it was a material, and that, too, a national one; there was never a
lack of talent. Here we make mention only of GUENTHER, who may be
called a poet in the full sense of the word. A decided talent, endowed
with sensuousness, imagination, memory, the gifts of conception and
representation, productive in the highest degree, ready at rhythm,
ingenious, witty, and of varied information besides;--he possessed,
in short, all the requisites for creating, by means of poetry, a
second life within life, even within common real life. We admire the
great facility with which, in his occasional poems, he elevates all
circumstances by the feelings, and embellishes them with suitable
sentiments, images, and historical and fabulous traditions. Their
roughness and wildness belong to his time, his mode of life, and
especially to his character, or if one would have it so, his want of
fixed character. He did not know how to curb himself, and so his life,
like his poetry, melted away from him.
By his vacillating conduct, Günther had trifled away the good fortune
of being appointed at the court of Augustus the Second, where, in
addition to every other species of ostentation, they were also looking
about for a court-poet, who could give elevation and grace to their
festivities, and immortalize a transitory pomp. VON KOENIG was more
mannerly and more fortunate; he filled this post with dignity and
applause.
In all sovereign states the material for poetry comes downwards from
above, and the _Review-camp at Mühlberg_ (_Das Lustlager bei Mühlberg_)
was, perhaps, the first worthy object, provincial, if not national,
which presented itself to a poet. Two kings saluting one another in the
presence of a great host, their whole courts and military state around
them, well-appointed troops, a mock-fight, _fêtes_ of all kinds,--this
is business enough for the outward sense, and overflowing material for
delineating and descriptive poetry.
This subject had, indeed, the internal defect, that it was only pomp
and show, from which no real action could result. None except the
very first distinguished themselves, and even if they had done so,
the poet could not render any one conspicuous lest he should offend
the others. He had to consult the _Court and State Calendar_, and the
delineation of the persons therefore went off pretty drily; nay, even
his contemporaries very strongly reproached him with having described
the horses better than the men. But should not this redound to his
credit, that he showed his art just where an object for it presented
itself? The main difficulty, too, seems soon to have manifested itself
to him--since the poem never advanced beyond the first canto.
[Side-note: Schlosser.]
Amidst such studies and reflections, an unexpected event surprised me,
and frustrated my laudable design of becoming acquainted with our new
literature from the beginning. My countryman, JOHN GEORGE SCHLOSSER,
after spending his academical years with industry and exertion, had
repaired to Frankfort-on-the-Maine, in the customary profession of an
advocate; but his mind, aspiring and seeking after the universal, could
not reconcile itself to this situation for many reasons. He accepted,
without hesitation, an office as private secretary to the Duke LUDWIG
of WURTEMBERG, who resided in Treptow; for the Prince was named among
those great men who, in a noble and independent manner, purposed to
enlighten themselves, their families, and the world, and to unite for
higher aims. It was this Prince Ludwig who, to ask advice about the
education of his children, had written to Rousseau, whose well-known
answer began with the suspicious-looking phrase--"_Si j'avais le
malheur d'être né prince._"
Not only in the affairs of the Prince, but also in the education of
his children, Schlosser was now willingly to assist in word and deed,
if not to superintend them. This noble young man, who harboured the
best will, and laboured after a perfect purity of morals, would have
easily kept men from him by a certain dry austerity, if his fine and
rare literary cultivation, his knowledge of languages, and his facility
at expressing himself by writing, both in verse and prose, had not
attracted every one, and made living with him more agreeable. It had
been announced to me that he would pass through Leipzig, and I expected
him with longing. He came and put up at a little inn or wine-house
that stood in the _Brühl_ (Marsh), and the host of which was named
Schönkopf. This man had a Frankfort woman for his wife, and although
he entertained few persons during the rest of the year, and could
lodge no guests in his little house, yet at fair-time he was visited
by many Frankforters, who used to eat, and, in case of need, even take
quarters there also. Thither I hastened to seek after Schlosser, when
he had sent to inform me of his arrival. I scarcely remembered having
seen him before, and found a young, well-formed man, with a round,
compressed face, without the features losing their sharpness on that
account. The form of his rounded forehead, between black eyebrows and
locks, indicated earnestness, sternness, and perhaps obstinacy. He
was, in a certain measure, the opposite of myself, and this very thing
doubtless laid the foundation of our lasting friendship. I had the
greatest respect for his talents, the more so as I very well saw that
in the certainty with which he acted and produced, he was completely my
superior. The respect and the confidence which I showed him confirmed
his affection, and increased the indulgence he was compelled to have
for my lively, impetuous, and ever-excitable disposition, in such
contrast with his own. He studied the English writers diligently; Pope,
if not his model, was his aim, and in opposition to that author's
_Essay on Man_, he had written a poem in like form and measure, which
was to give the Christian religion the triumph over the deism of the
other work. From the great store of papers which he carried with
him, he showed me poetical and prose compositions in all languages,
which, as they challenged me to imitation, once more gave me infinite
disquietude. Yet I contrived to help myself immediately by activity.
