this species of poetry, not because it is really composed by the people
or for the people, but because it embraces in itself something so
vigorous and wholesome that the healthy stock of the nation understands
it, remembers it, appropriates it, and at times propagates it. Poetry
of this kind is as true poetry as can possibly exist. It has an
incredible charm even for us who stand on a higher plane of culture,
just as the sight of young people and the memory of one’s own youth
have for old age. Art in them is in conflict with nature; and it is
because of their gradual development, their mutual influence, and their
striving for form that these songs seem to seek a further perfection
when they have already reached their goal. True poetic genius, wherever
it appears, is perfect in itself: no matter what imperfections of
language, of external technique, or anything else, stand in its way, it
possesses the higher inner form which ultimately has everything at its
command, and often in an obscure and imperfect medium produces a more
striking effect than it can later produce in a more perfect medium. The
vivid poetic perception of a limited state or condition gives to what
is purely individual a universal significance, finite to be sure, but
after all limitless and unrestricted, so that within a small compass we
fancy we see the whole world. The promptings of a profound intuition
urge the poet to a significant brevity; and what would seem in prose
unpardonably topsy-turvy is to the true poetic sense a necessity
and a virtue; even a solecism, if it appeals seriously to our whole
imagination, stimulates it to a surprisingly high degree of enjoyment.
In characterizing the individual poems we avoided the kind of formal
classification which may more readily be made in the future when
several authentic and typical examples of every kind have been
collected. But we cannot conceal our own preference for those songs
in which lyric, dramatic, and epic treatment is interwoven in such a
way that a problem, at first shrouded in mystery, is finally solved
skilfully, or even, if you will, epigrammatically. The well-known
ballad, “Why dois your brand sae drop wi’ bluid, Edward, Edward?” is,
especially in the original, the most perfect example of this species of
poetry.
We hope that the editors will be encouraged to publish in the near
future another volume of poems from the rich store collected by them
as well as from those already printed. We trust that when they do
this they will guard themselves carefully against the sing-song of
the Minnesingers, the blatant coarseness and the platitudes of the
Mastersingers, as well as against everything monkish and pedantic. If
they should collect a second volume of these German songs, they might
also be asked to select songs of the same kind from foreign nations
and to give them in the original and in translations that are either
already extant or may be made by them for this special purpose. The
most of these, to be sure, will be from the English, fewer from the
French, some of a different type from the Spanish, and almost none from
the Italian.
If from the outset we have doubted the competence of criticism, even
in its highest sense, to judge this work, we have all the more reason
to ignore that kind of research which attempts to separate the songs
that are genuine from those that have been more or less restored. The
editors, so far as it is possible in these later times, have caught
the spirit of their task, and we ought to be grateful to them even for
those poems which have been oddly restored or made up of heterogeneous
parts or are absolutely spurious. Who does not know what a song has to
undergo when it has been for some time in the mouth of the people, and
not merely uneducated people either? Why should he who finally writes
it down and inserts it in a collection with other poems not have a
certain personal right to it? We do not possess any poetic or sacred
book of earlier times which has not depended for its final form on the
skill or whim of him who first wrote it down or some later copyist.
If we accept the printed collection lying before us from this point of
view, and with a grateful and kindly spirit, we may charge the editors
all the more earnestly to keep their poetic archives pure, lofty, and
in good order. It serves no purpose to print everything; but they
will place the whole nation in their debt if they contribute toward
that thorough, faithful, and intelligent history of our poetry and our
poetic culture which from now on must be the ultimate goal of scholars.
FOLKSONGS AGAIN COMMENDED
(1823)
My old love for original folksongs has not lessened, but has rather
been increased by receiving valuable communications from many quarters.
In particular, I have received from the East, some separately, and some
in collections, such songs of many different peoples; they extend from
Olympus to the Baltic Sea, and from that line towards the northeast.
My hesitation in publishing any of them is due partly to the fact that
many varied interests have drawn me here and there and so prevented me,
but also more particularly to the following circumstance.
All true national poems have a small circle of ideas, to which they are
always limited, and in which they revolve. For that reason they become
monotonous in mass, because they express one and the same limited
situation.
Examine the six modern Greek songs inserted above; every one will
admire the powerful contrast between the virile freedom of spirit in
the wilderness and a government, orderly indeed, but still barbaric and
of insufficient power. A dozen or more would be sufficient to exhibit
this refractory character in them, and show us repetitions such as we
find in our own folksongs, where we often come upon more or less happy
variations of the same theme, as well as mixed and heterogeneous
fragments.
It is remarkable, nevertheless, how much the individual peoples
mentioned above differ among themselves in their songs; this
characteristic we shall not discuss abstractly, but will rather develop
by means of examples from time to time in the ensuing numbers.
