetterflammen, Uebers Knie zerbrachen wir jauchzend unsrer Schwerter Scheiden, Um mit Sensen einzumähen in die feisten Türkenweiden; Und wir drückten uns die Hände, und wir strichen uns die Bärte, Und der stampfte mit dem Fusze, und der rieb an seinem Schwerte. Da erscholl Bozzari’s Stimme: “Auf, ins Lager der Barbaren! Auf, mir nach! Verirrt euch nicht, Brüder, in der Feinde Scharen! Sucht ihr mich, im Zelt des Paschas werdet ihr mich sicher finden. Auf, mit Gott! Er hilft die Feinde, hilft den Tod auch überwinden! Auf!” Und die Trompete risz er hastig aus des Bläsers Händen Und stiesz selbst hinein so hell, dasz es von den Felsenwänden Heller stets und heller muszte sich verdoppelnd widerhallen; Aber heller widerhallt’ es doch in unsern Herzen allen. Wie des Herren Blitz und Donner aus der Wolkenburg der Nächte, Also traf das Schwert der Freien die Tyrannen und die Knechte; Wie die Tuba des Gerichtes wird dereinst die Sünder wecken, Also scholl durchs Türkenlager brausend dieser Ruf der Schrecken: “Mark Bozzari! Mark Bozzari! Sulioten! Sulioten!” Solch ein guter Morgengrusz ward den Schläfern da entboten. Und sie rüttelten sich auf, und gleich hirtenlosen Schafen Rannten sie durch alle Gassen, bis sie aneinander trafen Und, bethört von Todesengeln, die durch ihre Schwärme gingen, Brüder sich in blinder Wuth stürzten in der Brüder Klingen. Frag’ die Nacht nach unsern Thaten; sie hat uns im Kampf gesehen— Aber wird der Tag es glauben, was in dieser Nacht geschehen? Hundert Griechen, tausend Türken: also war die Saat zu schauen Auf dem Feld von Karpinissi, als das Licht begann zu grauen. Mark Bozzari, Mark Bozzari, und dich haben wir gefunden— Kenntlich nur an deinem Schwerte, kenntlich nur an deinen Wunden, An den Wunden, die du schlugest, und an denen, die dich trafen— Wie du es verheiszen hattest, in dem Zelt des Paschas schlafen.

Oeffne deine hohen Thore, Missolunghi, Stadt der Ehren, Wo der Helden Leichen ruhen, die uns fröhlich sterben lehren, Oeffne deine tiefen Grüfte, dasz wir in den heil’gen Stätten Neben Helden unsern Helden zu dem langen Schlafe betten!— Schlafe bei dem deutschen Grafen, Grafen Normann, Fels der Ehren, Bis die Stimmen des Gerichtes alle Gräber werden leeren.

MARK BOZZARIS.