I wrote German, French, English and Italian poems, addressed to him,
the subject-matter of which I took from our conversations, which were
always important and instructive.
Schlosser did not wish to leave Leipzig without having seen face to
face the men who had a name. I willingly took him to those I knew;
with those whom I had not yet visited, I in this way became honourably
acquainted, since he was received with distinction as a well-informed
man of education, of already established character, and well knew how
to pay for the outlay of conversation. I cannot pass over our visit to
GOTTSCHED, as it exemplifies the character and manners of that man. He
lived very respectably in the first story of the Golden Bear, where the
elder Breitkopf, on account of the great advantage which Gottsched's
writings, translations, and other aids had brought to the trade, had
promised him a lodging for life.
We were announced. The servant led us into a large chamber, saying his
master would come immediately. Now whether we misunderstood a gesture
which he made, I cannot say; it is enough, we thought he directed us
into an adjoining room. We entered, and to a singular scene; for, on
the instant, Gottsched, that tall, broad, gigantic man, came in at the
opposite door in a morning-gown of green damask lined with red taffeta;
but his monstrous head was bald and uncovered. This, however, was to
be immediately provided for; the servant sprang in at a side-door
with a great full-bottomed wig in his hand (the curls came down to
the elbows), and handed the head-ornament to his master with gestures
of terror. Gottsched, without manifesting the least vexation, raised
the wig from the servant's arm with his left, hand, and while he very
dexterously swung it up on his head, gave the poor fellow such a box
on the ear with his right paw, that the latter, as often happens in a
comedy, went spinning out at the door; whereupon the respectable old
grandfather invited us quite gravely to be seated, and kept up a pretty
long discourse with good grace.
[Side-note: Fellow-boarders at Leipzig.]
As long as Schlosser remained in Leipzig, I dined daily with him, and
became acquainted with a very pleasant set of boarders. Some Livonians,
and the son of HERMANN (chief court-preacher in Dresden), afterwards
burgermaster in Leipzig, and their tutor, HOFRATH PFEIL, author of
the _Count von P._, a continuation of Gellert's _Swedish Countess_;
ZACHARIÆ, a brother of the poet; and KREBEL, editor of geographical and
genealogical manuals; all these were polite, cheerful, and friendly
men. Zachariä was the most quiet; Pfeil, an elegant man, who had
something almost diplomatic about him, yet without affectation, and
with great good-humour; Krebel, a genuine Falstaff, tall, corpulent,
fair, with prominent, merry eyes, as bright as the sky, always happy
and in good spirits. These persons all treated me in the most handsome
manner, partly on Schlosser's account--partly, too, on account of
my own frank good-humour and obliging disposition; and it needed no
great persuasion to make me partake of their table in future. In fact,
I remained with them after Schlosser's departure, deserted Ludwig's
table, and found myself so much the better off in this society, which
was limited to a certain number, as I was very well pleased with the
daughter of the family, a very neat, pretty girl, and had opportunities
to exchange friendly glances with her,--a comfort which I had neither
sought nor found by accident since the mischance with Gretchen. I
spent the dinner-hours with my friends cheerfully and profitably.
