He was a seer—a prophet. A century has passed since his
birth, and we revere him as one of the first among the
spiritual heroes of humanity.—_Vischer. Speech at the
Centenary Festival of Schiller’s birthday (1859)._
That Schiller went away early is for us a gain. From
his tomb there comes to us an impulse, strengthening
us, as with the breath of his own might, and awakening
a most earnest longing to fulfill, lovingly, and more
and more, the work that he began. So, in all that
he willed to do, and in all that he fulfilled, he
shall live on, forever, for his own nation, and for
mankind.—_Goethe._
Goethe and Schiller greatly excelled in their department of literary
labor, becoming oracles in all such matters. And since their names have
gone into history, they share, perhaps not quite equally, the highest
niche in the pantheon of German literature. Schiller was, at once, a
fine thinker, and poet, able to weave his own subtle thoughts, and
the philosophies of other transcendentalists into verse, as exquisite
as their speculations were, at times, dreamy and incomprehensible.
Carlyle, in a glowing tribute to Schiller, concedes to Goethe the
honor of being the poet of Germany; and so perhaps he was, though
it is difficult to compare men so widely different. They differed
in this: Goethe, with his rich endowment of intellect, was born a
poet—an inspired man; the everspringing fountain within him poured
forth copiously; Schiller, with genius hardly surpassed, seems a
more laborious thinker, ever seeking truth, while his finely wrought
stanzas are a little more artificially melodious. He is the most
beloved because his countrymen think he had more heart, and breathed
out more ardent aspirations for political freedom. We commend what is
excellent in his works; the facts and truths expressed with refreshing
clearness, and usually of good moral tendency, but we can not ignore
his philosophical skepticism, and warn the admiring reader against its
pernicious influence. In the supreme matter of religious faith our
captivating author was evidently much of his life adrift on stormy
seas, “driven of the winds and tossed.” If the fatuity of the venture
was not followed by dismal and utter shipwreck, he was near the fatal
rocks, and suffered great loss. The beginning was in this respect most
full of promise, and his environment favorable. The home training in a
devout religious family, and the teachings of the sanctuary had made
a deep impression on the mind of the thoughtful youth, and as solemn
vows were made as ever passed from human lips. His was for a season
really a life of prayer and consecration to Christian service. But
all that passed away. And how the change was brought about it is not
hard to discover. Though blameless in character, and full of noble
aspirations while yet in his adolescence, quite too early, he became
acquainted with infidel writings of Voltaire—a perilous adventure for
any youth. The foundations on which he rested were shaken, and he fled
to the positive philosophy of Kant and others, who interpreted away all
that was distinctively true and life-giving in the Scriptures. Faith,
whose mild radiance brightened the morning, suffered a fearful eclipse
before it was noon: and thence, like a wanderer, he groped for the
way; “daylight all gone.” The great man needed God, but turned from
him—sought truth with worshipful anxiety, but, in his sad bewilderment,
found it not. The difference between his states of faith and unfaith is
strongly stated in his own words that we here give. The first extract
was written on a Sabbath in 1777. The other tells, about as forcibly as
words can, of the unrest and disappointment that were afterward felt.
Sabbath Morning.
God of truth, Father of light, I look to thee with
the first rays of the morning sun, and I bow before
thee. Thou seest me, O God! Thou seest from afar every
pulsation of my praying heart. Thou knowest well my
earnest desire for truth. Heavy doubt often veils my
soul in night; but thou knowest how anxious my heart
is within me, and how it goes out for heavenly light.
Oh yes! A friendly ray has often fallen from thee upon
my shadowed soul. I saw the awful abyss on whose brink
I was trembling, and I have thanked the kind hand that
drew me back in safety. Still be with me, my God and
Father, for there are days when fools stalk about and
say, “there is no God.” Thou hast given me my birth, O
my Creator, in these days when superstition rages at
my right hand, and skepticism scoffs at my left. So I
often stand and quake in the storm; and oh, how often
would the bending reed break if thou didst not prevent
it; thou, the mighty Preserver of all thy creatures and
Father of all who seek thee. What am I without truth,
without her leadership through life’s labyrinth? A
wanderer through the wilderness overtaken by the night,
with no friendly hand to lead me, and no guiding star
to show me the path. Doubt, uncertainty, skepticism!
You begin with anguish, and you end with despair. But
Truth, thou leadest us safely through life, bearest the
torch before us in the dark vale of death, and bringest
us home to heaven, where thou wast born. O my God,
keep my heart in peace, in that holy rest during which
Truth loves best to visit us. If I have truth then I
have Christ; If I have Christ then have I God; and if
I have God, then I have everything. And could I ever
permit myself to be robbed of this precious gem, this
heaven-reaching blessing by the wisdom of this world,
which is foolishness in thy sight? No. He who hates
truth will I call my enemy, but he who seeks it with
simple heart I will embrace as my brother and my friend.
Later in life his anguish is openly expressed in his philosophical
letters. “I felt, and I was happy. Raphael has taught me to think, and
I am now ready to lament my own creation. You have stolen my faith that
gave me peace. You have taught me to despise what I once reverenced.
A thousand things were very venerable to me before your sorry wisdom
stripped me of them. I saw a multitude of people going to church; I
heard their earnest worship as they united in fraternal prayer; I cried
aloud, ‘That truth must be divine which the best of men profess, which
conquers so triumphantly and consoles so sweetly.’ Your cold reason
has quenched my enthusiasm. ‘Believe no one,’ you said, ‘but your
reason; there is nothing more holy than truth.’ I listened, and offered
up all my opinions. My reason is now become everything to me; it is
my only guarantee for divinity, virtue, and immortality. Woe unto me
henceforth, if I come in conflict with this sole security!”
The following lines are given as a specimen of his verse. They are
taken from Carlyle’s translation of the “Song of the Alps:”
By the edge of the chasm is a slippery track,
The torrent beneath, and the mist hanging o’er thee;
The cliffs of the mountains, huge, rugged, and black,
Are frowning like giants before thee;
And, would’st thou not waken the sleeping Lawine,
Walk silent and soft through the deadly ravine.
That bridge with its dizzying, perilous span,
Aloft o’er the gulf and its flood suspended,
Think’st thou it was built by the art of man,
By his hand that grim old arch was bended?
Far down in the jaws of the gloomy abyss
The water is boiling and hissing—forever will hiss.
Duty—Fame of.
What shall I do to be forever known?
Thy duty ever.
This did full many who yet slept unknown—
Oh! never, never!
Thinkest thou, perchance, that they remain unknown
Whom _thou_ knowest not?
By angel trumps in heaven their praise is blown,
Divine their lot.
What shall I do to gain eternal life?
Discharge aright
The simple dues with which each day is rife?
Yea, with thy might.
Ere perfect scheme of action thou devise,
Life will be fled,
While he who ever acts as conscience cries
Shall live, though dead.
The following verse is from the oft-recited “Song of the Bell,” and is
exquisite:
Ah! seeds how dearer far than they
We bury in the dismal tomb,
When hope and sorrow bend to pray,
That suns beyond the realm of day
May warm them into bloom.