CHAPTER IX.

OF THE SCHOOLING OF THE GERMAN CITIZEN.

(1790.)

Many races of poets had passed away; their hearts had never been

stirred by vivid impressions of a heroes life; they celebrated the

victories of Alexander and the death of Cato in countless forms, with

chilling phrases and in artificial periods. Now the smallest story told

at the house-door by an invalid soldier caused transports, even that

the great King of Prussia had been seen by him at the cathedral and had

spoken five words to him. The tale of the simple man brought at once,

as if by enchantment, before the minds of his hearers the exalted image

of the man, the camp, the watch-fire, and the watch. How weak was the

impression produced by the artificial praise of long-spun verses

against such anecdotes which could be told in a few lines! They excited

sympathy and fellow-feeling, even to tears and wringing of hands. In

what lay the magic of these slight traits of life? Those few words of

the King were so characteristic, one could perceive in them the whole

nature of the hero, and the rough true-hearted tone of the narrator

gave his account a peculiar colouring which increased the effect. A

poetic feeling was undoubtedly produced in the hearer, but different as

heaven from earth to the old art. And this poetry was felt by every one

in Germany after the Silesian war; it had become as popular as the

newspapers and the roll of the soldiers' drum. He who would produce an

effect as a German poet, must know how to narrate, like that honest man

of the people, in a simple and homely way, as from the heart, and it

must be a subject which would make the heart beat quicker. Goethe knew

well why he referred the whole of the youthful intellectual life of his

time to Frederic II., for even he had in his father's house been

influenced by the noble poetry which shone from the life of that great

man on his contemporaries. The great King had pronounced "Goetz von

Berlichingen" a horrible piece, yet he had himself materially

contributed to it, by giving the poet courage to weave together the old

anecdotes of the troopers into a drama. And when Goethe, in his old

age, concluded his last drama, he brought forward again the figure of

the old King, and he makes his Faust an indefatigable and exacting

master, who carries his canal through the marsh lands of the Vistula.

And it was not different with Lessing, to say nothing of the minor

poets. In "Minna von Barnhelm," the King sends a decisive letter

on the stage; and in "Nathan"--the antagonism betwixt tolerance and

fanaticism, betwixt Judaism and priestcraft--is an ennobled reflex of

the views of D'Argen's Jewish letters.

It was not only the easily moved spirit of poets that was excited by

the idea of the King: even the scientific life of the Germans, their

speculative and moral philosophy, were elevated and transformed by it.

For the freedom of conscience which the King placed at the head of his

maxims of government, dissolved like a spell the compulsion which the

church had hitherto laid on the learned. The strong antipathy which the

King had for priestly rule, and every kind of restraint of the mind,

worked in many spheres. The most daring teaching, the most determined

attacks on existing opinions, were now allowed; the struggle was

carried on with equal weapons, and science obtained for the first time

a feeling of supremacy over the soul. It was by no accident that Kant

rose to eminence in Prussia; for the whole stringent power of his

teaching, the high elevation of the feeling of duty, even the quiet

resignation with which the individual had to submit himself to the

"categorical imperative," is nothing more than the ideal counterpart of

the devotion to duty which the King practised himself and demanded of

his Prussians. No one has more nobly expressed than the great

philosopher himself, how much the State system of Frederic II. had been

the basis of his teaching.

Historical science was not the least gainer by him. Great political

deeds were so intimately blended with the imaginations and the hearts

of Germans, that every individual participated in them; manly doings

and sufferings appeared so worthy of reverence, that the feeling for

what was significant and characteristic animated in a new way the

German historical inquirer, and his precepts for the nation attained a

higher meaning.

It was not, indeed, immediately that the Germans gained the sure

judgment and political culture which are necessary to every historian

who undertakes to represent life of his nation. It was remarkable that

the historical mind of Germany deviated so much from that of England

and France, but it developed itself in a way that led the greatest

intellectual acquisitions.

And these new blossoms of intellectual life in Germany, which were

unfolded after the year 1750, bore a thoroughly national character;

indeed, their highest gain remains up to the present time almost

entirely to the German. It began to be recognised that the life of a

people develops itself, like that of an individual, according to

certain natural laws; that, through the individual souls of the

inventor and thinker, a something national and in common penetrates

from generation to generation, each at the same time limiting and

invigorating it. Since Winckelman undertook to discern and fix the

periods of ancient sculptural art, a similar advance was ventured upon

in other domains of knowledge. Semler had already endeavoured to point

out the historical development of Christianity in the oldest church.

The existence of old Homer was denied, and the origin of the epical

poem sought in the peculiarities of a popular life which existed 3000

years ago. The meaning of myths and traditions, striking peculiarities

in the inventions and creations of the youthful period of a people,

were clearly pointed out; soon Romulus and the Tarquins, and finally

the records of the Bible, were subjected to the same reckless

inquiries.

But it was peculiar that these deep-thinking investigations were united

with so much freedom and power of invention. He who wrote the "Laocoon"

and the "Dramaturgie" was himself a poet; and Goethe and Schiller, the

same men whose springs of imagination flowed so full and copiously,

looked intently into its depth, investigating, like quiet men of

learning, the laws of life of their novels, dramas, and ballads.

Meanwhile all the best spirits of the nation were enchanted with their

poems; the beautiful was suddenly poured out over the German soil as if

by a divinity. With an enthusiasm which often approached to worship,

the German gave himself up to the charms of his national poetry. The

world of shining imagery acquired in his eyes an importance which

sometimes made him unjust to the practical life which surrounded him.

He, who so often appeared as the citizen of a nation without a State,

found almost everything that was noble and exalted in the golden realm

of poetry and art; the realities about him appeared to him common, low,

and indifferent.

How through this an aristocracy of men of refinement were trained,--how

the great poets themselves were occupied in looking down with proud

resignation from their serene heights on the twilight of the German

earth,--has often been portrayed. Here we will only relate how the time

worked on the common run of men, remodelling their characters and

ideas.

It is the year 1790, four years after the death of the great King; the

second year in which the eyes of Germany had been fixed with

astonishment on the condition of France. A few individuals only

interested themselves in the struggle going on in the capital of a

foreign country betwixt the nation and the throne. The German citizen

had freed himself from the influence of French culture; indeed Frederic

II. had taught his country people to pay little attention to the

political condition of the neighbouring country. It was known that

great reforms were necessary in France, and the literary men were on

the side of the French opposition. The Germans were more especially

occupied with themselves; a feeling of satisfaction is perceptible in

the nation, of which they had been long deprived; they perceive that

they are making good progress; a wonderful spirit of reform penetrates

through their whole life: trade is flourishing, wealth increases, the

new culture exalts and pleases, youths recite with feeling the verses

of their favourite poet, and rejoice to see on the stage the

representations of great virtues and vices, and listen to the

entrancing sounds of German music. It was a new life, but it was the

end of the good time. Many years later the Germans looked longingly

back for the peaceful years after the Seven Years' War.

If any one at this time entered the streets of a moderate-sized city,

through which he had passed in the year 1750, he would be struck by the

greater energy of its inhabitants. The old walls and gates are indeed

still standing; but it is proposed to free from brick and mortar the

entrances which are too narrow for men and waggons, and to substitute

light iron trellis-work, and in other places to open new gates in the

walls. The rampart round the city moat has been planted with pollards,

and in the thick shade of the limes and chestnuts the citizens take

their constitutional walks, and the children of the lower orders

breathe the fresh summer air. The small gardens on the city walls are

embellished; new foreign blossoms shine amongst the old, and cluster

round some fragment of a column or a small wooden angel that is painted

white; here and there a summer-house rises, either in the form of an

antique temple or as a hut of moss-covered bark, as a remembrance of

the original state of innocence of the human race, in which the

feelings were so incomparably purer and the restraints of dress and

_convenances_ were so much less.

But the traffic of the city has extended itself beyond the old walls,

where a high road leads to the city, and suburban rows of houses

stretch far into the plain. Many new houses, with red-tiled roofs under

loaded fruit-trees, delight the eyes. The number of houses in the city

has also increased; leaning with broad fronts, gable to gable, there

they stand, with large windows and open staircases enclosing wide

spaces. The ornaments that adorn the front are still modestly made of

plaster of Paris; bright lime-washes of all shades are almost the only

characteristics, and give the streets a variegated appearance. They

are, for the most part, built by merchants and manufacturers, who are

now almost everywhere the wealthy people of the city.

