2. Hebrew words: krt = kaf-resh-taf = to cut;
krty = kaf-resh-taf-yod = to executioner.
3. Greek word: Krêtê = Kappa-rho-eta-tau-eta = Crete.
4. diphthong oe=[oe]
HENRY OF OFTERDINGEN:
A ROMANCE.
FROM THE GERMAN OF
NOVALIS,
(FRIEDRICH VON HARDENBERG.)
CAMBRIDGE:
PUBLISHED BY JOHN OWEN.
M DCCC XLII.
Entered according to act of Congress, in the year 1842,
BY JOHN OWEN,
in the Clerk's office of the District Court of the District of
Massachusetts.
CAMBRIDGE PRESS:
LYMAN THURSTON AND WILLIAM TORRY.
ADVERTISEMENT.
The present translation is made from the edition of Tieck and Schlegel.
The life of the author is chiefly drawn from the one written by the
former. The completion of the second part is also by the same writer.
Richter said, in a prophetic feeling of the fate of his own works, that
translators were like wagoners who carry good wine to fairs--but most
unaccountably water it before the end of the journey. Which allusion
and semi-confession is meant to take the place of the usual apology;
and the reader can proceed without farther preface.
_Cambridge_, _June_, 1842.
ERRATA.
Page xvi, line tenth from bottom, _for_ tion. He _read_ tion, he
Page 22, line ninth from top, _for_ work _read_ woke
Page 66, first word of the poetry, _for_ Though _read_ Through
LIFE OF THE AUTHOR.
Probably some of the readers of this volume will feel an interest in
the author's life. Although there are but few works, in which the mind
of the author is more clearly and purely reflected than in this; yet it
is natural that the reader should feel some interest in the outward
circumstances of one, who has become dear to him; and those friends of
Novalis, who have never known him personally, will be glad to hear all
that we can bring to light concerning him.
The Baron of Hardenberg, the father of the author, was director of the
Saxonian salt works. He had been a soldier in his younger days, and
retained even in his old age a predilection for a military life. He was
a robust, ever active man, frank and energetic;--a pure German. The
pious character of his mind led him to join the Moravian community; yet
he remained frank, decided, and upright. His mother, a type of elevated
piety and Christian meekness, belonged to the same religious community.
She bore with lofty resignation the loss, within a few successive
years, of a blooming circle of hopeful and well educated children.
Friedrich von Hardenberg (Novalis) was born on the second of May, in
the year 1772, on a family estate in the county of Mansfield. He was
the oldest of eleven children, with the exception of a sister who was
born a year earlier. The family consisted of seven sons and four
daughters, all distinguished for their wit and the lofty tone of their
minds. Each possessed a peculiar disposition, while all were united by
a beautiful and generous affection to each other and to their parents.
Friedrich von Hardenberg was weak in constitution from his earliest
childhood, without, however, suffering from any settled or dangerous
disease. He was somewhat of a day-dreamer, silent and of an inactive
disposition. He separated himself from the society of his playmates;
but his character was distinguished from that of other children, only
by the ardor of his love for his master. He found his companions in his
own family. His spirit seemed to be wakened from its slumber, by a
severe disease in his ninth year, and by the stimulants applied for his
recovery; and he suddenly appeared brighter, merrier, and more active.
His father, who was obliged by his business to be much of his time away
from home, entrusted his education for the most part to his mother, and
to family tutors. The gentleness, meekness, and the pure piety of his
mother's character, as well as the religious habits of both parents,
which naturally extended to the whole household, made the deepest
impression upon his mind; an impression which exerted the happiest
influence upon him throughout his whole life. He now applied himself
diligently to his studies, so that in his twelfth year he had acquired
a pretty thorough knowledge of the Latin language, and some smattering
of Greek. The reading of Poetry was the favorite occupation of his
leisure hours. He was particularly pleased with the higher kind of
fables, and amused himself by composing them and relating them to his
brothers. He was accustomed for several years to act, in concert with
his brothers Erasmus and Charles, a little poetical play, in which they
took the characters of spirits, one of the air, another of the water,
and the other of the earth. On Sunday evenings, Novalis would explain
to them the most wonderful and various appearances and phenomena of
these different realms. There are still in existence some of his poems
written about this period.
He now applied himself too severely to study, especially to history, in
which he took a deep interest. In the year 1789, he entered a
Gymnasium, and in the autumn went to Jena to pursue his studies there.
Here he remained until 1792, and then with his brother Erasmus entered
the University at Leipzig; he left the following year for Wittenberg,
and there finished his studies.
At this time the French war broke out, which not only interrupted his
studies greatly, but which also inspired him suddenly with so great a
desire to enter upon a military life, that the united prayers of his
parents and relations were scarcely able to restrain his wishes.