Krebel, indeed, loved me, and continued to teaze me and stimulate me in
moderation; Pfeil, on the contrary, showed his earnest affection for me
by trying to guide and settle my judgment upon many points.
During this intercourse, I perceived through conversation, through
examples, and through my own reflections, that the first step in
delivering ourselves from the wishy-washy, long-winded, empty epoch,
could be taken only by definiteness, precision, and brevity. In the
style which had hitherto prevailed, one could not distinguish the
commonplace from what was better, since all were brought down to a
level with each other. Authors had already tried to escape from this
widespread disease, with more or less success. HALLER and RAMLER were
inclined to compression by nature; LESSING and WIELAND were led to
it by reflection. The former became by degrees quite epigrammatical
in his poems, terse in _Minna_, laconic in _Emilia Galotti_,--it was
not till afterwards that he returned to that serene _naïveté_ which
becomes him so well in _Nathan._ Wieland, who had been occasionally
prolix in _Agathon_, _Don Sylvio_, and the _Comic Tales_, becomes
condensed and precise to a wonderful degree, as well as exceedingly
graceful, in _Musarion_ and _Idris._ KLOPSTOCK, in the first cantos
of the _Messiah_, is not without diffuseness; in his _Odes_ and other
minor poems he appears compressed, as also in his tragedies. By
his emulation of the ancients, especially Tacitus, he sees himself
constantly forced into narrower limits, by which he at last becomes
obscure and unpalatable. GERSTENBERG, a fine but eccentric talent,
also distinguishes himself; his merit is appreciated, but on the
whole he gives little pleasure. GLEIM, diffuse and easy by nature,
is scarcely once concise in his war-songs. RAMLER is properly more
a critic than a poet. He begins to collect what the Germans have
accomplished in lyric poetry. He now finds that scarcely one poem
fully satisfies him; he must leave out, arrange, and alter, that the
things may have some shape or other. By this means he makes himself
almost as many enemies as there are poets and amateurs, since every
one, properly speaking, recognizes himself only in his defects; and
the public interests itself sooner for a faulty individuality than
for that which is produced or amended according to a universal law of
taste. Rhythm lay yet in the cradle, and no one knew of a method to
shorten its childhood. Poetical prose came into the ascendant. GESSNER
and KLOPSTOCK excited many imitators: others, again, still demanded an
intelligible metre, and translated this prose into rhythm. But even
these gave nobody satisfaction; for they were obliged to omit and
add, and the prose original always passed for the better of the two.
But the more, with all this, conciseness is aimed at, the more does a
judgment become possible, since that which is important, being more
closely compressed, allows a certain comparison at last. It happened,
also, at the same time, that many kinds of truly poetical forms arose;
for as they tried to represent only what was necessary in the objects
they wished to imitate, they were forced to do justice to every one
of these; and in this manner, though no one did it consciously, the
modes of representation multiplied themselves, among which, indeed,
were some which were really caricatures, while many an attempt proved
unsuccessful.
[Side-note: Wieland.]
Without question, WIELAND possessed the finest natural gifts of all. He
had early cultivated himself thoroughly in those ideal regions where
youth so readily lingers; but when, by what is called experience, by
the events of the world and women, these were rendered distasteful
to him, he threw himself on the side of the actual, and pleased
himself and others with the contest of the two worlds, where, in light
skirmishing between jest and earnest, his talent displayed itself most
beautifully. How many of his brilliant productions fall into the time
of my academic years! _Musarion_ had the most effect upon me, and I
can yet remember the place and the very spot where I got sight of the
first proof-sheet, which Oeser gave me. Here it was that I believed I
saw antiquity again living and fresh. Everything that is plastic in
Wieland's genius here showed itself in its highest perfection; and
when that Phanias-Timon, condemned to an unhappy insipidity, finally
reconciles himself to his mistress and to the world, one can well, with
him, live through the misanthropical epoch. For the rest, we willingly
conceded to these works a cheerful aversion from those exalted
sentiments, which, by reason of their easy misapplication to life,
are often open to the suspicion of dreaminess. We pardoned the author
for prosecuting with ridicule what we held as true and reverend, the
more readily, as he thereby gave us to understand that it caused him
continual trouble.