The wounds inflicted by the Seven Years' War on the prosperity of the

citizens are healed. Not in vain have the police, for more than fifty

years, admonished and commanded; the city arrangements are well

regulated; provisions for the care of the poor are organised, funds for

their maintenance, doctors, and medicine supplied gratuitously. In the

larger cities much is done for the support of the infirm; in Dresden,

in 1790, the yearly amount of funds for the poor was 50,000 thalers; in

Berlin also, where Frederic William had done much for the poor, the

government warmly participated in rendering assistance,--it was

reported that more was done there than elsewhere. But the benevolence

which the educated classes evinced towards the people was deficient in

judgment--alms-giving was the only thing thought of; a few years later

it was considered truly patriotic in the finance minister, von

Struensee, to remit to the Berlin poor a considerable portion of his

salary. At the same time there were loud complaints of the increasing

immorality, and of the preponderance of poor. It was remarked, with

alarm, that Berlin, under Frederic II., had been the only capital in

the world in which more men were born in the year than died, and that

now it was beginning to be the reverse. At Berlin, Dresden, and

Leipzig, beggars were no longer to be seen; indeed there were few in

any of the Prussian cities, with exception of Silesia and West Prussia;

but in the smaller places in Lower Saxony they still continued to be a

plague to travellers. They congregated at the hotels and post-houses,

and waylaid strangers on their arrival.

But a greater and more satisfactory improvement was made by the

exertions of the government in the increased care of the sick: the

devastating pestilence and other diseases were--one has reason to

believe--shut out from the frontiers of Germany. From 1709-11 the

plague had raged fearfully in Poland, and even in 1770 there had been

deaths from it; whole villages had been depopulated by it, but our

native land was little injured. There was one disease which still made

its ravages among rich and poor alike--the small-pox. It was Europe's

great misery--the repulsive visitant of blooming youth, bringing death

and disfigurement. It was the turning-point of life, how they passed

through this malady. Much heart-rending misery has now ceased; the

beauty of our women has become more secure, and the number of diseased

and helpless, has considerably diminished since Jenner and his friends

established in London, in 1799, the first public vaccinating

institution.

Everywhere, about this time, began complaints of the want of economy,

and immoderate love of pleasure of the working classes: complaints

which certainly were justified in many cases, but which must inevitably

be heard where the greater wealth of individuals increases the

necessities of the people in the lower classes. One must be cautious

before one assumes from this a decrease in the popular strength; the

awakening desires of the people is more frequently the first unhealthy

sign of progress. On the whole it does not appear to have been so very

bad. Smoking was indeed general; it constantly increased, although

Frederic II. had raised the price in Prussia by his stamp on each

packet. The coloured porcelain-headed pipe began to supplant the

meerschaum. In Northern Germany the white beer became the new

fashionable drink of the citizens; staid old-fashioned tradesmen shook

their heads, and complained that their favourite old brew became worse,

and that the consumption of wine among the citizens increased

immoderately. In Saxony they began to drink coffee to a great extent,

however thin and adulterated it might be, and it was the only warm

drink of the poor. The general complaint of travellers, who came from

the south of Germany, was that the cooking in Prussia, Saxony, and

Thuringia was poor and scanty.

The public amusements, also, were neither numerous or expensive.

Foremost was the theatre; it was quite a passion with the citizens. The

wandering companies became better and more numerous, the number of

theatres greater; the best place was the parterre, in which officers,

students, or young officials, who were frequently at variance, gave the

tone. The sensation dramas, with dagger, poison, and rattling of

chains, enchanted the unpretending; pathetic family dramas, with

iniquitous ministers of state, and raving lovers excited feeling in the

educated; and the bad taste of the pieces, and the good acting,

astonished strangers. The entrance of one of these companies within

walls was an event of great importance; and we see, from the accounts

of many worthy men, how great was the influence of such representations

upon their life. It is difficult for us to comprehend the enthusiasm

with which young people of education followed these performances,

the intensity of the feelings excited in them. Iffland's pieces,

"Verbrechen aus Ehrgeiz" and "Der Spieler," drew forth not only tears

and sobs, but also oaths and impassioned vows. Once at Lauchstaedt, when

the curtain fell at the end of the "Spielers" (Gamblers), one of the

wildest students of Halle rushed up to another, also of Halle, but whom

he scarcely knew, and begged him, the tears streaming from his eyes, to

record his oath that he would never again touch a card. According to

the account the excited youth kept his word. Similar scenes were not

extraordinary. Poor students saved money for weeks to enable them to go

even once from Halle to the theatre in Lauchstaedt, and they ran back

the same night, so as not to miss their lectures the next morning. But,

lively as was the interest of the Germans in the drama, it was not easy

for the society of even the larger cities to keep up a stationary

theatre. At Berlin the French theatre was changed to a German one, with

the proud title of National Theatre; but this, the only one in the

capital, was, in 1790, little visited, although Fleck and both the

Unzelmanns played there. The Italian Opera was, indeed, better

attended, but it was given at the King's expense; every magistrate had

his own box; the King still sat, with his court, in the parterre behind

the orchestra; and throughout the whole winter there were only six

representations--one new and one old, each performed three times. Then,

undoubtedly, the public thronged there, to see the splendour of this

court festival, and were astounded at the great procession of elephants

and lions in "Darius." It is mentioned that at Dresden, also, the

children's theatricals in families were far more in request than the

great theatre; and in Berlin, which was considered so particularly

frivolous and pleasure-seeking, this same winter, at the great

masquerade, of which there was so much talk in the country, there was

only one person dressed in character; the others were all spiritless

dominoes, and the whole was very dull to strangers.[24] All this does

not look much like lavish expenditure.

The usual social enjoyment, also, was very moderate in character; it

was a visit to a public coffee-garden. Nobles, officers, officials, and

merchants, all thronged there for the sake of some unpretending music

and coloured lamps. This kind of entertainment had been first

introduced at Leipzig and Vienna about 1700; the great delights of this

coffee-drinking in the shade were celebrated in prose and verse, and

the more frivolous boasted how convenient such assemblages were for

carrying on tender liaisons. These coffee-gardens have continued

characteristic of German social intercourse for nearly 150 years.

Families sat at different tables, but could be seen and observed; the

children were constrained to behave themselves properly, and careful

housewives carried with them from home coffee and cakes in cornets.

With the well-educated citizen, hospitality had become more liberal,

and entertainments more sumptuous; but in their family life they

retained much of the strict discipline of their ancestors. The power of

the husband and father was predominant; both the master and mistress of

the house required prompt obedience; the distinction between those who

were to command and to obey was more clearly defined. Only husband and

wife had learnt to address each other with the loving "_thou_"; the

children of the gentry, and often also of artisans, spoke to their

parents in the third person plural: the servants were addressed by

their masters with the "_thou_," but by strangers in the third person

singular. In the same way the "_he_" was used by the master to his

journeymen, by the landed proprietor to the "_schulze_," and by the

gymnastic teacher to a scholar of the upper classes; but in many places

the scholar addressed his _Herr Director_ with "your honour."

More frequently than forty years before, did the German now leave his

home to travel through some part of his Fatherland. The means of

intercourse were intolerable, considering the great extension of

commerce and the increased love of travelling. Made roads were few and

short; the road from Frankfort to Mayence, with its avenues of trees,

pavement, and footpaths, was reputed the best _chaussee_ in Germany;

the great old road from the Rhine to the east was still only a mud

road. Still did persons of consequence continue to travel in hired

coaches or extra post; for though on the main roads the vehicles of the

ordinary post had roofs, they had no springs, and were considered more

suitable for luggage than passengers; they had no side doors; it was

necessary to enter under the roof, or creep in over the pole. At the

back of the carriage the luggage was stowed up to the roof, and

fastened with cords; the parcels also lay under the seats; kegs of

herrings and smoked salmon incessantly rolled on to the benches of the

passengers, who were constantly occupied in pushing them back; as it

was impossible for people to stretch out their feet on account of the

packages, they were obliged in despair to dangle their legs outside the

carriage. Insupportable were the long stoppages at the stations; the

carriage was never ready to start under two hours; it took eleven weary

days and nights of shaking and bruising to get from Cleves to Berlin.

Travelling on the great rivers was better; down the Danube, it is true,

there were as yet nothing but the old-fashioned barges, without mast or

sails, drawn by horses; but on the Rhine the lover of the picturesque

rejoiced in a passage by the regular Rhine boats; their excellent

arrangements were extolled, they had mast and sails, and only used

horses as an assistance; they also had a level deck, with rails, so

that people could promenade on it, and cabins, with windows and some

furniture. An ever-changing and agreeable society was to be found

collected there, as many besides travellers on business used them; for

Germans, after 1750, had made a most remarkable progress; the love of

nature had attained a great development. The English landscape

gardening took the place of the Italian and French architectural

gardens, and the old Robinsonades were followed by descriptions of

loving children, or savages in an enchanting and strange landscape. The

German, later than the highly-cultivated Englishman, was seized with

the love of wandering in distant countries; but it had only lately

become an active feeling. It was now the fashion to admire on the

mountains the rising sun and the floating mist in the valleys; and the

pastoral life with butter and honey, mountain prospects, the perfume of

the woods, the flowers of the meadows, and ruins, were extolled, in

opposition to the commonplace pleasures of play, operas, comedies, and

balls. Already did the language abound in rich expressions, describing

the beauties of nature, the mountains, waterfalls, &c.; and already did

laborious travellers explore not only the Alps, but the Apennines and

Etna; but the Tyrol was hardly known.