About this time he became acquainted with Frederick Schlegel, and soon
became his warmest friend; he also gained the friendship of Fichte; and
these two great spirits exerted a powerful and lasting influence upon
his whole life. After applying himself with unwearied ardor to the
sciences, he left Wittenberg for Arnstadt in Thuringia, in order to
accustom himself to practical business with Just, the chief judiciary
of the district. This excellent man soon became one of his nearest
friends. Shortly after his arrival at Arnstadt, he became acquainted
with Sophia von K., who resided at a neighboring country seat. The
first sight of her beautiful and lovely form decided the fate of his
whole life; or rather the passion, which penetrated and inspired his
soul, became the contents of his whole life. Often even in the face of
childhood, there is an expression so sweet and spiritual, that we call
it supernatural and heavenly; and the fear impresses itself on our
hearts, that faces, so transfigured and transparent, are too tender and
too finely woven for this life; that it is death or immortality that
gazes through the glancing eye; and too often are our forebodings
realized by the rapid withering of such blossoms. Still more beautiful
are such forms, when, childhood left behind, they have advanced to the
full bloom of youth. All who knew the betrothed of our author are
agreed, that no description could do justice to her beauty, grace, and
heavenly simplicity. She was in her fourteenth year when Novalis became
acquainted with her; and the spring and summer of 1795 were indeed the
blooming season of his life. Every hour he could spare from his
business was spent at Grüningen; and late in the fall of 1796, he was
betrothed to Sophia with the consent of her parents. Shortly after she
was taken severely sick with a fever, which, though it lasted but a few
weeks, yet left her with a pain in the side, which by its intensity
rendered unhappy many of her hours. Novalis was much alarmed, but was
quieted by her physician, who pronounced this pain of no consequence.
Shortly after her recovery he departed for Weissenfels, where he was
appointed auditor in the department of which his father was director.
He passed the winter of 1795-96 in business, hearing news from
Grüningen of a quieting character. He journeyed thither in the spring,
and found his betrothed to all appearance recovered. At this time his
brother Erasmus was taken sick, so that he left off his studies, and
devoted himself in a distant place to the chase and a forest life. His
brother Charles joined the army, and in the spring entered upon active
service. Thus Novalis lived quietly at home, his parents and sisters
forming his chief society, the other children being yet quite young. In
the summer, while he was rejoicing in the prospect of being soon united
to Sophia, he received information, that she was at Jena, and there on
account of ulceration of the liver, had undergone a severe operation.
It had been her wish, that he should not be informed of her sickness,
nor of the dangerous operation, till it was over. He hastened to Jena,
and found her in intense suffering. Her physician, one far famed for
his ability, could allow them to hope only for a very slow recovery, if
indeed she should survive. He was obliged to repeat the operation, and
feared that she would want strength to support her through the healing
process. With lofty courage and indescribable fortitude, Sophia bore up
against all her sufferings. Novalis was there to console her; his
parents offered up their sympathetic prayers; his two brothers had
returned and strove to be of service to the sorrowing one, as well as
to the suffering. In December Sophia desired to visit Grüningen again.
Novalis requested Erasmus to accompany her on her journey. He did so,
together with her mother and sisters, who had attended her at Jena.
After having accompanied her to her place of residence, he returned to
his residence in Franconia.
Novalis was now by turns in Weissenfels and Grüningen. With great
grief, however, he was obliged to confess, that he found Sophia worse
and worse at every visit. Towards the end of January, 1797, Erasmus
also returned to Weissenfels very sick, and the expected deaths of two
beings, so much beloved, filled the house with gloom.
The 17th of March was Sophia's fifteenth birthday, and on the 19th,
about noon, she fell asleep in the arms of her sisters, and faithful
instructress Mademoiselle Danscour, who loved her tenderly. No one
dared bring the news to Novalis, until his brother Charles at last
undertook the mournful office. For three days and nights, the mourner
shut himself up from his friends, weeping away the hours, and then
hastened to Arnstadt, that he might be with his truest friends, and
nearer to the beloved place, which contained the remains of her who was
dearest to him. On the 14th of April, he also lost his brother Erasmus.
Novalis writing to his brother Charles, who had been obliged to travel
to Lower Saxony, says, speaking of the death of Erasmus, "Be consoled;
Erasmus has conquered; the flowers of the lovely wreath are dropping
off, one by one, to be united more beautifully in Heaven."
At this time Novalis, living as he did only for suffering, naturally
regarded the visible and the invisible world as one, and regarded life
and death as distinguished only by our longing for the latter. At the
same time life was transfigured before him, and his whole being flowed
together as in a clear conscious dream of a higher existence. His
sensibilities, as well as his imagination, were very much decided from
the solemnity of his suffering, from his heartfelt love, and from the
pious longing for death, which he cherished. It is indeed very
possible, that deep sorrow at this time planted the death-seed in him;
unless perhaps it was his irrevocable destiny, to be so early torn
away.