Open wide, proud Missolonghi, open wide thy portals high, Where repose the bones of heroes, teach us cheerfully to die! Open wide thy lofty portals, open wide thy vaults profound; Up, and scatter laurel garlands to the breeze and on the ground! Mark Bozzaris’ noble body is the freight to thee we bear,— Mark Bozzaris’! Who for hero great as he to weep will dare? Tell his wounds, his victories over! Which in number greatest be? Every victory has its wound, and every wound its victory! See, a turbaned head is grimly set on all our lances here! See, how the Osmanli’s banner swathes in purple folds his bier! See, O see the latest trophies, which our hero’s glory sealed, When his glaive with gore was drunken on great Karpinissi’s field! In the murkiest hour of midnight did we at his call arise; Through the gloom like lightning-flashes flashed the fury from our eyes; With a shout, across our knees we snapped the scabbards of our swords, Better down to mow the harvest of the mellow Turkish hordes; And we clasped our hands together, and each warrior stroked his beard, And one stamped the sward, another rubbed his blade, and vowed its wierd. Then Bozzaris’ voice resounded: “On, to the barbarian’s lair! On, and follow me, my brothers, see you keep together there! Should you miss me, you will find me surely in the Pasha’s tent! On, with God! Through Him our foemen, death itself through Him is shent! On!” And swift he snatched the bugle from the hands of him that blew, And himself awoke a summons that o’er dale and mountain flew, Till each rock and cliff made answer clear and clearer to the call, But a clearer echo sounded in the bosom of us all! As from midnight’s battlemented keep the lightnings of the Lord Sweep, so swept our swords, and smote the tyrants and their slavish horde; As the trump of doom shall waken sinners in their graves that lie, So through all the Turkish leaguer thundered his appalling cry: “Mark Bozzaris! Mark Bozzaris! Suliotes, smite them in their lair!” Such the goodly morning greeting that we gave the sleepers there. And they staggered from their slumber, and they ran from street to street, Ran like sheep without a shepherd, striking wild at all they meet; Ran, and frenzied by Death’s angels, who amidst their myriads strayed, Brother, in bewildered fury, dashed and fell on brother’s blade. Ask the night of our achievements! It beheld us in the fight, But the day will never credit what we did in yonder night. Greeks by hundreds, Turks by thousands, there like scattered seed they lay, On the field of Karpinissi, when the morning broke in gray. Mark Bozarris, Mark Bozarris, and we found thee gashed and mown By thy sword alone we knew thee, knew thee by thy wounds alone; By the wounds thy hand had cloven, by the wounds that seamed thy breast, Lying, as thou hadst foretold us, in the Pasha’s tent at rest!

Open wide, proud Missolonghi, open wide thy portals high, Where repose the bones of heroes, teach us cheerfully to die! Open wide thy vaults! Within their holy bounds a couch we’d make, Where our hero, laid with heroes, may his last long slumber take! Rest beside that Rock of Honor, brave Count Normann, rest thy head, Till, at the archangel’s trumpet, all the graves give up their dead!

LIED VOR DER SCHLACHT.

Wer für die Freiheit kampft und fällt, desz Ruhm wird blühend stehn, Solange frei die Winde noch durch freie Lüfte wehn, Solange frei der Bäume Laub noch rauscht im grünen Wald, Solang’ des Stromes Woge noch frei nach dem Meere wallt, Solang’ des Adlers Fittich frei noch durch die Wolken fleugt, Solang’ ein freier Odem noch aus freiem Herzen steigt.

Wer für die Freiheit kämpft und fällt, desz Ruhm wird blühend stehn, Solange freie Geister noch durch Erd’ und Himmel gehn. Durch Erd’ und Himmel schwebt er noch, der Helden Schattenreihn, Und rauscht um uns in stiller Nacht, in hellem Sonnenschein, Im Sturm, der stolze Tannen bricht, und in dem Lüftchen auch, Das durch das Gras auf Gräbern spielt mit seinem leisen Hauch, In ferner Enkel Hause noch um alle Wiegen kreist Auf Hellas’ heldenreicher Flur der freien Ahnen Geist; Der haucht in Wunderträumen schon den zarten Säugling an Und weiht in seinem ersten Schlaf das Kind zu einem Mann; Den Jüngling lockt sein Ruf hinaus mit nie gefühlter Lust Zur Stätte, wo ein Freier fiel; da greift er in die Brust Dem Zitternden, und Schauer ziehn ihm durch das tiefe Herz, Er weisz nicht, ob es Wonne sei, ob es der erste Schmerz. Herab, du heil’ge Geisterschar, schwell’ unsre Fahnen auf, Beflügle unsrer Herzen Schlag und unsrer Füse Lauf; Wir ziehen nach der Freiheit aus, die Waffen in der Hand, Wir ziehen aus auf Kampf und Tod für Gott, fürs Vaterland! Ihr seid mit uns, ihr rauscht um uns, eu’r Geisterodem zieht Mit zauberischen Tönen hin durch unser Jubellied; Ihr seid mit uns, ihr schwebt daher, ihr aus Thermopylä, Ihr aus dem grünen Marathon, ihr von der blauen See, Am Wolkenfelsen Mykale, am Salaminerstrand, Ihr all’ aus Wald, Feld, Berg und Thal im weiten Griechenland!