It was still easy to discover by his dialect, even in the centre of

Germany, to what province the most highly-educated man belonged; for

the language of family life, giving expression to the deepest feelings

of the heart, was full of provincial peculiarities, and those were

called affected and new-fangled who accustomed themselves to pronounce

words as they were written. Indeed, in the north, as in the south, it

was considered patriotic to preserve the native dialect pure; the young

ladies of some of the best families formed an alliance to defend the

dialect of their city from the bold inroads of the foreigners, who had

come to settle there. It was said, to the credit of Electoral Saxony,

that it was the only part where even in the lowest orders intelligible

German was spoken. A praise that is undoubtedly justified by the

prevalence for three centuries of the Upper Saxon dialect in the

written language, which is worthy of our observation, as it gives us an

idea how the others must have spoken.

In 1790, one might assume that a city community, which was reputed to

have made any progress, was situated in a Protestant district; for it

was evident to every traveller that the culture and social condition in

Protestant and Roman Catholic countries was very different; but even in

the same Protestant district, within the walls of one city, the

contrast of culture was very striking. The external difference of

classes began to diminish, whilst the inward contrast became almost

greater; the nobleman, the well-educated citizen, and the artisan with

the peasant, form three distinct circles; each had different springs of

action, so that they appear to us as if each belonged to a different

century.

The most confident and light-hearted were the nobles; there was also

some earnestness of mind in them, not unfrequently accompanied by ample

knowledge; but the majority lived a life of easy enjoyment: the women,

on the whole, were more excited than the men, by the poetry and great

scientific struggle of the time. Already were the dangers which beset

an exclusive position very visible, more especially in the proudest

circles of the German landed aristocracy; both the higher and lower

Imperial nobility were hated and derided. They played the part of

little Sovereigns in the most grotesque modes; they loved to surround

themselves with a court of gentlemen and ladies, even down to the

warder, whose horn often announced across the narrow frontier that his

lord was taking his dinner; nor was the court dwarf omitted, who,

perhaps in fantastic attire, threw his misshapen head every evening

into the _salon_ of the family, and announced it was time to go to bed.

But the family possessions could not be kept together; one field after

another fell into the hands of creditors; there was no end to their

money embarrassments. Many of the Imperial nobles withdrew into the

capitals of the Ecclesiastical States. In the Franconian bishoprics on

the Rhine, in Munsterland, an aristocracy established themselves, who,

according to the bitter judgment of contemporaries, did not display

very valuable qualities. Their families were in hereditary possession

of rich cathedral foundations and bishoprics; they were slavish

imitators of French taste at table, in their wardrobes, and equipages;

but their bad French and stupid ignorance were frequently thrown in

their teeth.

The poorer among the landed nobility were in the hands of the Jews,

especially in East Germany; still, in 1790, the greater part of the

money that circulated through, the country passed through the hands of

the nobles. On their properties they ruled as Sovereigns, but the land

was generally managed by a steward. There was seldom a good

understanding betwixt the lord and the administrator of his property,

whose trustworthiness did not then stand in high repute; placed between

the proprietor and the villein, the steward endeavoured to gain from

both; he took money from the countrymen, and remitted their farm

service, and, in the sale of the produce, took as much care of himself

as of his master.[25]

The country nobleman was glad to spend the winter months in the

capital of his district; in summer the fashionable amusement was to

visit the baths. There the family displayed all the splendour in

their power. Much regard was paid to horses and fine carriages: the

nobleman liked to use his privilege of driving four-in-hand, and there

were always running footmen, who went in front of the horses, in

theatrical-coloured clothes, with a large whip thrown over their

shoulders, and they wore shoes and white stockings. At evening parties,

or after the theatre, a long row of splendid carriages--many with

outriders--were to be seen in the streets, and respectfully did the man

of low degree look upon the splendour of the lords. They showed their

rank also in their dress, by rich embroidery, and white plumes round

their hats; at the masquerade they had a special preference for the

rose-coloured domino, which Frederic II. had declared to be a privilege

of the nobility. Many of the richer ones kept chaplains, small concerts

were frequent; and at their country seats, early on the Sunday morning,

there was a serenade under the windows, as a morning greeting to the

lady of the house. Play was a fatal amusement, especially at the baths;

there the German landed proprietors met together, and played chiefly

with Poles, who were the greatest gamblers in Europe. Thus it often

happened to the German gentlemen, that they lost their carriages and

horses at play, and had to travel home, involved in debt, in hired

carriages. Such mischances were borne with great composure, and

speedily forgotten. In point of faith the greater part of the country

nobility were orthodox, as were most of the village pastors; but more

liberal minds clung to the French philosophy. Still did Paris continue

to issue its puppets and pictures of fashions, hats, ribbons, and

dresses throughout Germany; but even in the modes a great change was

gradually beginning: hoops and hair cushions were no longer worn by

ladies of _ton_, except at court; rouge was strongly objected to, and

war was declared against powder; figures became smaller and thinner,

and on the head, over small curly locks, the pastoral straw hat was

worn; with men, also, embroidered coats, with breeches, silk stockings,

buckled shoes, and the small dress-sword, were only worn as festival

attire; the German cavalier began to take pleasure in English horses,

and the round hat, boots, and spurs were introduced; and they ventured

to appear in ladies' rooms with their riding-whips.[26]

An easy life of enjoyment was frequent in the families of the

nobility--a cheerful self-indulgence without great refinement, much

courtly complaisance and good humour; they had also the art of

narrating well, which now appears to recede further eastward, and of

interweaving naturally anecdotes with fine phrases in their

conversation; and they had a neat way of introducing drolleries. The

morals of these circles, so often bitterly reprobated, were, it

appears, no worse than they usually are among mere pleasure-seekers.

They were not inclined to subtle inquiries, nor were they generally

much disquieted with severe qualms of conscience; their feelings of

honour were flexible, but certain limits were to be observed. Within

these boundaries they were tolerant; in play, wine, and affairs of the

heart, gentlemen, and even ladies, could do much without fear of very

severe comments, or disturbances of the even tenor of their life. What

could not be undone they quietly condoned, and, even when the bounds of

morality had been overstepped, quickly recovered their composure. The

art of making life agreeable was then more common than now; equally

enduring was the power of preserving a vigorous, active, genial spirit,

and a freshness of humour up to the latest age, and of carrying on a

cheerful and respectable old age, a life rich in pleasure, though not

free from conflicts between duty and inclination. There may still be

found old pictures of this time, which give us a pleasant view of the

naive freshness and easy cheerfulness of the most aged men and women.

Under the nobility were the country people and petty citizens, who, as

well as the lower officials, took that conception of life which

prevailed in Germany during the beginning of the century. Life was

still colourless. We deceive ourselves if we imagine that at the end of

this century the philosophic enlightenment had produced much

improvement in the dwellings of the poor, especially in the country. In

the villages, undoubtedly, there were schools, but the master was

frequently only a former servant of the landed proprietor, a poor

tailor or weaver, who gave up his work as little as possible, and

perhaps left his wife to conduct the school. The police of the low

countries was still ineffective, and the vagrants were a heavy burden.

There were certainly strict regulations against roving vagabonds:

village watchmen and mounted patrols were to stop every beggar, and

pass him on to his birth-place; but the village watchman did not watch,

the communities shunned the expenses of transport or feared the revenge

of the offenders, and the patrols preferred looking after the carriers,

who went out of the turnpike roads, because these could pay a fine.

Complaints were made of this even in Electoral Saxony.

The countryman still continued true to his church; there was much

praying and psalm-singing in the huts of the poor, frequently a good

deal of pious enthusiasm; there were still revivalists and prophets

among the country people. In the mountain countries, especially where

an active industry had established itself, in the poorest huts, among

the wood carvers, weavers, and lacemakers of the Erzgebirger and of the

Silesian valleys, a pious, godly feeling was alive. A few years later,

when the continental embargo annihilated the industry of the poor, amid

hunger and deprivations which often brought them to the point of death,

they showed that their faith gave them the power of suffering with

resignation.

Betwixt the nobility and the mass of the people stood the higher class

of citizens: literati, officials, ecclesiastics, great merchants, and

tradespeople. They also were divided from the people by a privilege,

the importance of which would not be understood in our time,--they were

exempt from military service. The severest oppression which fell on the

sons of the people, their children were free from. The sons of peasants

or artisans who had the capacity for study could do so, but they had

first to pass an examination, the so-called "genius test," to exempt

them from service in the army. But to the son of a literary man or a

merchant it was a disgrace, if, after a learned school education, he

sank so low as to fall into the hands of recruiting officers. Even the

benevolent Kant refused the request of a scholar for a recommendation,

because he had had the meanness to bear his position as a soldier so

long and so meekly.[27]

In the literary circle there was still an external difference from the

citizen in dress and mode of life: it was the best portion of the

nation, in possession of the highest culture of the time. It included

poets and thinkers, inventive artists and men of learning, all who won

any influence in the domain of intellectual life, as leaders and

educators, teachers and critics. Many of the nobility who had entered

official life, or had higher intellectual tendencies, had joined them.