He remained many weeks in Thuringia, and returned consoled and truly
exalted to his business, which he pursued more eagerly than ever,
though he regarded himself as a stranger upon earth. About this time,
some earlier, some later, but particularly during the fall of this
year, he composed most of those pieces, which have been published under
the title of "Fragments," as also his "Hymns to Night."
In December of this year, he went to Freiberg, where the acquaintance
and instruction of the renowned Werner awoke anew his passion for
physical science, and especially for mining. Here he became acquainted
with Julia von Ch.; and, strange as it may appear to all but his
intimate friends, he was betrothed to her, as early as the year 1798.
Sophia (as we may see from his works) remained the balancing point of
his thoughts; he honored her, absent as she was, even more than when
present with him; but yet he thought that loveliness and beauty could,
to a certain degree, replace her loss. About this time he wrote "Faith
and Love," the "Flower Dust," and some other fragments, as "The Pupils
at Sais." In the spring of 1799, Sophia's instructress died; which
event moved Novalis the more deeply, because he knew that sorrow for
the loss of her beloved pupil had chiefly contributed to hasten her
death. Soon after this event he returned to the paternal estate, and
was appointed under his father Assessor and chief Judiciary of the
Thuringian district.
He now visited Jena often, and there became acquainted with A. W.
Schlegel, and sought out the gifted Ritter, whom he particularly loved,
and whose peculiar talent for experimenting he greatly admired. Ludwig
Tieck saw him this year for the first time, while on a visit to his
friend Wm. Schlegel. Their acquaintance soon ripened into a warm
friendship. These friends, in company with Schlegel, Schelling, and
other strangers, passed many happy days in Jena. On his return, Tieck
visited Novalis at his father's house, became acquainted with his
family, and for the first time listened to the reading of "the Pupils
at Sais," and many of his fragments. He then accompanied him to Halle,
and many hours were peacefully passed in Reichardt's house. His first
conception of Henry of Ofterdingen dates about this time. He had also
already written some of his spiritual songs; they were to make a part
of a hymn book, which he intended to accompany with a volume of
sermons. Besides these labors he was very industrious in the duties of
his office; all his duties were attended to with willingness, and
nothing of however little importance was insignificant to him.
When Tieck, in the autumn of 1799, took up his residence at Jena, and
Frederick Schlegel also dwelt there, Novalis often visited them,
sometimes for a short, and sometimes for a longer time. His eldest
sister was married about this time, and the wedding was celebrated at a
country seat near Jena. After this marriage Novalis lived for a long
time in a lonely place in the golden meadow of Thuringia, at the foot
of the Kyffhauser mountain; and in this solitude he wrote a great part
of Henry of Ofterdingen. His society this year was mostly confined to
that of two men; a brother-in-law of his betrothed, the present General
von Theilman, and the present General von Funk, to whom he had been
introduced by the former. The society of the last-mentioned person was
valuable to him in more than one respect. He made use of his library,
among whose chronicles he, in the spring, first hit upon the traditions
of Ofterdingen; and by means of the excellent biography of the emperor
Frederick the Second, by General von Funk, he became entirely possessed
with lofty ideas concerning that ruler, and determined to represent him
in his romance as a pattern for a king.
In the year 1800, Novalis was again at Weissenfels, whence, on the 23d
of February, he wrote to Tieck,--"My Romance is getting along finely.
About twelve printed sheets are finished. The whole plan is pretty much
laid out in my mind. It will consist of two parts; the first, I hope,
will be finished in three weeks. It contains the basis and introduction
to the second part. The whole may be called an Apotheosis of Poesy.
Henry of Ofterdingen becomes in the first part ripe for a poet, and in
the second part is declared poet. It will in many respects be similar
to Sternbald, except in lightness. However, this want will not probably
be unfavorable to the contents. In every point of view it is a first
attempt, the print of that spirit of poesy, which your acquaintance has
reawakened in me, and which gives to your friendship its chief value.
"There are some songs in it, which suit my taste. I am very much
pleased with the real romance,--my head is really dizzy with the
multitude of ideas I have gathered for romances and comedies. If I can
visit you soon, I will bring you a tale and a fable from my romance,
and will subject them to your criticism." He visited his friends at
Jena the next spring, and soon repeated his visit, bringing the first
part of Henry of Ofterdingen, in the same form as that of which this
volume is a translation.
