Although under no circumstances does it become the individual to set

himself in opposition to ancient, venerable customs, or of his own will

to alter what our ancestors in their wisdom have deemed right and have

ordained, nevertheless, had I really at my bidding the magician's wand

which the muses in spirit intrusted to our departed friend, I should in

an instant transform all these sad surroundings into those of joy. This

darkness would straightway grow radiant before your eyes, and before you

there would appear a hall decked for a feast, with varied tapestries and

garlands of gaiety, joyous and serene as our friend's own life. Then

your eyes, your spirit, would be attracted by the creations of his

luxuriant imagination; Olympus with its gods, introduced by the Muses

and adorned by the Graces, would be a living testimony that he who lived

amid such glad surroundings, and who also departed from us in the spirit

of that gladness, should be counted among the most fortunate of mankind,

and should be interred, not with lamentation, but with expressions of

joy and of exultation.

And yet, what I cannot present to the outward senses, may be offered to

the inward. Eighty years, how much in how few syllables! Who of us dares

hastily to run through so many years and to picture to himself the

significance of them when well employed? Who of us would dare assert

that he could in an instant measure and appraise the value of a life

that was complete from every point of view?

[Illustration: MARTIN WIELAND]

If we accompany our friend step by step through all his days, if we

regard him as a boy and as a youth, in his prime and in his old age, we

find that to his lot fell the unusual fortune of plucking the bloom of

each of these seasons; for even old age has its bloom, and the happiest

enjoyment of this, also, was vouchsafed him. Only a few months have

passed since for him the brethren of our lodge crowned their mysterious

sphinx with roses, to show that, if the aged Anacreon undertook to adorn

his exalted sensuality with the rose's light twigs, the ethical

sensuousness, the tempered joy of life and wit which animated our noble

friend also merited a rich and abundant garland.

Only a few weeks have elapsed since this excellent man was still with

us, not merely present but active at our gatherings. It was through the

midst of our intimate circle that he passed from things earthly; we were

the nearest to him, even at the last; and if his fatherland as well as

foreign nations celebrate his memory, where ought this to be done

earlier and more emphatically than by us?

I have not, therefore, dared to disobey the mandates of our masters, and

before this honorable assembly I speak a few words in his memory, the

more gladly since they may be fleeting precursors of what in the future

the world and our brotherhood shall do for him. This is the sentiment,

and this the purpose, for the sake of which I venture to entreat a

gracious hearing; and if what I shall say from an affection tested for

almost forty years rather than for mere rhetorical effect--by no means

well composed, but rather in brief sentences, and even in desultory

fashion--may seem worthy neither of him who is honored nor of them who

honor, then I must remark that here you may expect only a preliminary

outline, a sketch, yes, only the contents and, if you so will, the

marginal notes of a future work. And thus, then, without more delay, to

the theme so dear, so precious, and, indeed, so sacred to us!

Wieland was born in 1733 near Biberach, a small imperial free-town in

Swabia. His father, a Lutheran clergyman, gave him a careful training

and imparted to him the first elements of education. He was then sent to

the monastery of Bergen on the Elbe, where the truly pious Abbot

Steinmetz presided over an educational institution of good repute.

Thence he went to the University of Tübingen, and then lived for some

time as a private tutor in Bern, but he was soon attracted to Bodmer, at

Zurich, who, like Gleim at a later date in North Germany, might be

called the midwife of genius in South Germany. There he gave himself

over entirely to the joy that arises from youth's self-creation, when

talents develop under friendly guidance without being hampered by the

higher requirements of criticism. Soon, however, he outgrew this stage,

returned to his native town, and henceforth became his own teacher and

trainer, while with ceaseless activity he pursued his inclination toward

literature and poetry.

His mechanical official duties as the chief of the chancery robbed him,

it is true, of time, though they could not deprive him of joy and

courage; and that his spirit might not be dwarfed amid such narrow

surroundings, he fortunately became acquainted with Count Stadion, whose

estates lay in the vicinity, and who was a minister of the Prince

Elector of Mainz. In this illustrious and well-appointed house the

atmosphere of the world and of the court was for the first time wafted

to him; he became no stranger to domestic and foreign affairs of state;

and in the count he gained a patron for all his life. In consequence, he

did not remain unknown to the Prince Elector of Mainz, and since the

University of Erfurt was to be revived under Emmerich Joseph, our friend

was summoned thither, thus exemplifying the tolerant sentiments which,

from the beginning of the century, have spread among men who are akin

through the Christian faith, and have even permeated humanity as a

whole.

He could not labor long at Erfurt without becoming known to the Duchess

Regent of Weimar, at whose court Count von Dalberg, so active in every

form of good work, did not fail to introduce him. An adequate education

of her princely sons was the chief object of a tender mother, herself

highly cultured, and thus he was called thither to employ his literary

talents and his moral endowments for the best interests of the princely

house, for our weal, and for the weal of all.

The retirement promised him after the completion of his educational

duties was given him at once, and since he received a more than promised

alleviation of his domestic circumstances, he led, for nearly forty

years, a life of complete conformity to his disposition and to his

wishes.

The influence of Wieland on the public was uninterrupted and permanent.

He educated his generation up to himself, giving to the taste and to the

judgment of his contemporaries a decided trend, so that his merits have

already been sufficiently recognized, appraised, and even portrayed. In

many a work on German literature he is discussed as honorably as

judiciously; I need only recall the laudations which Küttner,

Eschenburg, Manso, and Eichhorn have bestowed upon him.