They were sometimes fellow-workers, frequently companions and kindly

promoters of ideal interests.

In every city there were gentry in this literary set. They were

scholars of the great philosopher of Koenigsberg; their souls were

filled with the poetic creations of the great poet, with the high

results of the knowledge of antiquity. But in their life there was

still much sternness and earnestness; the performance of duty was not

easy or cheerful. Their conception of existence wavered betwixt ideal

requirements and a fastidious, often narrow pedantry, which strikingly

distinguished them, not always advantageously, from the nobleman.

It is a peculiarity of modern culture, that the impulse of intellectual

power spreads itself in the middle of the nation between the masses and

the privileged classes, moulding and invigorating both; the more any

circle of earthly interests isolates itself from the educated class of

citizens, the further it is removed from all that gives light, warmth,

and a secure footing to its life. Whoever in Germany writes a history

of literature, art, philosophy, and science, does in fact treat of the

family history of the educated citizen class.

If one seeks what especially unites the men of this class and separates

them from others, it is not chiefly their practical activity in a

fortunate middle position, but their culture in the Latin schools.

Therein lies their pre-eminent advantage,--the great secret of their

influence. No one should be more willing to acknowledge this than the

merchant or manufacturer, who has worked his way up from beneath, and

entered into their circle.

He perceives with admiration the sharpness and precision in thought and

speech which his sons have attained by occupying themselves with the

Latin and Greek grammar, which are seldom acquired in any other

occupation. The unartificial logic, which so strikingly appears in the

artistic structure of the ancient languages, soon gives acuteness and

promotes the understanding of all intellectual culture, and the mass of

the foreign materials of language is an excellent strengthener of the

memory.

Still more invigorating is the purport conveyed from that distant world

that was now disclosed to the learner. Still does a very great portion

of our intellectual riches descend from antiquity. He who would rightly

understand what works around and in him, and has perhaps long been the

common property of all classes of the people, must rise up to the

source; and an acquaintance with a great unfettered national life, and

a comprehension of some of the laws of life, its beauties and its

limitations, give a freedom to the judgment upon the condition of the

present which nothing else can supply. He whose soul has been warmed by

the Dialogues of Plato, must look down with contempt on the bigotry of

the monks; and he who has read with advantage the "Antigone" in the

ancient language, will lay aside the "Sonnenjungfrau" with justifiable

indifference.

But most important of all was the peculiar method of learning at the

Latin schools and universities. It is not by the unthinking reception

of the material presented to them, but their minds are awakened by

their own investigations and researches. In the higher classes of the

gymnasiums, and at the universities, the students became the intimates

of earnest scholars. It was just the disputed questions which most

stirred them: the inquiries still unanswered, and which most powerfully

exercised the mind, were those which they most loved to impart. Thus

the youth penetrated as free investigator into the very centre of life,

and, however far his later vocation might remove him from these

investigations, he had received the highest knowledge, and attained to

the greatest results of the time; and for the rest of his life was

capable of forming a judgment on the greatest questions of science and

faith, by accepting or rejecting all the new materials and points of

view which he had gained. That these schools of learning made little

preparation for practical life, was no tenable complaint. The merchant

who took his sons from the university to the counting-house, soon

discovered that they had not learnt much with which younger apprentices

were conversant, but that they generally repaired the deficiency with

the greatest facility.

About 1790, this method of culture had attained so much value and

importance, that these years might be called the industrious sixth-form

period of the German people. Eagerly did they learn, and everywhere did

active spontaneous labour take the place of the old mechanism.

Philanthropically did the learned strive to create educational

establishments for every class of the people, and to invent new methods

of instruction by which the greatest results could be obtained from

those who had least powers of learning. To instruct, to educate, and to

raise people from a state of ignorance, was the general desire; not

that this was useful to the nation in general, for the lower classes

could not enter into the exalted feelings which gave to the literary

such enjoyment and elevation of mind.

It is true they themselves felt an inward dissatisfaction. The facts of

life which surrounded them were often in cutting contrast to their

ideal requirements. When the peasant worked like a beast of burden, and

the soldier ran the gauntlet before their windows, nothing seemed to

remain to them but to shut themselves up in their studies, and to

occupy their eyes and mind with times in which they were not wounded by

such barbarities. For it had not yet been tried, what the union of men

of similar views in a great association would accomplish, in bringing

about changes in the State and every sphere of practical interest.

Thus, with all their philanthropy, there arose a quiet despondency even

among the best. They had more soundness and strength of mind than their

fathers, the source of their morality was purer, and they were more

conscientious. But they were still private men. Interest in their

State, in the highest affairs of their nation, had not yet been

developed. They had learnt to perform their duties as men in a noble

spirit, and they contrasted, sometimes hypercritically, the natural

rights of men in a State with the condition under which they lived.

They had become honourable and strictly moral men, and endeavoured to

cast off everything mean with an anxiety which is really touching; but

they were deficient in the power which is developed by the co-operation

of men of like views, under the influence of great practical questions.

The noblest of them were in danger, when they could not withdraw into

themselves, of becoming victims rather than heroes, in the political

and social struggle. This quality was very striking in the construction

of their poetry. Almost all the characters which the greatest poets

produced in their highest works of art were deficient in energy, in

resolute courage, and political sagacity; even in the heroes of the

drama with whom such characteristics were least compatible, there was a

melancholy tendency, as in Galotti, Goetz, and Egmont--even in

Wallenstein and Faust. The same race of men who investigated with

wonderful boldness and freedom the secret laws of their intellectual

being, were as helpless and uncertain in the presence of realities, as

a youth who first passes from the schoolroom among men.

A sentimentality of character, and the craving for great emotions on

insignificant occasions, had not disappeared. But this ruling tendency

of the eighteenth century, which has not been entirely cast off even in

the present day, was restrained in 1790 by the worthier aims of

intellectual life. Even sentimentality had had, since Pietism crept

into life, its little history. First, the poor German soul had been

strongly affected; it easily became desponding, and found enjoyment in

observing the tears it shed. Afterwards the enjoyment of its feelings

became more student-like and hearty.

When, in 1750, some jovial companions passed in the extra-post through

a village, the inhabitants of which had planted the churchyard with

roses, the contrast of these flowers of love and the graves so excited

the imagination of these travellers, that they bought a bottle of wine,

went to the churchyard, and, revelling in the comparison of roses and

graves, drank up their wine.[28] But the student flavour of roughness

which was evinced in this enjoyment, passed away when manners became

more refined and life more thoughtful. When, in 1770, two brothers were

travelling in the Rhine country, through a sunny valley among blooming

fruit-trees, one clasped the hand of the other, in order, by the soft

pressure of his, to express the pleasure he derived from his company;

both looked at each other with tender emotion, blessed tears of quiet

feeling rose in the eyes of both, and they embraced each other, or, as

would then have been said, they blessed the country with the holy kiss

of friendship.[29] When, about the same period, a society expected a

dear friend--it must by the way be mentioned that it was a happy

husband and father of a family--the feelings on this occasion also were

far more manifold, and the self-contemplation with which they were

enjoyed, was far greater than with us. The master of the house, with

another guest, went to await the approaching carriage at the house

door; the friend arrives and steps out of the carriage, deeply moved

and somewhat confused. Meanwhile the amiable lady of the house, of whom

in former days the new guest had been an admirer, also comes down the

stairs. The new-comer has already inquired after her with some

agitation, and seems extremely impatient to see her; now he catches

sight of her and shrinks back with emotion, then turns aside, and at

the same time throws his hat with vehemence behind him to the ground,

and staggers towards her. All this has been accompanied with such an

extraordinary expression of countenance, that the nerves of the

bystanders are shaken. The lady of the house goes towards her friend

with outspread arms; but he, instead of accepting her, seizes her hand

and bends over it so as to conceal his face; the lady leans over him

with a heavenly countenance, and says in a tone such as no Clairon or

Duebois could vie with, "Oh, yes; it is you--you are still my dear

friend!" The friend, roused by this touching voice, raises himself a

little, looks into the weeping eyes of his friend, and then again lets

his face sink down on her arm. None of the bystanders can refrain from

tears; they flow down the cheeks of even the unconcerned narrator, he

sobs, and is quite beside himself.[30] After this gushing feeling has

somewhat subsided, they all feel inexpressibly happy, often press each

other's hands, and declare these hours of companionship to be the most

charming of their life. And those who thus comported themselves were

men of well-balanced minds, who looked with contempt on the affectation

of the weak, who wept about nothing and made a vocation of their tears

and feelings, as did the hair-brained Leuchsenring.

But shortly after this, sentimental nature received a rude shock.