Wer für die Freiheit kampft und fällt, desz Ruhm wird blühend stehn, Solange frei die Winde noch durch freie Lüfte wehn, Solange frei der Bäume Laub noch rauscht im grünen Wald, Solang’ des Stromes Woge noch frei nach dem Meere wallt, Solang’ des Adlers Fittich frei noch durch die Wolken fleugt, Solang’ ein freier Odem noch aus freiem Herzen steigt.

SONG BEFORE BATTLE.

Whoe’er for freedom fights and falls, his fame no blight shall know, As long as through heaven’s free expanse the breezes freely blow, As long as in the forest wild the green leaves flutter free, As long as rivers, mountain-born, roll freely to the sea, As long as free the eagle’s wing exulting cleaves the skies, As long as from a freeman’s heart a freeman’s breath doth rise.

Whoe’er for freedom fights and falls, his fame no blight shall know, As long as spirits of the free through earth and air shall go; Through earth and air a spirit-band of heroes moves always, ’Tis near us at the dead of night, and in the noontide’s blaze, In the storm that levels towering pines, and in the breeze that waves With low and gentle breath the grass upon our fathers’ graves. There’s not a cradle in the bounds of Hellas broad and fair, But the spirit of our free-born sires is surely hovering there. It breathes in dreams of fairy-land upon the infant’s brain, And in his first sleep dedicates the child to manhood’s pain; Its summons lures the youth to stand, with new-born joy possessed, Where once a freeman fell, and there it fires his thrilling breast, And a shudder runs through all his frame; he knows not if it be A throb of rapture, or the first sharp pang of agony. Come, swell our banners on the breeze, thou sacred spirit-band, Give wings to every warrior’s foot, and nerve to every hand. We go to strike for freedom, to break the oppressor’s rod, We go to battle and to death for our country and our God. Ye are with us, we hear your wings, we hear in magic tone Your spirit-voice the pæan swell, and mingle with our own. Ye are with us, ye throng around,—you from Thermopylæ, You from the verdant Marathon, you from the azure sea, By the cloud-capped rocks of Mykale, at Salamis,—all you From field and forest, mount and glen, the land of Hellas through!

Whoe’er for freedom fights and falls, his fame no blight shall know, As long as through heaven’s free expanse the breezes freely blow, As long as in the forest wild the green leaves flutter free, As long as rivers, mountain-born, roll freely to the sea, As long as free the eagle’s wing exulting cleaves the skies, As long as from a freeman’s heart a freeman’s breath doth rise.

When we remember all that was compressed into this short life, we might well believe that this ceaseless acquiring and creating must have tired and weakened and injured both body and mind. Such, however, was not the case. All who knew the poet agree in stating that he never overworked himself, and that he accomplished all he did with the most perfect ease and enjoyment. Let us only remember how his life as a student was broken into by his service during the war, how his journey to Italy occupied several years of his life, how later in Dessau he had to follow his profession as teacher and librarian, and then let us turn our thoughts to all the work of his hands and the creations of his mind, and we are astonished, not only at the amount of work done, but still more at the finished form which distinguishes all his works. He was one of the first who with Zeune, Von der Hagen, and the brothers Grimm, labored to reawaken an interest in ancient and mediæval German literature. He was a favorite pupil of Wolf, and his “Homerische Vorschule” did more than any other work at that time to propagate the ideas of Wolf. He had explored the modern languages of Europe,—French, Italian, English, and Spanish; and his critiques in all these fields of literature show how intimately acquainted he was with the best authors of these nations. Besides all this, he worked regularly for journals and encyclopædias, and was engaged co-editor of the great “Encyclopædia of Arts and Sciences,” by Ersch and Gruber. He also undertook the publication of a “Library of the German Poets of the Seventeenth Century,” and all this, without mentioning his poems and novels, in the short space of a life of thirty-three years.