When Tieck, in the summer of 1800, left Jena, he visited his friend for
some time at his father's house. He was well and calm in his spirits;
though his family were somewhat alarmed about him, thinking that they
noticed, that he was continually growing paler and thinner. He himself
was more attentive than usual to his diet; he drank little or no wine,
ate scarcely any meat, living principally on milk and vegetables. "We
took daily walks," says Tieck, "and rides on horseback. In ascending a
hill swiftly, or in any violent motion, I could observe neither
weakness in his breast nor short breath, and therefore endeavored to
persuade him to forsake his strict mode of life; because I thought his
abstemiousness from wine and strengthening food not only irritating in
itself, but also to proceed from a false anxiety on his part. He was
full of plans for the future; his house was already put in order, for
in August he intended to celebrate his nuptials. He spake with great
pleasure of finishing Ofterdingen and other works. His life gave
promise of the most useful activity and love. When I took leave of him,
I never could have imagined that we were not to meet again."
When in August he was about departing for Freiberg to celebrate his
marriage, he was seized with an emission of blood, which his physician
declared to be mere hemorrhoidal and insignificant. Yet it shook his
frame considerably, and still more when it began to return
periodically. His wedding was postponed, and, in the beginning of
October, he travelled with his brother and parents to Dresden. Here
they left him, in order to visit their daughter in Upper Lausatia, his
brother Charles remaining with him in Dresden. He became apparently
weaker; and when, in the beginning of November, he learned that a
younger brother, fourteen years of age, had been drowned through mere
carelessness, the sudden shock caused a violent bleeding at the lungs,
upon which the physician immediately declared his disease incurable.
Soon after this his betrothed came to Dresden.
As he grew weaker, he longed to change his residence to some warmer
climate. He thought of visiting his friend Herbert; but his physician
advised against such a change, perhaps considering him already too weak
to make such a journey. Thus the year passed away; and, in January
1801, he longed so eagerly to see his parents and be with them once
more, that at the end of the month he returned to Weissenfels. There
the ablest physicians from Leipzig and Jena were consulted, yet his
case grew rapidly worse, although he was perfectly free from pain, as
was the case through his whole illness. He still attended to the duties
of his office, and wrote considerably in his private papers. He also
composed some poems about this time, read the Bible diligently, and
much from the works of Zinzendorf and Lavater. The nearer he approached
his end, the stronger was his hope of recovery; for his cough abated,
and, with the exception of debility, he had none of the feelings of a
sick man. With this hope and longing for life, fresh powers and new
talents seemed to awaken within him; he thought with renewed love of
his projected labors, and undertook to write Henry of Ofterdingen anew.
Once, shortly before his death, he said; "I now begin, for the first
time, to see what true poetry is. Innumerable songs and poems far
different from those I have written awake within me." From the 19th of
March, the day on which Sophia died, he became very perceptibly weaker;
many of his friends visited him, and he was particularly delighted
when, on the 21st of March, his faithful and oldest friend Frederick
Schlegel came to see him from Jena. He conversed much with him,
particularly concerning their mutual labors. During these days his
spirits were good, his nights quiet, and he enjoyed tranquil sleep.
About six o'clock on the morning of the 26th, he asked his brother to
hand him some books, in order to look out certain passages, that he had
in mind; he then ordered his breakfast, and conversed with his usual
vivacity till eight. Towards nine he asked his brother to play for him
on the piano, and soon after fell asleep. Frederick Schlegel soon after
entered the chamber, and found him sleeping quietly. This sleep lasted
till twelve o'clock, at which hour he expired without a struggle; and
unchanged in death his countenance retained the same pleasant
expression, that it exhibited during life.
Thus died our author before he had finished his nine-and-twentieth
year. In him we may alike love and admire his extensive knowledge and
his philosophical genius, as well as his poetical talents. With a
spirit much in advance of his times, his country might have promised
itself great things of him, had not an untimely death cut him off. Yet
his unfinished writings have already had their influence; many of his
great thoughts will yet inspire futurity; and noble minds and deep
thinkers will be enlightened and set on fire by the sparks of his
spirit.
Novalis was slender and of fine proportions. He wore his light brown
hair long, hanging over his shoulders in flowing locks, a style less
singular then than now; his brown eye was clear and brilliant, and his
complexion, particularly his forehead, almost transparent. His hands
and feet were rather too large, and had something awkward about them.
His countenance was always serene and benignant. To those, who judge
men by their forwardness, or by their affectation of fashion or
dignity, Novalis was lost in the crowd; but to the practised eye he
appeared beautiful. The outlines and expression of his face resembled
very much those of St. John, as he is represented in the magnificent
picture of A. Dürer, preserved in Nuremberg and München.