Goethe had represented in Werther, the sorrowful fate of a youth who

had perished in consequence of these moods; but had himself a far

nobler and more sound conception of sentiment than existed in his

contemporaries. His narrative was indeed a book for the moulding of

finer natures, through which their sentimentality was turned towards

the noble and poetic. Immense was the effect; tears flowed in streams;

the Werther dress became a favourite costume with sentimental

gentlemen, and Lotte the most renowned female character of that year.

That same year, 1774, a number of tender souls at Wetzlar, men in high

offices and ladies, agreed together to arrange a solemnity at the grave

of the poor Jerusalem. They assembled in the evening, read "Werther,"

and sang the laments and songs on the dead. They wept profusely; at

last, at midnight, the procession went to the churchyard. Every one was

dressed in black, with a dark veil over the face, and a torch in the

hand. Any one who met the procession considered it as a procession of

devils. At the churchyard they formed a circle round the grave, and

sang, as is reported, the song, "Ausgelitten hast du, ausgerungen;" an

orator made a eulogy on the dead, and said that suicide was permitted

to love. Finally the grave was strewed with flowers.[31] The repetition

of this was prevented by prosaic magistrates.

But the tragical conclusion of Goethe's narrative shocked men of sound

understanding. It was no longer a question of jest with flowers and

doves: it was convulsive earnest. When the respectable son of an

official could arrive at such extravagance as suicide, there was an end

of jest. Thus this same work gave rise to a reaction in stronger

natures, and violent literary polemics, from which the Germans

gradually learnt to regard with irony this phase of sentiment, yet

without becoming entirely free from it.

For it was undoubtedly only a variation of the same fundamental

tendency, when souls that had become weary of sighs and tears threw

themselves into the sublime. Even the monstrous appeared admirable. To

speak in hyperbolies--to express with the utmost strength the commonest

things, to give the most insignificant action the air of being

something extraordinary--became for a long time the fashionable folly

of the literary circle. But even this exaggeration disappeared About

1790, the past was looked back upon with smiles, and the spirits of men

were contented with the homely, modest style in which Lafontaine and

Iffland produced emotion.

The growth of a child's mind at this period shall be here portrayed. It

is a narrative of his early youth--not printed--left by a strong-minded

man to his family. It contains nothing uncommon; it is only the

unpretending account of the development of a boy by teaching and home,

such as takes place in a thousand families. But it is just because what

is imparted is so commonplace, that it is peculiarly adapted to excite

the interest of the reader. It gives an instructive insight into the

life of a rising family.

In the first years of the reign of Frederic the Great, a poor teacher

at Leipzig was lying on his deathbed; the long vexations and

persecutions he had endured from his predecessor, a vehement pastor,

had brought him there. His spiritual opponent sought reconciliation

with the dying man; he promised the teacher, Haupt, to take care of his

uneducated children, and he kept his word. He placed one son in the

great commercial house, Frege, which was then at the height of

prosperity. The young Haupt won the confidence of his principal; and

when he wished to establish himself at Zittau, the house of Frege made

the needy youth a loan of 10,000 thalers. The year after, the new

merchant wrote to his creditor to say that his business was making

rapid progress, but that he should get into great difficulties if he

had not the same sum again. His former principal sent him the double.

After eight years the Zittau merchant repaid the whole loan, and the

day on which he sent the last sum, he drank in his house the first

bottle of wine. The son of this man, Ernst Friederich Haupt (he who

will give an account of his school hours in his father's house),

studied law and became a Syndicus, and afterwards Burgomaster of his

native town; he was a man of powerful character and depth of mind, and

also a literary man of comprehensive knowledge; some Latin poems

printed by him are among the most refined and elegant specimens of this

kind of poetry. His life was earnest, and he laboured in a very

restricted sphere with a zeal which never seemed sufficient to satisfy

himself. But the weight of his energetic character became, at the

beginning of the political commotions in 1830, burdensome to the young

democrats among the citizens. It was in the city where he dwelt that

the agitation was carried on by an unworthy man, who later, by his evil

deeds, brought himself to a lamentable end. In the bewilderment of

the first movement, the citizens destroyed the faithful attachment

which for thirty years had subsisted between them and their superior.

The proud and strict man was wounded to his innermost soul by

heartlessness and ingratitude; he withdrew from all public occupation,

and neither the entreaties nor the genuine repentance evinced by his

fellow-citizens shortly after, could make him forget the bitter

mortification of those years which had left their mark upon his life.

When he walked through the streets, looking quietly before him, a

noble melancholy old man with white hair, then--it is related by

eye-witnesses--the people on all sides took off their caps with timid

reverence; but he stepped on without looking to right or left, without

thanks or greeting to the crowd. From that time he lived as a private

man, given up to his scientific pursuits. But his son, Moriz Haupt,

Professor of the University of Berlin, became one of our greatest

philosophers, one of our best men.

Thus begins his account of his first years of school:--

"My earliest recollections begin with the autumn of the year 1776, when

I was two years and a half old. We travelled to the family property; I

sat on my mother's lap, and the soft bloom on her face gave me great

pleasure. I was amused with looking at the trees which appeared to pass

the carriage so quickly. Still do the same trees stand on the other

side of the bridge; still, when I look at them, does this recollection

of the pure world rise before me.

"Already have four-and-forty years passed over the resting-place of

your holy dust, dear departed! So early torn away from us! Gentle as

thy friendly face, must thy soul have been! I knew thee not; only faint

recollections remain to me. I have no picture of thee, not even a sweet

token of remembrance. Yet shortly before they sent me, not seventeen

years of age, to Leipzig, I stood on the holy spot that contains thy

ashes, and sobbing vowed to thee that I would be good!

"Well do I remember the Sunday morning on which my sister Rieckhen was

born. Running hurriedly--I had got up sooner than my brother--and,

unasked for, had run into my mother's room. I announced it to every one

that I found. Some days after, all around me wept 'Mamma is going

away!' called out our old nurse, wringing her hands. 'Away! where,

then?' I inquired with astonishment 'To heaven!' was the answer, which

I did not understand.

"My mother had collected us children once more round her, to kiss and

bless us. My half-sister Jettchen, then almost ten years old, and my

brother Ernst, who was four, had wept. I--as I have often been told, to

my great sorrow--scarcely waited for the kiss, and hid myself playfully

behind my sister, 'Fritz! Fritz!' said my mother, smiling, 'you are and

will remain a giddy boy; well, run away!'

"What I heard of heaven and the resurrection confused my thoughts; it

seemed to me as if my mother would soon awake and be with us again.

Some time after, my brother, who was much more sensible than I, said,

as we were kneeling on a stool, looking at the floating evening clouds,

and talking of our mother: 'No, the resurrection is something quite

different!' But soon after her burial--it was Sunday--when I was

playing in the evening in front of our back door, and a beggar spoke to

me, I exclaimed, 'Mamma is dead!' and ran away from the nurse through

both courts, in order to seek my father, whom I found sitting

sorrowfully in his room. He took me and my brother by the hand and

wept. This appeared strange to me, and I thought, 'So, my father

also can weep, who is so old.' For my father, who was then scarcely

forty-seven years of age, appeared old to me,--far older, for example,

than I now believe myself to look, at almost the same age. But children

look upon things differently to others; besides which, my father had

dark eyebrows, in which respect I have become partly like him.

"Six months after my mother's death, my father took his sister to live

with him, which altered our manner of life in many ways. Our life was

no longer so quiet as before. Still sweet to me is the remembrance of

the tales with which our aunt--who was always called by us and all the

world, _Frau Muhme_--entertained us in the evening. As soon as it was

twilight we dragged her by force into her chair, and we children sat

round her and listened. Stories were hundreds of times repeated of our

father's home, of Leipzig, and of grandfathers and great-grandfathers;

and I longed to see myself at Leipzig, and to see the great fair, which

I represented to myself, strangely enough, as an immense staircase hung

with paper.

"We enjoyed indescribable pleasure when we watched in the evening, by

moonlight, the motion of the clouds. The view from one window was of

the hill and woods. In the forms of those clouds we discovered the

figures of men or animals. There was a solemnity about them which

enhanced the charm, and when, in my sixteenth year, I for the first

time read Ossian, and his gloomy world of spirits and misty forms

passed before me, then did I return in spirit to that window. Equally

so, when I read the poem, 'Jetzt zieh'n die Wolken, Lotte, Lotte!'

"Visitors also, as was formerly the case in almost every nursery,

related stories of spirits and ghosts, which we were never tired of

hearing. Yet, although many who related them believed in them, at no

time did my brother and I give a moment's credence to these tales.

Never did we believe in the supernatural; even as boys of fifteen, we

struggled against superstition. We have to thank our half-sister

Jettchen for this: a maiden of rare gifts of mind. She pointed out to

us in simple words the laughable side of these tales. But the awful had

not the less great power over us, and we were often in fear when we

were obliged to wander in the dark through the long passage to the

front drawing-room.

"At the age of three years and a half old, I received my first

instruction. My brother could already almost read, and I soon advanced

enough to keep pace with him.