I almost forget that I am speaking of my father; for indeed I hardly knew him, and when his scientific and poetic activity reached its end, he was far younger than I am now. I do not believe, however, that a natural affection and veneration for the poet deprives us of the right of judging. It is well said that love is blind, but love also strengthens and sharpens the dull eye, so that it sees beauty where thousands pass by unmoved. If one reads most of our critical writings, it would almost appear as if the chief duty of the reviewer were to find out the weak points and faults of every work of art. Nothing has so injured the art of criticism as this prejudice. A critic is a judge; but a judge, though he is no advocate, should also be no prosecutor. The weak points of any work of art betray themselves only too soon; but in order to discover its beauties, not only a sharp, but an experienced eye is needed; and love and sympathy are necessary above anything else. It is the heart that makes the critic, not the nose. It is well known how many of the most beautiful spots in Scotland, and Wales, and Cornwall, were not many years ago described as wastes and wildernesses. Richmond and Hampton Court were admired, people travelled also to Versailles, and admired the often admired blue sky of Italy. But poets such as Walter Scott and Wordsworth discovered the beauties of their native land. Where others had only lamented over bare and wearisome hills, they saw the battle-fields and burial-places of the primeval Titan struggles of nature. Where others saw nothing but barren moors full of heather and broom, the land in their eyes was covered as with a carpet softer and more variegated than the most precious loom of Turkey. Where others lost their temper at the gray cold fog, they marveled at the silver veil of the bride of the morning, and the gold illumination of the departing sun. Now every cockney can admire the smallest lake in Westmoreland or the barest moor in the Highlands. Why is this? Because few eyes are so dull that they cannot see what is beautiful after it has been pointed out to them, and when they know that they need not feel ashamed of admiring it. It is the same with the beauties of poetry, as with the beauties of nature. We must first discover what is beautiful in poetry, and, when it is discovered, communicate it; otherwise the authors of Scotch ballads are but strolling singers, and the Niebelungen songs are, as Frederick the Great said, not worth powder and shot. The trade of fault-finding is quickly learnt; the art of admiration is a difficult art, at least for little minds, narrow hearts, and timid souls, who prefer treading broad and safe paths. Thus many critics and literary historians have rushed by the poems of Wilhelm Müller, just like travellers, who go on in the beaten track, passing by on the right hand and on the left the most beautiful scenes of nature, and who only stand still and open both eyes and mouth when their “Murray” tells them there is something they ought to admire. Should an old man who is at home here meet them on their way, and counsel the travellers to turn for a moment from the high road in order to accompany him through a shady path to a mill, many may feel at first full of uneasiness and distrust. But when they have refreshed themselves in the dark green valley with its lively mill stream and delicious wood fragrance, they no longer blame their guide for having called somewhat loudly to them to pause in their journey. It is such a pause that I have tried in these few introductory lines to enforce on the reader, and I believe that I too may reckon on pardon, if not on thanks, from those who have followed my sudden call.

1858

VI. ON THE LANGUAGE AND POETRY OF SCHLESWIG-HOLSTEIN.

After all that has been written about the Schleswig-Holstein question, how little is known about those whom that question chiefly concerns,—the Schleswig-Holsteiners! There may be a vague recollection that, during the general turmoil of 1848, the German inhabitants of the Duchies rose against the Danes; that they fought bravely, and at last succumbed, not to the valor, but to the diplomacy of Denmark. But, after the treaty of London in 1852 had disposed of them as the treaty of Vienna had disposed of other brave people, they sank below the horizon of European interests, never to rise again, it was fondly hoped, till the present generation had passed away.