His speech was clear and vivacious. "I never saw him tired," says
Tieck, "even when we continued together till late at night; he only
stopped voluntarily to rest, and then read before he fell asleep." He
knew not what it was to be tired, even in the wearisome companionship
of vulgar minds; for he always found some one, who could impart some
information to him, useful, though apparently insignificant. His
urbanity and sympathy for all made him universally beloved. So skilful
was he in his intercourse with others, that lower minds never felt
their inferiority. Although he preferred to veil the depths of his mind
in conversation, speaking, however, as if inspired, of the invisible
world, he was yet merry, as a child, full of art and frolic, giving
himself wholly up to the jovial spirit prevailing in the company. Free
from self-conceit or arrogance, a stranger to affectation or
dissimulation, he was a pure, true man; the purest, loveliest spirit,
ever tabernacled in the flesh.
His chief studies for many years were philosophy and physical science.
In the latter he discovered and foretold truths, of which his own age
was in ignorance. In philosophy he principally studied Spinoza and
Fichte; but soon marked out a new path, by aiming to unite philosophy
with religion; and thus what we possess of the writings of the new
Platonists, as well as of the mystics, became very important to him.
His knowledge of mathematics, as well as of the mechanic arts,
especially of mining, was very considerable. But in the fine arts he
took but little interest. Music he loved much, although he knew little
about its rules. He had scarcely turned his attention to painting and
sculpture; still he could advance many original ideas about those arts,
and pronounce skilful judgment upon them.
Tieck mentions an argument with him, concerning landscape painting, in
which Novalis expressed views, which he could not comprehend; but which
in part were realized, by the rich and poetical mind of the excellent
landscape painter, Friedrichs, of Dresden. In the land of Poetry he was
in reality a stranger. He had read but few poets, and had not busied
himself with criticism, or paid much attention to the inherited system,
to which the art of poetry had been reduced. Goethe was for a long
while his study, and Wilhelm Meister his favorite work; although we
should scarcely suppose so, judging from his severe strictures upon it
in his fragments. He demanded from poesy the most everyday knowledge
and inspiration; and it was for this reason, that, as the chief
masterpieces of poetry were unknown to him, he was free from imitation
and foreign rule. He also loved, for this very reason, many writings,
which are not generally highly prized by scholars, because in them he
discovered, though perhaps painted in weak colors, that very informing
and significant knowledge, which he was chiefly striving after.
Those tales, which we in later times call allegories[1] with their
peculiar style, most resemble his stories; he saw their deepest
meaning, and endeavored to express it most clearly in some of his
poems. It became natural for him to regard what was most usual and
nearest to him, as full of marvels, and the strange and supernatural as
the usual and common-place. Thus everyday life surrounded him like a
supernatural story; and that region, which most men can only conceive
as something distant and incomprehensible, seemed to him like a beloved
home. Thus uncorrupted by precedents, he discovered a new way of
drawing and exhibiting his pictures; and in the manifold variety of his
relation to the world, from his love and the faith in it, which at the
same time was his instructress, wisdom, and religion, since through
them a single great moment of life, and one deep grief and loss became
the essence of his poesy and of his contemplation, he resembles among
late writers the sublime Dante alone, and like him sings to us an
unfathomable mystical song, very different from that of many imitators,
who think, that they can assume and lay aside mysticism as they could a
mere ornament. Therefore his romance is both consciously and
unconsciously the representation of his own mind and fate; as he makes
Henry say, in the fragment of the second part, "Fate and mind are but
names of one idea." Thus may his life justly appear wonderful to us. We
shudder too, as though reading a work of fiction, when we learn, that
of all his brothers and sisters only two brothers are now alive; and
that his noble mother, who for several years has also been mourning the
death of her husband, is in solitude, devoting herself to her grief and
to religion with silent resignation.
HENRY OF OFTERDINGEN.
PART FIRST.
THE EXPECTATION.
DEDICATION.
Thou didst to life my noble impulse warm,
Deep in the spirit of the world to look.
And with thy hand a trusting faith I took,
Securely bearing me through every storm,
With sweet forebodings thou the child didst bless,
To mystic meadows leading him away,
Stirring his bosom to its finest play,
Ideal, thou, of woman's tenderness.
Earth's vexing trifles shall I not refuse?
Thine is my heart and life eternally,--
Thy love my being constantly renews!
To art I dedicate myself for thee,
For thou, beloved, wilt become the Muse
And gentle Genius of my poesy.
In endless transmutation here below
The hidden might of song our land is greeting;
Now blesses us in form of Peace unfleeting,
And now encircles us with childhood's glow.
She pours an upper light upon the eye,
Defines the sentiment for every art,
And dwells within the glad or weary heart,
To comfort it with wondrous ecstasy.
Through her alone I woke to life the truest,
Drinking the proffered nectar of her breast,
And dared to lift my face with joy the newest.
Yet was my highest sense with sleep oppressed.