"I cannot say that we were fond of M. Kretzschmar, our first teacher,

for he was in some degree bizarre, and punched our heads abundantly. It

is scarcely credible but I can affirm that at five years old I only

read mechanically, thinking all the time of something else; for

example, of the flowers in our garden, or our little dog, &c. My own

words sounded strange in my ears. Therefore I was often dreaming when I

was asked a question; then followed the usual thump; but then I thought

of that. Why was it so? It was indisputably for this reason, that our

teacher did not know how to attract young minds to the subject. My

brother was a very rare exception of quiet earnestness; and yet who

knows how often even he may have been equally distracted?

"At five years old we began to learn Latin. Jettchen translated glibly

Cornelius and Phaedrus, and also the French New Testament. We boys

learnt assiduously from Langen's and Raussendorf's grammar, and I had

long written what we called 'small exercises,' before I clearly knew

what I was about. I remember distinctly that it was as if scales fell

from my eyes when, at six years old, I discovered that we were learning

the language of the ancient Romans." (Thus was instruction almost

universally carried on at that time!)

"Nevertheless, in many points of view, I have reason to thank this

teacher. He taught us to read well, and by the frequent recitation of

good verses--he did not write bad poetry himself--we imbibed early a

taste for melody and harmony. We learnt many, very many songs and

fables by heart. Learning by heart!--a now very antique expression; it

was then very frequent in the plan of lessons, and it was by this that

my memory became so strong. We were exercised in committing to memory

whole pages in a quarter of an hour, and later I often learnt off at

once eight, ten, or twelve strophes. In short, taken on the whole,

according to the standard of that time, the pedagogue, with all his

deficiencies, did not do ill by us. The soul, also, was not unattended

to. Feddersen's 'Life of Jesus' was our favourite reading. Feder's

'Compendium' was used for our religious instruction, a book which is

still highly estimated. Our feeling for the beautiful was also awakened

and trained in another way. Weiss's Operettes, set to Hiller's music,

then made a great sensation. Kretzschmar played the harpsichord well,

and the violin still better. My sister Jettchen played very tolerably

at sight. Thus by degrees all Weiss's operas were played and sung, and

we young ones joined in the lighter airs by ear. My father listened,

and sometimes joined, with pleasure.

"Thus did many autumn and winter evenings pass. Dear scenes of home,

what have become of you in most families? You are superseded by trashy

reading, casino, and play!

"The poetry we learnt we recited in the evening, before our father and

_Muhme_,--nay, in case of need before the maid. Passages which had been

explained to us, we then explained again. All this suggested to me the

first idea and wish to consecrate my studies to religion and become a

preacher.

"We had many playfellows. It was a common custom for children to visit

one another on Sundays. We were allowed to remain to dinner, and

accustomed to be well-behaved with grown-up persons. I, as being the

least, was usually placed by the side of the father and mother of

the family. Everywhere there was hearty friendliness. This custom,

also,--at least in this form,--has almost passed away. We might not

sometimes, perhaps, be quite agreeable to the elders, but this was

rare. My father was much pleased when children, even as many as six or

eight, came to us. The old people gladly gave a supper to the merry

little folk, and they also played with them. Then on Monday we looked

forward with pleasure to the following Sunday. Is it surprising that we

still look back with pleasure to those happy days, the remembrance of

which is wafted to me like the perfume of living flowers?

"With all my youthful gaiety I was still very earnest-minded. Our

mother, who had been dead only three years, was often spoken of; we had

learnt a quantity of funeral hymns, and at six years old I certainly

thought more frequently of death and immortality than many youths, or

even men. What was to become of animals after death, I had not thought

of till I was five years old. Then I happened to see a dead dog in the

city moat, and asked our teacher about it. 'There is no immortality for

dogs,' he answered, which made me indescribably sorrowful. It was a

Sunday evening. I told it to my nurse, and wept bitterly.

"At Easter, in 1780, our new teacher came. He had considerable

knowledge, and lived very quiet and retired, as he secretly reckoned

himself one of the Moravian brothers. We clung to him with deep love,

for he devoted himself entirely to us. With no other man did we prefer

walking; and all his conversation was instructive, for the most part

religious. His endeavours to conceal from us his inclination for that

sect which my father hated, gave an air of mystery to his words. We

gained much in serious feeling through him. He accustomed us not to

speak lightly of God or Jesus; and on his departure, at the end of two

years, we were so well grounded in this that months passed without our

once falling into this error, and when it did happen we sorrowed

secretly with deep repentance; we left our most amusing game and prayed

right heartily; we were, indeed, ourselves at last inclined to Pietism,

for all worldly pleasures were condemned, or looked upon as injurious

dissipations. So-called books of amusement, bordering upon novels, were

considered good for nothing; even Gellert's dramas were reckoned among

his youthful sins; places of amusement--balls, worldly concerts--were

workshops of the devil! Only oratorios were bearable. Comedies were

undoubted sins against the Holy Ghost. On my brother, who was naturally

inclined for melancholy, these opinions took far deeper hold; he wept

often in secret over his sins, as he called them. I envied him for

this, considering myself as a reprobate and him as a child of God; but

with all my endeavours I could not succeed in being so correct! I

continually rejoiced at the sorrowful emotions which often overcame my

soft heart.

"Still, still do I consecrate to thee my thanks, thou good and

righteous teacher! Thou wast the most faithful shepherd of thy little

flock! He lives still, near eighty years of age. For thirty years I

have only once seen him, but last year, when my brother died, he wrote

me a letter, full of faith and piety. In a dream--he attached much

importance to dreams--he had visited our house on the day of the death

of my brother, his Ernst. It is touching to read his assurances that

his convictions were the same as they had been forty years before.

"There is one blessed hour I bear in memory. He went with us to walk in

the city, and the evening star glanced kindly down upon us. 'What are

the people above there doing?' said the teacher. This was a new idea to

us! We were moved with joyful astonishment when he said to us: 'It is

possible, even probable, that God's goodness has assigned other planets

as a dwelling-place for living, thinking, and worshipping creatures.'

Delighted, elevated, and comforted, we turned back. It was the

counterpoise to that sorrow which fell upon me when I heard that there

was no future for animals!

"On Christmas Eve, 1780, our dear sister Jettchen died, in her

fourteenth year; nine days before we were playing merrily, when she was

suddenly seized with a pain in her stomach. The doctor thought lightly

of it, and probably mistook the real cause. After seven days she became

visibly worse, was weak and pale as death; she left her couch for the

last time in order to reach us our writing books. Yet no one seemed to

anticipate her death. Alas! it followed that Christmas Eve, early;

about four o'clock they awoke us to see her once more. Weeping loudly

we rushed up to her. She did not know us. 'Good night! Jettchen!' we

exclaimed, and my father prayed, tearfully. Our teacher stood by the

death-bed and prayed: 'Now take my heart, and take me as I am to thee,

thou dear Jesus!' (From the Kottbus hymn-book.)

"She departed amidst these prayers, and lay there in heavenly serenity.

My little sister Rieckchen, three years and a half old, came up and

said to the sick-nurse: 'When I die, lay me out in just such a white

cloth as my Jettel.' And seventeen years afterwards the same woman did

it!

"Before this, in the evening, we had to give our Christmas greetings.

My brother and Jettchen exchanged greetings--very beautiful--in

writing. 'She who was your chief is absent,' said my father, weeping.

On the third day of the feast she was buried. She lay in a white dress

with pale pink ribbons, a garland on her brown hair, and a small

crucifix in her hand. 'Sleep well!' exclaimed our old nurse, 'till thy

Saviour wakes thee!' We could not speak, we only sobbed. Often did my

dearly beloved Jettchen appear to me in dreams, always lovely, quiet,

and serious. Once she offered me a wreath; this was considered as a

sign that I was to die, as I was soon after seriously ill. But since my

childhood I have not been so fortunate as to dream once of her. She

loved me tenderly! I may say very particularly so!

"Our sorrow was a little alleviated by our thoughts being distracted by

a new building of my father's, a new garden-house; he had long wished

for an extension and entire transformation of the garden. In less than

two years all was finished, and now we passed most of our summer

evenings there. The garden had ever been our place for exercise, and

now it was enlarged. What pleasure it was to us, on the finishing of

the new building, for the first time to eat our supper in the open air!

And then we were allowed to remain out till ten o'clock, and go about

under the starry heaven; and my father discharged small fireworks for

us!

"In May, 1782, our good teacher left us, having received the rectorship

at Seidenberg. Our sorrow was great, very great! He blessed us: 'Keep

steadfastly to the instructions I have given you! Fear God, and all

will go well with you!' These were his parting words. I threw myself on

my bed and wept upon my pillow.