Since contributions for this purpose will be highly welcome from all
quarters, we request the friend who showed us at Wiesbaden in the
summer of 1815 some Greek songs in the original and in a very happy
translation, promising to send us soon a copy which never however
appeared, to get in touch with us again and cooperate with us in this
praiseworthy undertaking.
LAURENCE STERNE
(1827)
In the swift progress of literary, as of human, culture it happens
commonly that we forget the person to whom we owe the first stimulus,
the original influence. What is, and what flourishes here and now, we
believe had to be so and had to happen so. But in this we are wrong,
for we lose sight of those who guided us to the right path. From this
point of view I call attention to a man who first gave the stimulus to
the great epoch in the second half of the last century, an epoch of
clearer human knowledge, nobler toleration, gentler humanity.
Of this man, to whom I owe so much, I am often reminded, especially
when the talk is of truth and error, which fluctuate here and there
among mankind. A third word may be added of gentler meaning, that is,
“singularity” (_Eigenheit_), for there are certain human phenomena
which can be best expressed by this term. Viewed externally they are
erroneous, but from within full of truth, and rightly considered, of
the highest psychological importance. They are those qualities which
constitute the individual; the universal is thereby specified, and
in the most peculiar of them there always shines some intelligence,
reason, and good-will which charms us and fetters us. From this
standpoint, “Yorick” Sterne, revealing in the tenderest way the human
in men, has called these “singularities,” in so far as they express
themselves in action, “ruling passions.” For certainly they are what
drive men in a certain direction, push them along on a consistent
track, and without requiring reflection, conviction, purpose or
strength of will, keep them continually in life and motion. It is
immediately apparent how closely related habit is to them; for it
promotes that convenience in which our idiosyncrasies love to saunter
undisturbed.
THE ENGLISH REVIEWERS
(1821)
English critics, as we have come to know them from their various
Reviews, deserve a great deal of respect. Their acquaintance not only
with their own literature, but also with that of other countries, is
most gratifying; the seriousness and the thoroughness with which they
go to work arouse our admiration, and we are glad to confess that much
may be learned from them. Moreover, we find ourselves very favorably
impressed by the attitude these men take toward their calling as
critics and the respect which they have for the intelligence of the
public,--a public, to be sure, which is very attentive to all things
written and spoken, but is probably hard to satisfy, and ever disposed
to contradict and argue.
No matter how thorough and comprehensive the presentation of a case by
an attorney before a body of judges or by a speaker before a provincial
diet may be, some opponent will very soon come to the fore with
forcible arguments; the attentive and critical hearers will themselves
be divided, and many an important matter is often decided by a very
small majority.
Such a spirit of opposition, even though passive, we occasionally
assume toward critics, both at home and abroad, whose knowledge of
facts we by no means deny and whose premises we often grant, but whose
conclusions nevertheless we do not share.
Still we must be especially forbearing to the English when they appear
harsh and unjust toward foreign productions; for those who count
Shakespeare among their forebears may well allow themselves to be
carried away by their pride of ancestry.
GERMAN LITERATURE IN GOETHE’S YOUTH
(1811-14)
So much has been written about the condition of German literature at
that time,[12] and to such good purpose, that every one who takes any
interest in it can obtain full information; the opinions with regard to
it, too, are fairly unanimous; so that anything I say about it here,
in my fragmentary and desultory fashion, is not so much an analysis
of its characteristics as of its relation to me. I will therefore
first speak of those branches which especially react upon the public,
those two hereditary foes of all easy-going life, and of all cheerful,
self-sufficient, living poetry:--I mean, satire and criticism.
In quiet times every one desires to live after his own fashion; the
citizen wishes to carry on his trade or his business, and then enjoy
himself; so, too, the author likes to produce something, see his work
published, and, in the consciousness of having done something good and
useful, looks, if not for remuneration, at any rate for praise. From
this state of tranquillity the citizen is roused by the satirist, the
author by the critic, and so it comes that peaceful society is rudely
disturbed.
The literary epoch in which I was born developed out of the preceding
one by opposition. Germany, so long inundated by foreign people,
pervaded by other nations, employing foreign languages in learned
and diplomatic transactions, could not possibly cultivate her own.
Together with so many new ideas, innumerable strange words were
obtruded necessarily and unnecessarily upon her, and even for objects
already known people were induced to make use of foreign expressions
and turns of language. The Germans, brutalized by nearly two centuries
of misery and confusion, took lessons from the French in manners and
from the Latins in the art of expression. This art ought to have
been cultivated in German, since the use of French and Latin idioms,
and their partial translation into German, made both their social
and business style ridiculous. Besides this, they recklessly adopted
figures of speech belonging to the southern languages, and employed
them most extravagantly. In the same way the stately ceremoniousness of
prince-like Roman citizens had been transferred to the educated circles
in German provincial towns. As a result, they nowhere felt themselves
at home, least of all in their own houses.