Till angel-like thou, loved one, near me flewest.
And, kindling in thy look, I found the rest.
THE EXPECTATION.
CHAPTER I.
The parents had already retired to rest; the old clock ticked
monotonously from the wall; the windows rattled with the whistling
wind, and the chamber was dimly lighted by the flickering glimmer of
the moon. The young man lay restless on his bed, thinking of the
stranger and his tales. "It is not the treasures," said he to himself,
"that have awakened in me such unutterable longings. Far from me is all
avarice; but I long to behold the blue flower. It is constantly in my
mind, and I can think and compose of nothing else. I have never been in
such a mood. It seems as if I had hitherto been dreaming, or slumbering
into another world; for in the world, in which hitherto I have lived,
who would trouble himself about a flower?--I never have heard of such a
strange passion for a flower here. I wonder, too, whence the stranger
comes? None of our people have ever seen his like; still I know not why
I should be so fascinated by his conversation. Others have listened to
it, but none are moved by it as I am. Would that I could explain my
feelings in words! I am often full of rapture, and it is only when the
blue flower is out of my mind, that this deep, heart-felt longing
overwhelms me. But no one can comprehend this but myself. I might think
myself mad, were not my perception and reasonings so clear; and this
state of mind appears to have brought with it superior knowledge on all
subjects. I have heard, that in ancient times beasts, and trees, and
rocks conversed with men. As I gaze upon them, they appear every moment
about to speak to me; and I can almost tell by their looks what they
would say. There must yet be many words unknown to me. If I knew more,
I could comprehend better. Formerly I loved to dance, now I think
rather to the music."
The young man gradually lost himself in his sweet fancies, and feel
asleep. Then he dreamed of regions far distant, and unknown to him. He
crossed the sea with wonderful ease; saw many strange monsters; lived
with all sorts of men, now in war, now in wild tumult, and now in
peaceful cottages. Then he fell into captivity and degrading want. His
feelings had never been so excited. His life was an unending tissue, of
the brightest colors. Then came death, a return again to life; he
loved, loved intensely, and was separated from the object of his
passion. At length towards the break of day his soul became calmer, and
the images his fancy formed grew clearer, and more lasting. He dreamed
that he was walking alone in a dark forest, where the light broke only
at intervals through the green net-work of the trees. He soon came to a
passage through some rocks, which led to the top of a neighboring hill,
and, to ascend which he was obliged to scramble over the mossy stones,
which some stream in former times had torn down. The higher he climbed,
the more was the forest lit up, until at last he came to a small meadow
situated on the declivity of the mountain. Behind the meadow rose a
lofty cliff, at whose foot an opening was visible, which seemed to be
the beginning of a path hewn in the rock. The path guided him gently
along, and ended in a wide expanse, from which at a distance a clear
light shone towards him. On entering this expanse, he beheld a mighty
beam of light, which, like the stream from a fountain, rose to the
overhanging clouds, and spread out into innumerable sparks, which
gathered themselves below into a great basin. The beam shone like
burnished gold; not the least noise was audible; a holy silence reigned
around the splendid spectacle. He approached the basin, which trembled
and undulated with ever-varying colors. The sides of the cave were
coated with the golden liquid, which was cool to the touch, and which
cast from the walls a weak, blue light. He dipped his hand in the
basin, and bedewed his lips. He felt as if a spiritual breath had
pierced through him, and he was sensibly strengthened and refreshed. A
resistless desire to bathe himself made him undress and step into the
basin. Then a cloud tinged with the glow of evening appeared to
surround him; feelings as from Heaven flowed into his soul; thoughts
innumerable and full of rapture strove to mingle together within him;
new imaginings, such as never before had struck his fancy, arose before
him, which, flowing into each other, became visible beings about him.
Each wave of the lovely element pressed to him like a soft bosom. The
flood seemed like a solution of the elements of beauty, which
constantly became embodied in the forms of charming maidens around him.
Intoxicated with rapture, yet conscious of every impression, he swam
gently down the glittering stream. A sweeter slumber now overcame him.
He dreamed of many strange events, and a new vision appeared to him. He
dreamed that he was sitting on the soft turf by the margin of a
fountain, whose waters flowed into the air, and seemed to vanish in it.
Dark blue rocks with various colored veins rose in the distance. The
daylight around him was milder and clearer than usual; the sky was of a
sombre blue, and free from clouds. But what most attracted his notice,
was a tall, light-blue flower, which stood nearest the fountain, and
touched it with its broad, glossy leaves. Around it grew numberless
flowers of varied hue, filling the air with the richest perfume. But he
saw the blue flower alone, and gazed long upon it with inexpressible
tenderness. He at length was about to approach it, when it began to
move, and change its form. The leaves increased their beauty, adorning
the growing stem. The flower bended towards him, and revealed among its
leaves a blue, outspread collar, within which hovered a tender face.