Yet these Schleswig-Holsteiners have an interest of their own, quite apart from the political clouds that have lately gathered round their country. Ever since we know anything of the history of Northern Europe, we find Saxon races established as the inhabitants of that northern peninsula which was then called the _Cimbric Chersonese_. The first writer who ever mentions the name of Saxons is Ptolemy,(18) and he speaks of them as settled in what is now called Schleswig-Holstein.(19) At the time of Charlemagne the Saxon race is described to us as consisting of three tribes: the _Ostfalai_, _Westfalai_, and _Angrarii_. The _Westphalians_ were settled near the Rhine, the _Eastphalians_ near the Elbe, and the intermediate country, washed by the Weser, was held by the _Angrarii_.(20) The name of Westphalia is still in existence; that of Eastphalia has disappeared, but its memory survives in the English _sterling_. Eastphalian traders, the ancestors of the merchant princes of Hamburg, were known in England by the name of _Easterlings_; and their money being of the purest quality, _easterling_, in Latin esterlingus, shortened to _sterling_, became the general name of pure or sterling money. The name of the third tribe, the _Angrarii_, continued through the Middle Ages as the name of a people; and to the present day, my own sovereign, the Duke of Anhalt, calls himself Duke of “_Sachsen_, _Engern_, und _Westphalen_.” But the name of the Angrarii was meant to fulfill another and more glorious destiny. The name _Angrarii_ or _Angarii_(21) is a corruption of the older name, _Angrivarii_, the famous German race mentioned by Tacitus as the neighbors of the _Cherusci_. These _Angrivarii_ are in later documents called _Anglevarii_. The termination _varii_(22) represents the same word which exists in A.-S. as _ware_; for instance, in _Cant-ware_, inhabitants of Kent, or _Cant-ware-burh_, Canterbury; _burh-ware_, inhabitants of a town, burghers. It is derived from _werian_, to defend, to hold, and may be connected with _wer_, a man. The same termination is found in _Ansivarii_ or _Ampsivarii_; probably also in _Teutonoarii_ instead of _Teutoni_, _Chattuari_ instead of _Chatti_.

The principal seats of these _Angrarii_ were, as we saw, between the Rhine and Elbe, but Tacitus(23) knows of _Anglii_, _i.e._ _Angrii_, east of the Elbe; and an offshoot of the same Saxon tribe is found very early in possession of that famous peninsula between the Schlei and the Bay of Flensburg on the eastern coast of Schleswig,(24) which by Latin writers was called _Anglia_, _i.e._ _Angria_. To derive the name of _Anglia_ from the Latin _angulus_,(25) corner, is about as good an etymology as the kind-hearted remark of St. Gregory, who interpreted the name of _Angli_ by _angeli_. From that Anglia, the _Angli_, together with the _Saxons_ and _Juts_, migrated to the British Isles in the fifth century, and the name of the _Angli_, as that of the most numerous tribe, became in time the name of _Englaland_.(26) In the Latin laws ascribed to King Edward the Confessor, a curious supplement is found, which states “that the _Juts_ (_Guti_) came formerly from the noble blood of the _Angli_, namely, from the state of _Engra_, and that the English came from the same blood. The Juts, therefore like the Angli of Germany, should always be received in England as brothers, and as citizens of the realm, because the Angli of England and Germany had always intermarried, and had fought together against the Danes.”(27)

Like the Angli of Anglia, the principal tribes clustering round the base of the Cimbric peninsula, and known by the general name of _Northalbingi_ or _Transalbiani_, also _Nordleudi_, were all offshoots of the Saxon stem. Adam of Bremen (2, 15) divides them into _Tedmarsgoi_, _Holcetae_, and _Sturmarii_. In these it is easy to recognize the modern names of _Dithmarschen_, _Holtseten_ or _Holsten_, and _Stormarn_. It would require more space than we can afford, were we to enter into the arguments by which Grimm has endeavored to identify the _Dithmarschen_ with the _Teutoni_, the _Stormarn_ with the _Cimbri_, and the _Holsten_ with the _Harudes_. His arguments, if not convincing, are at least highly ingenious, and may be examined by those interested in these matters, in his “History of the German Language,” pp. 633-640.