How miserably criticism then received such labours may be seen from
the first volumes of the _Universal German Library._ Of the _Comic
Tales_ there is honourable mention; but there is no trace of any
insight into the character of the kind of poetry. The reviewer, like
every one at that time, had formed his taste on examples. He never
takes it into consideration that, in a judgment of such parodistical
works, one must first of all have before one's eyes the original noble,
beautiful object, in order to see whether the parodist has really
gotten from it a weak and comical side, whether he has borrowed
anything from it, or, under the appearance of such an imitation, has
perhaps given us an excellent invention of his own. Of all this there
is not a notion, but the poems are praised and blamed by passages. The
reviewer, as he himself confesses, has marked so much that pleased
him, that he cannot quote it all in print. When they even meet the
highly meritorious translation of Shakspeare with the exclamation:
"By rights, a man like Shakspeare should not have been translated at
all!" it will be understood, without further remark, how infinitely
the _Universal German Library_ was behindhand in matters of taste, and
that young people, animated by true feeling, had to look about them for
other guiding stars. The material which, in this manner, more or less
determined the form, the Germans sought everywhere. They had handled
few national subjects, or none at all. Schlegel's _Hermann_ only showed
the way. The idyllic tendency extended itself without end. The want of
distinctive character with Gessner, with all his great gracefulness and
childlike heartiness, made every one think that he could do something
of the same kind. Just in the same manner, out of the more generally
human, some snatch those poems which should have portrayed a foreign
nationality, as, for instance, the Jewish pastoral poems, those on the
patriarchs altogether, and whatever else related to the Old Testament.
Bodmer's _Noachide_ was a perfect symbol of the watery deluge that
swelled high around the German Parnassus, and which abated but slowly.
The leading-strings of Anacreon likewise allowed innumerable mediocre
geniuses to reel about at large. The precision of Horace compelled the
Germans, though but slowly, to conform to him. Comic heroic poems,
mostly after the model of Pope's _Rape of the Lock_, did not serve to
bring in a better time.
Yet I must here mention a delusion, which operated as seriously as it
must be ridiculous when one examines it more closely. The Germans had
now sufficient historical knowledge of all the kinds of poetry in which
the different nations had distinguished themselves. This pigeon-hole
work, which, properly speaking, totally destroys the inner conception
of poetry, had been already pretty completely hammered together by
Gottsched in his _Critical Art of Poetry_, and it had been shown at
the same time that German poets, too, had already known how to fill up
all the rubrics with excellent works. And thus it ever went on. Each
year the collection was more considerable, but every year one work
pushed another out of the place in which it had hitherto shone. We now
possessed, if not Homers, yet Virgils and Miltons; if not a Pindar,
yet a Horace; of Theocrituses there was no lack; and thus they weighed
themselves by comparisons from without, whilst the mass of poetical
works always increased, so that at last there could be a comparison
from within.
[Side-note: Popular Philosophy.]