His delightful astonishment was increasing with this singular change,
when suddenly his mother's voice awoke him, and he found himself in his
parents' room, already gilded by the morning sun. He was too happy to
be angry at the sudden disturbance of his sleep. He bade his mother a
kind good morning, and returned her hearty embrace.
"You sleeper," said his father, "how long have I been sitting here
filing? I have not dared to do any hammering on your account. Your
mother would let her dear son sleep. I have been obliged to wait for my
breakfast too. You have done wisely in choosing to become one of the
learned, for whom we wake and work. But a real, thorough student, as I
have been told, is obliged to spend his nights in studying the works of
our wise forefathers."
"Dear father," said Henry, "let not my long sleep make you angry with
me, for you are not accustomed to be so. I fell asleep late, and have
been much disturbed by dreams. The last, however, was pleasant, and one
which I shall not soon forget, and which seems to me to have been
something more than a mere dream."
"Dear Henry," said his mother, "you have certainly been lying on your
back, or else your thoughts were wandering at evening prayers. Come,
eat your breakfast, and cheer up."
Henry's mother went out. His father worked on industriously, and said;
"Dreams are froth, let the learned think what they will of them; and
you will do well to turn your attention from such useless and hurtful
speculations. The times when Heavenly visions were seen in dreams have
long past by, nor can we understand the state of mind, which those
chosen men, of whom the Bible speaks, enjoyed. Dreams, as well as other
human affairs, must have been of a different nature then. In the age in
which we live, there is no direct intercourse with Heaven. Old
histories and writings are now the only fountains, from which we can
draw, as far as is needful, a knowledge of the spiritual world; and
instead of express revelations, the Holy Ghost now speaks to us
immediately through the understandings of wise and sensible men, and by
the lives and fate of those most distinguished for their piety. I have
never been much edified by the visions, which are now seen; nor do I
place much confidence in the wonders, which our divines relate about
them. Yet let every one, who can, be edified by them; I would not cause
any one to err in his faith."
"But, dear father, upon what grounds are you so opposed to belief in
dreams, when singular changes, and flighty, unstable nature, are at
least worthy of some reflection? Is not every dream, even the most
confused, a peculiar vision, which, though we do not call it sent from
Heaven, yet makes an important rent in the mysterious curtain, which,
with a thousand folds, hides our inward natures from our view? We can
find accounts of many such dreams, coming from credible men, in the
wisest books; and you need only call to mind, to support what I have
said, the dream which our good pastor lately related to us, and which
appeared to you so remarkable. But, without taking those writings into
account, if now for the first time you should have a dream, how would
it overwhelm you, and how constantly would your thoughts be fixed upon
the miracle, which, from its very frequency, now appears such a simple
occurrence. Dreams appear to me to break up the monotony and even tenor
of life, to serve as a recreation to the chained fancy. They mingle
together all the scenes and fancies of life, and change the continual
earnestness of age, into the merry sports of childhood. Were it not for
dreams, we should certainly grow older; and though they be not given us
immediately from above; yet they should be regarded as Heavenly gifts,
as friendly guides, in our pilgrimage to the holy tomb. I am sure that
the dream, which I have had this night, has been no profitless
occurrence in my life; for I feel that it has, like some vast wheel,
caught hold of my soul, and is hurrying me along with it in its mighty
revolutions."
Henry's father smiled humorously, and said, looking to his wife, who
had just come in, "Henry cannot deny the hour of his birth. His
conversation boils with the fiery Italian wines, which I brought with
me from Rome, and with which we celebrated our wedding eve. I was
another sort of man then. The southern breezes had thawed out my
northern phlegm. I was overflowing with spirit and humor, and you also
were an ardent, charming girl. Everything was arranged at your father's
in grand style; musicians and minstrels were collected from far and
wide, and Augsburg had never seen a merrier marriage."
"You were just now speaking of dreams," said Henry's mother. "Do you
not remember, that you then told me of one, which you had had at Rome,
and which first put it into your head to come to Augsburg as my
suitor?"
"You put me opportunely in mind of it," said the old man, "for I had
entirely forgotten that singular dream, which, at the time of its
occurrence, occupied my thoughts not a little; but even that is only a
proof of what I have been saying about dreams. It would be impossible
to have one more clear and regular. Even now I remember every
circumstance in it, and yet, what did it signify? That I dreamed of
you, and soon after felt an irrepressible desire to possess you, was
not strange; for I already knew you. The agreeable and amiable traits
of your character strongly affected me, when I first saw you; and I was
prevented from making love to you, only by the desire of visiting
foreign lands. At the time of the dream my curiosity was much abated;
and hence my love for you more easily mastered me."