For many centuries the Saxon inhabitants of those regions have had to bear the brunt of the battle between the Scandinavian and the German races. From the days when the German Emperor Otho I. (died 973) hurled his swift spear from the northernmost promontory of Jutland into the German Ocean to mark the true frontier of his empire, to the day when Christian IX. put his unwilling pen to that Danish constitution which was to incorporate all the country north of the Eider with Denmark, they have had to share in all the triumphs and all the humiliations of the German race, to which they are linked by the strong ties of a common blood and a common language.

Such constant trials and vicissitudes have told on the character of these German borderers, and have made them what they are, a hardy and determined, yet careful and cautious race. Their constant watchings and struggles against the slow encroachments or sudden inroads of an enemy more inveterate even than the Danes,—namely, the sea,—had imparted to them from the earliest times somewhat of that wariness and perseverance which we perceive in the national character of the Dutch and the Venetians. But the fresh breezes of the German Ocean and the Baltic kept their nerves well braced and their hearts buoyant; and for muscular development the arms of these sturdy ploughers of the sea and the land can vie with those of any of their neighbors on the isles or on the Continent. _Holsten-treue_, _i.e._ Holstein-truth, is proverbial throughout Germany, and it has stood the test of long and fearful trials.

There is but one way of gaining an insight into the real character of a people, unless we can actually live among them for years; and that is to examine their language and literature. Now it is true that the language spoken in Schleswig-Holstein is not German,—at least not in the ordinary sense of the word,—and one may well understand how travellers and correspondents of newspapers, who have picked up their German phrases from Ollendorf, and who, on the strength of this, try to enter into a conversation with Holstein peasants, should arrive at the conclusion that these peasants speak Danish, or, at all events, that they do not speak German.

The Germans of Schleswig-Holstein are Saxons, and all true Saxons speak Low-German, and Low-German is more different from High-German than English is from Lowland Scotch. Low-German, however, is not to be mistaken for vulgar German. It is the German which from time immemorial was spoken in the low countries and along the northern sea-coast of Germany, as opposed to the German of the high country, of Swabia, Thuringia, Bavaria, and Austria. These two dialects differ from each other like Doric and Ionic; neither can be considered as a corruption of the other; and however far back we trace these two branches of living speech, we never arrive at a point when they diverge from one common source. The Gothic of the fourth century, preserved in the translation of the Bible by Ulfilas, is not, as has been so often said, the mother both of High and Low German. It is to all intents and purposes Low-German, only Low-German in its most primitive form, and more primitive therefore in its grammatical framework than the earliest specimens of High-German also, which date only from the seventh or eighth century. This Gothic, which was spoken in the east of Germany, has become extinct. The Saxon, spoken in the north of Germany, continues its manifold existence to the present day in the Low-German dialects, in Frisian, in Dutch, and in English. The rest of Germany was and is occupied by High-German. In the West the ancient High-German dialect of the Franks has been absorbed in French, while the German spoken from the earliest times in the centre and south of Germany has supplied the basis of what is now called the literary and classical language of Germany.

Although the literature of Germany is chiefly High-German, there are a few literary compositions, both ancient and modern, in the different spoken dialects of the country, sufficient to enable scholars to distinguish at least nine distinct grammatical settlements; in the Low-German branch, _Gothic_, _Saxon_, _Anglo-Saxon_, _Frisian_, and _Dutch_; in the High-German branch, _Thuringian_, _Frankish_, _Bavarian_, and _Alemannish_. Professor Weinhold is engaged at present in publishing separate grammars of six of these dialects, namely, of _Alemannish_, _Bavarian_, _Frankish_, _Thuringian_, _Saxon_, and _Frisian_: and in his great German Grammar Jacob Grimm has been able to treat these, together with the Scandinavian tongues, as so many varieties of one common, primitive type of Teutonic speech.