But in this epoch works of genius had already appeared, and the German
independence of mind and enjoyment of life began to assert themselves.
This cheerful spirit, combined with an honest sincerity, led to the
demand for purity and naturalness in writing, without the intermixture
of foreign words, and in accordance with the dictates of plain common
sense. By these praiseworthy endeavors, however, the flood-gates were
thrown open to a prolix national insipidity, nay, the dam was broken
down, and an inundation was bound to follow. However, a stiff pedantry
continued for some time to hold sway in the four learned professions,
and eventually, at a much later date, fled for refuge first to one and
then to another.
Men of parts, children of nature looking freely about them, had
therefore two objects on which they could exercise their faculties,
against which they could direct their energies, and, as the matter was
of no great importance, vent their mischievousness; these were, on the
one hand, a language disfigured by foreign words, forms, and turns of
speech; and on the other, the worthlessness of such writings as had
been careful to avoid those faults; but it never occurred to any one
that each evil was being combated by fostering the other.
Liscow, a daring young man, first ventured to attack by name a shallow,
silly writer, whose foolish behavior soon gave him an opportunity for
yet more drastic treatment. He then sought other subjects, invariably
directing his satire against particular objects and persons, whom he
despised and sought to render despicable; indeed, he pursued them
with passionate hatred. But his career was short; for he died early,
and was remembered only as a restless, irregular youth. The talent
and character shown in what he did, in spite of the smallness of his
production, may well have seemed valuable to his countrymen: for the
Germans have always shown a peculiar piety towards the promise of
genius prematurely cut off. Suffice it to say that in our early youth
Liscow was praised and commended to us as an excellent satirist, who
might justly claim preference even before the universally beloved
Rabener. But we did not gain much from him; for the only thing we
discovered from his works was that he considered the absurd absurd, and
this seemed to us a matter of course.
Rabener, well educated, grown up under good school discipline, of a
cheerful and by no means passionate or malicious disposition, turned
to general satire. His censure of so-called vices and follies is
the outcome of clear-sighted and unimpassioned common sense, and of
a definite moral conception as to what the world ought to be. His
denunciation of faults and failings is harmless and cheerful; and in
order to excuse even the slight daring of his writings, he assumes that
the attempt to improve fools by ridicule is not in vain.
Rabener’s personal character was such as we do not often meet. A
thorough and strict man of business, he did his duty, and so gained
the good opinion of his fellow-townsmen and the confidence of his
superiors; at the same time, by way of relaxation, he indulged in
a genial contempt for all that immediately surrounded him. Learned
pedants, vain youngsters, every sort of narrowness and conceit, he
made fun of rather than satirized, and even his satire expressed no
scorn. Just in the same way he jested about his own condition, his
unhappiness, his life, and his death.
There is little of the æsthetic in the manner in which this writer
treats his subjects. In external form he is indeed varied enough, but
throughout he makes too much use of direct irony, that is, in praising
the blameworthy and blaming the praiseworthy, whereas this rhetorical
device should be adopted extremely sparingly; for, in the long run,
it becomes annoying to the clear-sighted, perplexes the foolish,
but appeals, it is true, to the great majority, who without special
intellectual effort imagine themselves cleverer than other people.
But all that he presents to us, whatever its form, bears witness to
his rectitude, cheerfulness, and equanimity, so that we are always
favorably impressed. The unbounded admiration of his own times was a
consequence of these moral excellencies.
It was natural that people should try to discover originals for his
general descriptions and should succeed; and consequently he was
attacked on this score by certain individuals: his over-long apologies
denying that his satire was personal, prove the annoyance to which he
was subjected. Some of his letters do honor to him both as a man and
an author. The confidential epistle in which he describes the siege
of Dresden and the loss of his house, his effects, his writings, and
his wigs, without having his equanimity in the least shaken or his
cheerfulness clouded, is most estimable, although his contemporaries
and fellow-citizens could not forgive him his happy temperament. The
letter in which he speaks of the decay of his strength and of his
approaching death is in the highest degree worthy of respect, and
Rabener deserves to be honored as a saint by all happy sensible people,
who cheerfully accept their earthly lot.
I tear myself away from him reluctantly, and merely add this remark:
his satire refers throughout to the middle classes; he lets us see here
and there that he is also acquainted with the upper classes, but does
not hold it advisable to discuss them. It may be said that he had no
successor; it would be impossible to point to any one at all equal, or
even similar to him.
Let us turn to criticism; and first of all to the theoretic attempts.
It is not going too far to say that idealism had at that time fled from
the world to religion; it was hardly discoverable even in ethics; of
a supreme principle in art no one had a notion. They put Gottsched’s
_Critical Art of Poetry_ into our hands; it was useful and instructive
enough, for it gave us historical information about the various kinds
of poetry, as well as about rhythm and its different movements;
poetic genius was taken for granted! But besides this the poet was to
have education, and even learning, he should possess taste, and other
things of the same nature. Finally, we were referred to Horace’s _Art
of Poetry_; we gazed at single golden maxims of this invaluable work
with veneration, but did not know in the least what to do with it as a
whole, or how to use it.