"Please to tell us about that curious dream," said Henry.
"One evening," said his father, "I had been loitering about, enjoying
the beauty of the clear, blue sky, and of the moon, which clothed the
old pillars and walls with its pale, awe-inspiring light. My companions
had gone to see the girls, and love and homesickness drove me into the
open air. During my walk, I felt thirsty, and went into the first
decent looking mansion I met with, to ask for a glass of wine, or milk.
An old man came to the door, who perhaps at first regarded me as a
suspicious visitor; but when I told him what I wished, and he learned
that I was a foreigner, and a German, he kindly asked me into the
house, bade me sit down, brought out a bottle of wine, and asked me
some questions about my business. We began a desultory conversation,
during which he gave me some information about painters, poets,
sculptors, and ancient times. I had scarce ever heard about such
matters; and it seemed as if I had landed in a new world. He showed me
some old seals and other works of art, and then read to me, with all
the fire of youth, some beautiful passages of poetry. Thus the hours
fled as moments. Even now my heart warms with the recollection of the
wonderful thoughts and emotions, which crowded upon me that evening. He
seemed quite at home in the pagan ages, and longed, with incredible
ardor, to dwell in the times of grey antiquity. At last he showed me a
chamber, where I could pass the night, for it was too late for me to
return to the city. I soon fell asleep and dreamed.--I thought that I
was passing out of the gates of my native city. It seemed to me that I
was going to get something done, but where, and what, I did not know. I
took the road to Hartz, and walked quickly along, as merry as if going
to a festival. I did not keep the road, but cut across through wood and
valley, till I came to a lofty mountain. From its top I gazed on the
golden fields around me, beheld Thuringia in the distance, and was so
situated, that no other mountain could obstruct my view. Opposite lay
the Hartz with its dusky hills. Castles, convents, and whole districts
were embraced in the prospect. My ideas were all clear and distinct. I
thought of the old man, in whose house I was sleeping; and my visit
seemed like some occurrence of past years. I soon saw an ascending path
leading into the mountain, and I followed it. After some time I came to
a large cave; there sat a very old man in a long garment, before an
iron table, gazing incessantly upon a wondrously beautiful maiden, that
stood before him hewn in marble. His beard had grown through the iron
table, and covered his feet. His features were serious, yet kind, and
put me in mind of a head by one of the old masters, which my host had
shown me in the evening. The cave was filled with glowing light. While
I was looking at the old man, my host tapped me on the shoulder, took
my hand, and led me through many long paths, till we saw a mild light
shining in the distance, like the dawn of day. I hastened to it, and
soon found myself in a green plain; but there was nothing about it to
remind me of Thuringia. Giant trees, with their large, glossy leaves,
spread their shade far and wide. The air was very hot, yet not
oppressive. Around me flowers and fountains were springing from the
earth. Among the former there was one that particularly pleased me, and
to which all the others seemed to do homage."
"Dear father," eagerly exclaimed Henry, "do tell me its color."
"I cannot recollect it, though it was so fixed in my mind at the time."
"Was it not blue?"
"Perhaps it was," continued the old man, without giving heed to the
peculiar vehemence of his son. "All I recollect is, that my feelings
were so wrought up, that for a time I forgot all about my guide. When
at length I turned towards him, I noticed that he was looking at me
attentively, and that he met me with a pleasant smile. I do not
remember how I came from that place. I was again on the top of the
mountain; my guide stood by my side and said, 'You have seen the wonder
of the world. It lies in your power to become the happiest being in the
world, and, besides that, a celebrated man. Remember well what I tell
you. Come on St. John's day, towards evening, to this place, and when
you have devoutly prayed to God to interpret this vision, the highest
earthly lot will be yours. Also take notice particularly of a little
blue flower, which you will find above here; pluck it, and commit
yourself humbly to heavenly guidance.' I then dreamed that I was among
most splendid scenes and noble men, ravished by the swift changing
objects that met my eyes. How fluent were my words! how free my tongue!
How music swelled its strains! Afterwards everything became dull and
insignificant as usual. I saw your mother standing before me, with a
kind and modest look. A bright-looking child was in her arms. She
reached it to me; it gradually grew brighter; at length it raised
itself on its dazzling white wings, took us both in its arms, and
soared so high with us, that the earth appeared like a plate of gold,
covered with beautifully wrought carving. I only recollect, that, after
this vision, the flower, the old man, and the mountain appeared before
me again. I awoke soon after, much agitated by vehement love. I bade
farewell to my hospitable friend, who urged me to repeat my visit
often. I promised to do so, and should have kept my promise, had I not
shortly after left Rome for Augsburg, my mind being much excited by the
scenes I had witnessed."