"My father was a strict, upright, honourable man. He had raised himself

from bitter poverty to wealth, by his own exertions. With unremitting

activity he only thought of maintaining and extending his business; of

giving employment to many hundred manufacturers, and to securing an

independence for us, his children. He worked daily ten and often eleven

hours, only his garden drew him sometimes away; otherwise nothing else

in the world. He was born to be a merchant, but in the highest sense;

small accidental gains he despised, and I believe it would have been

impossible for him to have been a retail dealer. He never made use of

the frequent opportunities of becoming rich by bankruptcies; he walked

steadily in the straight path, and was angry if his servants, in his

absence at the fair, overcharged the purchasers. His external life was

as simple as his inward principles. His furniture remained almost

unchanged: the inherited plate kept its form; he only attached value to

fine linen and good Rhine wine. His table was frugal; with the

exception of high festival days, he had usually only one dish; of an

evening frequently only potatoes or radishes. Wine only on Sundays,

except on a summer evening in the garden. About once a year he gave an

entertainment, then father Haupt would not do the thing shabbily.

Champagne he could not bear; this, therefore, came very seldom. But he

delighted in old Rhine and Hungarian wine, and bishop made of Burgundy.

On Sunday evenings he walked in the fields, and now and then his life

was diversified by a drive. He was, moreover, hospitable; very often

foreign commercial friends came, and he frequently took his favourite

clerks from the writing-room to dine with him. He was fond of talking

politics, and often took correct views of the future. Though he was

grave, he could be very cheerful, and often joked with us. He was

open-handed to the highest degree; gave much to the poor, and gladly

supported industrious people. Sometimes a great disinclination to the

literary class came over him; therefore he frequently declaimed against

the albums of the scholars; yet he never gave less than one thaler

eight n. gr., often double, nay, three and four fold. All boasting was

foreign to him, and he hated all ostentation of riches. If he heard

that any members of his guild showed such ostentation, he only laughed

most satirically; but when the boaster made himself too ridiculous he

would say, 'We have not seen the end of it;' or, 'What wonderful things

that man has;' or, at all events, at the utmost he said, 'I am not a

nobody, either.' He was strictly religious, yet without superstition,

against which, as well as against Popery, priestly pride, and

hypocrisy, he would loudly declaim. He thought clearly on the most

important subjects, as he himself knew, and was indeed almost alarmed,

if he took, as he thought, too free views. It was touching to me; when

once at Leipzig, during my studies there, he expressed himself freely

upon confession, and then, drawing back with great modesty, said, 'Yet

I am saying too much, Fritz, for I know that I am no deep thinking

man.' He had, as a youth, read part of Wolf's philosophical works; but

they were too dry for him. In his judgments of men he struck, as they

say, the right nail on the head; yet he was, like all upright minds,

often caustic, sharp, and bitter. If he had once said, 'The fellow is

good for nothing!' he adhered to it.

"From his over-extensive business, in which he had no intelligent men,

but only mere machines to assist him, we saw but little of him. He was

obliged to intrust us to the tutor and the woman-kind; the result was

that we felt more reverence than confidential tenderness for him. Yet

we loved him from the bottom of our hearts, and his principles, his

teaching, and his simple life worked upon us beneficially.

"Our aunt had, it is true, her good days, yet she never succeeded in

entirely gaining our love. Her quarrels with the maids were more

repugnant to us from the contrast of the familiarity with which it

alternated; she managed to make use of my father's moments of vexation

to gain her objects. But all this did not turn our hearts from her,

as she did us no injury, and often even took our part against the

ill-treatment of our new tutor. It was only that she was not fitted to

captivate childish hearts. From this she took a great aversion to our

nurse, to whom we clung with our whole souls, as she had brought up us

four motherless orphans without any assistance. Belonging to a better

class--her husband had rented a large property at Wernigerode--she had

become impoverished by war, plunder, and a succession of misfortunes,

her husband had died, and her children had partly gone out into the

world and partly been brought up by relations. She had an excellent

woman's head, a clear understanding, endless good-humour, cheerfulness,

and suitable wit. If it is true that I have sometimes humorous ideas, a

certain share in the development of this quality belongs to her. I well

remember that I have gone on for a whole half-hour with her making

bon-mots and allegories. 'With you I can joke.' With this good opinion

I was often rewarded. Besides this she was skilful in a thousand

things, and could always give advice. She was not disinclined to the

'_Stillen im Lande_,' which from her great sufferings the cup of which

she had drained to the dregs, could be easily understood. Her heart was

pure and pious, and she maintained in us the impression of our former

tutor's admonitions, when his successor would almost have exterminated

them by his teaching and course of life. Many of her relations, and

also her son-in-law had become surgeons, and she had, as a maiden,

given medical assistance. Therefore she possessed more than usual

knowledge, and astonished a surgeon when she skilfully set my brother's

foot, which he had dislocated. She understood osteology perfectly;

perhaps indeed she sometimes had too much confidence in herself, but

her remedies healed very quickly; and when the surgeon for four months

vainly endeavoured to cure my brother's foot, and spoke of the bone

being rotten, she shook her head; he was sent away, and in a month the

foot was healed.

"The public even believed that she dealt in the black art, but we knew

better. 'I have sworn to my lady,' (our mother), 'to give my life for

you, if it can be of use to you, and I will keep what I vowed on her

deathbed!' Peace be to her ashes! her wish to repose near 'her

lady' has been fulfilled. 'Children! when I die, I have only one

request,--lay me near your mother; ah! if I am only under the ledge of

her tomb, I shall be content.'

"Such was the state of things in our house when the new tutor came--he

was in every respect the contrary of his predecessor. The one simple,

straightforward, and just, avoiding even the appearance of evil; the

other a frivolous, flighty dandy, who--it was then a matter of

importance--played with a lorgnette, and wore stiff polished boots even

when he preached; in knowledge below his predecessor; in faith not

knowing himself what he wished. The former weighed his words, this one

often swore, and his pupils soon followed his example. He danced, rode,

played at cards, &c. In short, quite a common-place master. Passionate,

tyrannical, and severe upon our faults, or rather--for he did not

concern himself much with our morals--harsh upon slight mistakes in the

school-room. And yet we learned everything well, and knew more than all

our playfellows; of that I am very certain.

"He very nearly disgusted me with study, treating me with special

harshness, from not understanding my ardent mind; meanwhile from this

bitter my nature drew forth honey. I had often suffered injustice, from

hence arose the feeling of justice in my soul. 'It is better to suffer

wrong than to do it!' often said our nurse to me. And out of this

sprang forth my zeal against oppression, violence, and injustice of all

kinds. The very depths of my soul were stirred when, being innocent, I

was ill-treated; suffering seemed more deeply-wounding when inflicted

by unfeeling arrogance. My brother and I respected the guilty, if they

repented. Thus it was wholesome to bear undeserved severity! And

yet,--so forgiving is the pure soul of childhood--that we only hated

the man for the moment. A friendly word, or one of praise from him, and

all was forgotten.

"As the Pietism of the other had not quite suited my father, the new

tutor, in the beginning, was more thought of by him. But he soon learnt

to know his man; and God knows how my father himself could for five

long years have borne the misconduct of this man, for he wrote him

insolent letters if he ever ventured to blame anything. We never dared

complain, for our father did not stand in very confidential relations

with us. So we suffered in silence, and often not a little. Often have

I, in the truest sense of the words, eaten my bread with bitter tears.

"I must here mention, that my first resolution to become a preacher was

extinguished by this man. 'Law, law,' he often exclaimed to me. What

that meant was very mysterious to me. At last, however, when I heard

that there were law professors, I understood it. It was now settled;

but what attracted me in the Professorship was the opportunity of

speaking in public. If there was a vocation that suited me it was this.

"Thus passed the years from 1782 to 1786. In the beginning of 1787, my

brother, still not fourteen years old, was put into a counting-house at

Chemnitz. Inexpressibly sorrowful was our parting. We loved each other

as brothers, and if we had small quarrels, in which I was more to blame

than he, we never let the sun set without being reconciled. But now

follows an important chapter in my juvenile life.

"The picture of a perfect tutor is indeed charming. More than father

and mother can do, can be effected by a noble, pious teacher, of simple

life, full of judgment and moral power; only that scarcely one out of a

hundred can be found to realise this ideal.'

"A heavy load was lifted from my breast when I felt myself free from

this tutor's discipline! A feeling I had never experienced before

stirred in me! I was already half-grown up! Was it an impulse to

unrestrained roving? or a longing for dissipation? or youthful

presumption which fancied it needed no guide? In truth no thoughts of

this kind entered my mind! It was the pure consciousness of having

suffered injustice; it was the honest feeling that I was not so bad, as

he in his frantic humour had often said I was; it was the glad prospect

of being able to strive independently; it was the desire to show that I

no longer needed leading-strings. Still do I remember the evening of

the 5th of April, 1787,--Maunday Thursday,--how beautiful the sunset

was, and I spoke with open heart to my playfellows of the new life that

was opening to me.

"My father put me under the teaching of the Conrector Mueller, and his

old friend the Subrector Jary, and in this he did well.