The Swiss came to the front as Gottsched’s antagonists; hence they
must intend to do something different, to accomplish something better:
accordingly we heard that they were, in fact, superior. Breitinger’s
_Critical Art of Poetry_ was now studied. Here we entered a wider
field, or, properly speaking, only a greater labyrinth, which was the
more wearisome, as an able man in whom we had confidence drove us about
in it. Let a brief review justify these words.
As yet no one had been able to discover the essential principle of
poetry; it was too spiritual and too evanescent. Painting, an art
which one could keep within sight, and follow step by step with the
external senses, seemed more adapted to such an end; the English and
French had already theorized about the arts of painting and sculpture,
and it was thought possible to explain the nature of poetry by drawing
a comparison from these arts. Painting presented images to the eyes,
poetry to the imagination; poetical images, therefore, were the
first thing to be taken into consideration. Similes came first, then
descriptions and whatever it was possible to represent to the external
senses came under discussion.
Images, then! But whence should these images be taken except from
nature? The painter obviously imitated nature; why not the poet also?
But nature, just as she is, cannot be imitated: she contains so much
that is insignificant and unsuitable, that a selection must be made;
but what determines the choice? what is important must be selected; but
what is important?
The answer to this question the Swiss probably took a long time
to consider: for they arrived at an idea which is indeed strange,
but pretty, even amusing; for they said what is new is always most
important: and after they had considered this for a while, they
discovered that the marvelous is always newer than anything else.
Apparently they now had the essentials of poetry before them, but it
had further to be taken into consideration that the marvelous may
be barren and without human interest. This human interest which is
indispensable must be moral, and would then obviously tend to the
improvement of man; hence that poem would fulfil its ultimate aim which
in addition to its merits possessed utility. It was the fulfilment of
all these demands which constituted the test they wished to apply to
the various kinds of poetry, and that species which imitated nature,
and furthermore was marvelous, and at the same time moral in purpose
and effect, they placed first and highest. And after much deliberation
this great preëminence was finally ascribed, with the utmost
conviction, to Æsop’s fables!
Strange as such a deduction may now appear, it had the most decided
influence on the best minds. That Gellert and subsequently Lichtwer
devoted themselves to this department of literature, that even Lessing
attempted to do work in it, that so many others applied their talents
to it, speaks for the faith they put in this species of poetry. Theory
and practice always act upon each other; one can see from men’s works
what opinions they hold; and, from their opinions, it is possible to
predict what they will do.
Yet we must not dismiss our Swiss theory without doing it justice.
Bodmer, with all the pains he took, remained in theory and practice a
child all his life. Breitinger was an able, learned, sagacious man,
who, after making a careful survey, recognized all the requirements
to be fulfilled by a poem; in fact, it can be shown that he was dimly
conscious of the deficiencies of his method. Noteworthy, for instance,
is his query, whether a certain descriptive poem by König, on the
_Review Camp of Augustus the Second_, is properly speaking a poem;
and the answer to it displays good sense. But it may serve for his
complete justification that, after starting on a wrong track and nearly
completing his circle, he yet discovers the main issue, and at the end
of his book, as a kind of supplement, feels it incumbent on him to urge
the representation of manners, character, passions, in short the inner
man--which surely constitutes the chief theme of poetry.
It may well be imagined into what perplexity young minds were thrown by
such maxims torn from their contexts, half-understood laws, and random
dogmas. We clung to examples, and there, too, were no better off: the
foreign as well as the classical ones were too remote from us; behind
the best native ones always lurked a distinct individuality, the good
points of which we could not arrogate to ourselves, and into the faults
of which we could not but be afraid of falling. For any one conscious
of productive power it was a desperate condition.
When one considers carefully what was wanting in German poetry, it
was a significant theme, especially of national import; there was
never any lack of gifted writers. It is only necessary to mention
Günther, who may be called a poet in the full sense of the word. A
decided genius, endowed with sensuousness, imagination, memory, the
gifts of conception and representation, productive in the highest
degree, possessing rhythmic fluency, ingenious, witty, and at the same
time well-informed;--he possessed, in short, all the requisites for
creating by his poetry a second life out of the actual commonplace life
around him. We admire the great facility with which, in his occasional
poems, he ennobles all situations by appealing to the emotions, and
embellishes them with suitable sentiments, images, and historical and
fabulous traditions. The roughness and wildness in them belong to his
time, his mode of life, and especially to his character, or, if you
will, his want of character. He did not know how to curb himself, and
so his life, like his poetry, proved ineffectual.