Now, though matters of taste stood on a very uncertain footing, there
could be no dispute but that, within the Protestant part of Germany
and of Switzerland, what is generally called common-sense began to
bestir itself briskly at that epoch. The scholastic philosophy--which
always has the merit of propounding according to received axioms, in
a favourite order, and under fixed rubrics, everything about which
man can at all inquire,--had, by the frequent darkness and apparent
uselessness of its subject-matter, by its unseasonable application
of a method in itself respectable, and by its too great extension
over so many subjects, made itself foreign to the mass, unpalatable,
and at last superfluous. Many a one became convinced that nature had
endowed him with as great a portion of good and straightforward sense
as, perchance, he required to form such a clear notion of objects
that he could manage them and turn them to his own profit, and that
of others, without laboriously troubling himself about the most
universal problems, and inquiring how the most remote things which
do not particularly affect us may hang together. Men made the trial,
opened their eyes, looked straight before them, observant, industrious,
active, and believed that when one judges and acts correctly in one's
own circle, one may well presume to speak of other things also, which
lie at a greater distance.
In accordance with such a notion, every one was now entitled, not only
to philosophize, but also by degrees to consider himself a philosopher.
Philosophy, therefore, was more or less sound and practised common
sense, which ventured lo enter upon the universal, and to decide upon
inner and outer experiences. A clear-sighted acuteness and an especial
moderation, while the middle path and fairness to all opinions was held
to be right, procured respect and confidence for writings and oral
statements of the sort, and thus at last philosophers were found in all
the faculties, nay, in all classes and trades.
In this way the theologians could not help inclining to what is called
natural religion, and when the discussion was how far the light of
nature may suffice to advance us in the knowledge of God and the
improving and ennobling of ourselves, they commonly ventured to decide
in its favour without much scruple. According to the same principle of
moderation, they then granted equal rights to all positive religions,
by which they all became alike indifferent and uncertain. For the rest,
they let everything stand, and since the Bible is so full of matter,
that, more than any other book, it offers material for reflection and
opportunity for meditation on human affairs, it could still, as before,
be always laid as the foundation of all sermons and other religious
treatises.
But over this work, as well as over the whole body of profane writers,
was impending a singular fate, which, in the lapse of time, was not
to be averted. Hitherto it had been received as a matter of implicit
faith, that this book of books was composed in one spirit; that it
was even inspired, and, as it were, dictated by the Divine Spirit.
Yet already for a long time the discrepancies of the different parts
of it had been now cavilled at, now apologized for, by believers and
unbelievers. English, French, and Germans had attacked the Bible with
more or less violence, acuteness, audacity, and wantonness; and just as
often had it been taken under the protection of earnest, sound-thinking
men of each nation. As for myself, I loved and valued it: for almost
to it alone did I owe my moral culture, and the events, the doctrines,
the symbols, the similes, had all impressed themselves deeply upon me,
and had influenced me in one way or another. These unjust, scoffing,
and perverting attacks, therefore, disgusted me; but people had already
gone so far as very willingly to admit, partly as a main ground for
the defence of many passages, that God had accommodated himself to the
modes of thought and power of comprehension in men; that even those
moved by the Spirit had not on that account been able to renounce their
character, their individuality, and that Amos, a cow-herd, did not
wield the language of Isaiah, who is said to have been a prince.
[Side-note: State of Theology.]
Out of such views and convictions, especially with a constantly
increasing knowledge of languages, was very naturally developed that
kind of study by which it was attempted to examine more accurately the
oriental localities, nationalities, natural products, and phenomena,
and in this manner to make present to one's-self that ancient time.
Michaelis employed the whole strength of his talents and his knowledge
on this side. Descriptions of travels became a powerful help in
explaining the Holy Scriptures, and later travellers, furnished with
numerous questions, were made, by the answers to them, to bear witness
for the prophets and apostles.
But whilst they were on all sides busied to bring the Holy Scriptures
to a natural intuition, and to render peculiar modes of thought and
representation in them more universally comprehensible, that by
this historico-critical aspect many an objection might be removed,
many offensive things effaced, and many a shallow scoffing be made
ineffective, there appeared in some men just the opposite disposition,
since these chose the darkest, most mysterious writings as the subject
of their meditations, and wished, if not to elucidate them, yet to
confirm them through internal evidence, by means of conjectures,
calculations, and other ingenious and strange combinations, and so far
as they contained prophecies, to prove them by the results, and thus to
justify a faith in what was next to be expected.