But although, in the early days of German life, the Low and High German dialects were on terms of perfect equality, Low-German has fallen back in the race, while High-German has pressed forward with double speed. High-German has become the language of literature and good society. It is taught in schools, preached in church, pleaded at the bar; and, even in places where ordinary conversation is still carried on in Low-German, High-German is clearly intended to be the language of the future. At the time of Charlemagne this was not so; and one of the earliest literary monuments of the German language, the “Heliand,” _i.e._ the Saviour, is written in Saxon or Low-German. The Saxon Emperors, however, did little for German literature, while the Swabian Emperors were proud of being the patrons of art and poetry. The language spoken at their court being High-German, the ascendency of that dialect may be said to date from their days, though it was not secured till the time of the Reformation, when the translation of the Bible by Luther put a firm and lasting stamp on what has since become the literary speech of Germany.

But language, even though deprived of literary cultivation, does not easily die. Though at present people write the same language all over Germany, the towns and villages teem everywhere with dialects, both High and Low. In Hanover, Brunswick, Mecklenburg, Oldenburg, the Free Towns, and in Schleswig-Holstein, the lower orders speak their own German, generally called _Platt-Deutsch_, and in many parts of Mecklenburg, Oldenburg, Ostfriesland, and Holstein, the higher ranks too cling in their every-day conversation to this more homely dialect.(28) Children frequently speak two languages: High-German at school, Low-German at their games. The clergyman speaks High-German when he stands in the pulpit; but when he visits the poor, he must address them in their own peculiar _Platt_. The lawyer pleads in the language of Schiller and Goethe; but when he examines his witnesses he has frequently to condescend to the vulgar tongue. That vulgar tongue is constantly receding from the towns; it is frightened away by railways, it is ashamed to show itself in parliament. But it is loved all the more by the people; it appeals to their hearts, and it comes back naturally to all who have ever talked it together in their youth. It is the same with the local patois of High-German. Even where at school the correct High-German is taught and spoken, as in Bavaria and Austria, each town still keeps its own patois, and the people fall back on it as soon as they are among themselves. When Maria Theresa went to the Burgtheater to announce to the people of Vienna the birth of a son and heir, she did not address them in high-flown literary German. She bent forward from her box, and called out: “_Hörts! der Leopold hot án Buebá_”: “Hear! Leopold has a boy.” In German comedies, characters from Berlin, Leipzig, and Vienna are constantly introduced speaking their own local dialects. In Bavaria, Styria, and the Tyrol, much of the poetry of the people is written in their patois; and in some parts of Germany sermons even, and other religious tracts, continue to be published in the local vernaculars.

There are here and there a few enthusiastic champions of dialects, particularly of Low-German, who still cherish a hope that High-German may be thrown back, and Low-German restored to its rights and former dominion. Yet, whatever may be thought of the relative excellences of High and Low German,—and in several points, no doubt, Low-German has the advantage of High-German,—yet, practically, the battle between the two is decided, and cannot now be renewed. The national language of Germany, whether in the South or the North, will always be the German of Luther, Lessing, Schiller, and Goethe. This, however, is no reason why the dialects, whether of Low or High German, should be despised or banished. Dialects are everywhere the natural feeders of literary languages; and an attempt to destroy them, if it could succeed, would be like shutting up the tributaries of great rivers.

After these remarks it will be clear that, if people say that the inhabitants of Schleswig-Holstein do not speak German, there is some truth in such a statement, at least just enough of truth to conceal the truth. It might be said, with equal correctness, that the people of Lancashire do not speak English. But, if from this a conclusion is to be drawn that the Schleswig-Holsteiners, speaking this dialect, which is neither German nor Danish, might as well be taught in Danish as in German, this is not quite correct, and would deceive few if it were adduced as an argument for introducing French instead of English in the national schools of Lancashire.