"To the Conrector Mueller I owe most thanks. I passed from tyrannical

oppression to his liberal intellectual sway. His kindliness and his

noble open countenance, speaking of pure goodness of heart, attracted

me to him when first we spoke together. He understood how to elevate my

feeling for learning. He knew everything thoroughly. He was strong in

Latin, not unversed in Greek; the history of the German Empire, and

political history--but above all, literary history,--together with

geography, were his favourite studies. He had not one enemy.

"Jary was not born to be a teacher, but he was not without knowledge,

which he had acquired by industry. His method was defective, but he

meant to deal faithfully by his scholars, and looked after them. His

religious opinions were strictly orthodox; and I wept when he expressed

doubts as to the eternal happiness of Cicero! Yet I owe him also

thanks; he treated me with earnest kindness, and when he dismissed

me in 1791, the old man said weeping: 'Fare you well! I shall not

see you again; fare you well, you are almost the only one who has

not vexed me!'

"In August, 1788, I partook for the first time of the Lord's Supper. I

looked up fervently and repeated to myself Kretzschmar's ode: 'Let us

rejoicing fill the holy vaults of thy temple with hymns of praise.

Invisibly though perceptibly, does God's grace hover round us!'

Joyfully, with heaven in my heart, did I approach the altar!

Nevertheless, when in the afternoon I examined myself during a solitary

walk, I was dissatisfied with myself. What I had been taught concerning

the merits of Christ, appeared to me unintelligible; my groping in the

dark about this, weakened the impression of that day. I worried myself

with the idea of the atonement by death, and no ray of light entered my

soul. Besides I loved the old heathens, Cicero, Pliny, Socrates, &c.,

more than many Christians, together with the Apostles, more than all

the Jews of the Old Testament, as the people of God did not

particularly please me. And yet it was doubtful whether God would

receive Socrates as a child of light. How in the world, I thought,

could my poor Socrates help not having been born later, not having

lived in Judea?

"Thus I troubled myself, and was more sorrowful than cheerful.

"At Michaelmas, 1788, my father took me with him to Leipzig, where my

brother also was to come. Oh, the pleasure of meeting again! No

language can describe it! My brother's Principal allowed him leave

every afternoon and also many mornings; so we could have plenty of

talk. I soon became aware that my brother had read many freethinking

works upon religion, especially many of Bahrdt's. His own inquiries led

him still further. This occasioned me much sorrow, for Jary's strict

orthodoxy had laid hold of me. But I was the happiest. Soon after, I

attained to clear views in a scientific way, while my brother, left to

himself, wavered to and fro, which was still perceptible, even in his

old age. The insoluble question--why reason was reason?--gave

unspeakable suffering to my poor brother. Undoubtedly my lighter tone

of mind, my fancy, which gave me a poetic feeling, and especially my

disposition to give up groping over difficult passages, were a help to

me. With my brother reason prevailed too much.

"We passed three blessed weeks. To me the Academy was to some extent a

great pleasure; the Zittauer students took pains to make my residence

agreeable to me. The theatre we visited assiduously, we loved plays

passionately, and when the actors were at Zittau, we had learnt under

the guidance of the last tutor, to criticise with judgment Don Carlos

was given, Agnes Bernaner, and Kaspar der Thorringer; deep was the

impression left upon me, and I confessed secretly to myself, that I

should not find it disagreeable to be an actor. Even in this the idea

of public speaking exercised its charm upon me. A hundred times,

perhaps, did we act plays in that year, frequently extempore. It was

singular that the old _roles_, as we called them, were particularly

suitable to me. But comic parts I could not manage, which, strange as

it may appear, my brother frequently chose, although he had

qualifications for the more serious ones, and, according to my

judgment, he often failed in the comic parts. A friend played the

military _roles_, to which I had a great aversion.

"How great the advantage of public instruction! It may sometimes have

its defects, and unfortunately schools are often laboratories of

temptation. But how true are Quintilian's words, that children often

carry to school faults from home! Great is the advantage that public

institutions are open to inspection, and that freedom of mind prospers

there more than in private education, and emulation awakens and

nourishes the power of self-exertion.

"These hours of enjoyment with my brother came to an end. On the Monday

after _oculi_ I was introduced, after a successful examination, by

Director Sintenis. I became immediately 'sixth form boy' at the third

table. This excited great envy and caused me many bitter hours. I, who

without falsehood and malice, meant well by every one, did not

understand what many of the seniors meant. Finally, however, my good

behaviour got the better of them, I remained just the same, and bore

much with patience. It was long before I could conceive what envy was,

for I had no touch of it in my disposition. My more acute brother, to

whom I made my lamentations, wrote to me, 'Read Gustav Lindau, or, the

man who can bear no envy,' by Meissner. He was right, and yet it was

not till I was thirty-five, that I saw it in its true light.

"When this period of envy had passed away, and Mueller said, 'You sit in

the place that is due to you, but mind you maintain your place,' a

succession of happier days opened to me.

"Easter drew near; I examined myself and found that I had been very

industrious. With Mueller especially, I had in the last year done much.

I was behindhand only in Greek, as almost all were; yet I could get on.

In the Imperial and Saxon history I was well up, and in the knowledge

of literature very strong for one who was not seventeen. In the

geography of countries beyond Europe I was deficient. Latin I knew

best. The most ready amongst us could translate whole pages off hand,

without a fault, in two or three minutes; it was here and there

improved in elegance and then read aloud. I owe to these exercises my

facility in speaking Latin, which I was obliged to acquire at the

University.

"The time for my departure from the academy was come.

"With all my liveliness, I had also many serious, even melancholy

hours. The separation from my sisters, whom I dearly loved, disposed me

often to be sorrowful; I especially loved the youngest, Friederike, who

clung to me. Especially the last winter we were inseparable, it was as

if she anticipated that we should soon be parted for ever.

"My heart was pure, untouched by the allurements to which I well knew

my fellow scholars yielded. I had already determined to continue in the

same course; this I may affirm now at the end of thirty years. My chief

fault was hasty anger, which even led me to the verge of giving blows;

and violent passion is still the dark side of my character! Besides

this, I was bitter in my censure of the faults of others. Faithful

self-examination told me all this and more; but I was always forgiving,

and any feeling of revenge would have been impossible to me.

"My heart glowed with friendship; ingratitude appeared to me, as it

still does, a black vice. Finally, I must say one word of my feelings

as a youth; to maiden charms I was very sensitive, but never did a

faithless word pass my lips. The loves of the scholars were repugnant

to me, but I will not deny having entertained secretly a hope that some

female heart might be gracious to me; but pale and thin as I was, I

often seriously doubted the possibility of it.

"The expression of quiet melancholy in the eyes of L. v. D. attracted

me early; I had the greatest pleasure in talking to her, and she was

the only one of my sisters' playfellows with whom I walked, when we

rambled about the garden. But she left Zittau soon, and never did a

word escape my lips--and how could it? In 1788, I saw her again once;

after that time never again.

"My first school occupations drove away all such thoughts, although I

was teased as well as others, when I had danced more with one maiden

than another at the school balls. Sometimes undoubtedly there were

moments, when from braggadocio, I made it appear as if there was

something in question, where certainly there was nothing.

"But shortly before my departure--at a school ball--I met with Lorchen

L., who was destined by my stars, to be the companion of my life, and

entered into conversation with her. Even then I was much charmed with

her! and danced oftener and with greater pleasure, than with any other

maiden. It made me uneasy to feel that in some months I should be away.

The impression upon me was not concealed from my class, and they

bantered me; and I looked gloomy. Even during more than six years'

absence, her image ever rose before me. If there are inward voices,

this was one for me!

"The day dawned on which I was to take leave of Zittau, and my sister

was to accompany me to Leipzig. With tears I parted from Mueller, and

with emotion from all the teachers. In the evening I took a lonely walk

in the open air, the evening sky shone bright, the reflection fell on

my mother's grave. Tears burst from me: 'Yes, mother! I vowed that I

would be good!' With hasty steps I went home. 'Now we shall never

more,' said my brother, 'never more,' wander together, he would have

said, but tears choked his voice.

"We slept little, talking almost the whole night, and early, about four

o'clock, our travelling carriage rolled out of Zittau."

Thus does a sensible man of the time of our fathers and grandfathers,

relate the boy-life in a citizen's family, honourable and serious, of

strict morality, and no common strength of intellect. Still, with depth

of feeling is united a sentimentality which will perhaps excite a

smile, perhaps touch the heart. It is the secluded life of a wealthy

family, but how earnest is the feeling of the child, how laboriously he

spends his days! The greatest enjoyment of the young boy is in

learning; he finds an inexhaustible source of elevation and enthusiasm

in the knowledge that he imbibes.

The narrator seeks his happiness in family life, in the duties of his

office, and in science and art. He forms an elevated and profound

conception of everything. Politics only disturb him. It was not till

the next generation that man's feelings were excited, their powers

awakened, and new qualities developed by the idea of a Fatherland.