And whence came the profound influence which he exercised on the

Germans? It was a result of the excellence and of the openness of his

nature. In him man and author had completely interpenetrated; he wrote

poetry as a living soul, and lived the poet's life. In verse and prose

he never hid what was at the instant in his mind and what each time he

felt, so that judging he wrote and writing he judged. From the fertility

of his mind sprang the fertility of his pen.

I do not employ the term "pen" as a rhetorical phrase; here it is valid

in the strictest sense, and if a pious reverence pays homage to many an

author by seeking to gain possession of the quill with which he formed

his works, the quill of which Wieland availed himself, would surely be

worthy of this distinction above many another. For the fact that he

wrote everything with his own hand and most beautifully, and, at the

same time, with freedom and with thoughtfulness; that he ever had

before him what he had written, carefully examining, changing,

improving, indefatigably fashioning and refashioning, never weary even

of repeatedly transcribing voluminous works--this gave to his

productions the delicacy, the gracefulness, the clearness, the natural

elegance which can be bestowed on a work already completed, not by

effort, but by unruffled, inspired attention.

This careful preparation of his writings had its origin in a happy

conviction which apparently came to him toward the end of his residence

in Switzerland, when impatience at production had in some measure

subsided, and when the desire to present a perfected result to the

public had become more decidedly and more obviously active.

Since, then, in him the man and the poet were a single individuality, we

shall also portray the latter when we speak of the former. Irritability

and versatility, the accompaniments of poetical and of rhetorical

talents, dominated him to a high degree, but an acquired rather than an

innate moderation kept them in equilibrium. Our friend was capable of

enthusiasm in highest measure, and in youth he surrendered himself

wholly to it, the more actively and assiduously since, in his case, for

several years that happy period was prolonged when within himself the

youth feels the worth and the dignity of the most excellent, be it

attainable or not.

In that pure and happy field of the golden age, in that paradise of

innocence, he dwelt longer than others. The house where he was born, in

which a cultivated clergyman ruled as father; the ancient,

linden-embowered monastery of Bergen on the Elbe, where a pious

teacher kept up his patriarchal activity; Tübingen, still monastic

in its essential form; those simple Swiss dwellings about which

the brooks murmured, which the lakes laved, and which the cliffs

surrounded--everywhere he found another Delphi, everywhere the groves in

which as a mature and cultivated youth he continued to revel even yet.

There he was powerfully attracted by the monuments of the manly

innocence of the Greeks which have been left us. Cyrus, Araspes,

Panthea, and forms of equal loftiness revived in him; he felt the spirit

of Plato weaving within him; he felt that he needed that spirit to

reproduce those pictures for himself and for others--so much the more

since he desired not so keenly to evoke poetic phantoms as, rather, to

create a moral influence for actual beings.

Yet the very fact that he had the good fortune to dwell so protractedly

in these loftier realms, and that he could long regard as the most

perfect verity all that he thought, felt, imagined, dreamed, and

fancied--this very fact embittered for him the fruit which he was

obliged at last to pluck from the tree of knowledge.

Who can escape the conflict with the outer world? Even our friend is

drawn into this strife; reluctantly he submits to contradiction by

experience and by life; and since, after a long struggle, he succeeds

not in uniting these august figures with those of the vulgar world, or

that high desire with the demands of the day, he resolves to let the

actual pass current as the necessary, and declares that what has thus

far seemed real to him is phantasy.

Yet even here the individuality and the energy of his spirit reveals

itself to be worthy of admiration. Despite all the fulness of his life,

despite so strong a joy of living, despite noble inward talents and

honorable spiritual desires and purposes, he feels himself wounded by

the world and defrauded of his greatest treasures. Henceforth he can in

experience nowhere find what had constituted his joy for so many years,

and what had even been the inmost content of his life; yet he does not

consume himself in idle lamentations, of which we know so many in the

prose and verse of others, but he resolves upon counter-action. He

proclaims war on all that cannot be demonstrated in reality; first and

foremost, therefore, on Platonic love, then on all dogmatizing

philosophy, especially its two extremes of Stoicism and Pythagoreanism.

Furthermore, he works implacably against religious fanaticism, and

against all that to reason appears eccentric.

But he is at once overwhelmed with anxiety lest he go too far, lest he

himself act fantastically, and now he simultaneously begins battle

against commonplace reality. He opposes everything which we are

accustomed to understand under the name Philistinism--musty pedantry,

provincialism, petty etiquette, narrow criticism, false prudery, smug

complacency, arrogant dignity, and whatever names may be applied to all

these unclean spirits, whose name is Legion.

Herein he proceeds in an absolutely natural manner, without preconceived

purpose or self-consciousness. He stands before the dilemma of the

conceivable and the real, and, as he must advise moderation to control

or to unite the two, he must hold himself in check, and must be

many-sided, since he wishes to be just.

He had long been attracted by the pure, rational uprightness of noble

Englishmen, and by their influence in the moral sphere, by an Addison,

by a Steele; but now in their society he finds a man whose type of

thought is far more agreeable to him.

Shaftesbury, whom I need only mention to recall a great thinker to the

mind of every well-informed man,--Shaftesbury lived at a time when much

disturbance reigned in the religion of his native land, when the

dominant church sought by force to subdue men of other modes of thought.

State and morals were also threatened by much that must arouse the

anxiety of the intelligent and right-thinking. The best counter-action

to all this, he believed, was cheerfulness; in his opinion, only what

was regarded with serenity would be rightly seen. He who could look

serenely into his own bosom must be a good man. This was the main thing,

and from it sprang all other good. Spirit, wit, and humor were, he held,

the real agencies by which such a disposition should come in contact

with the world. All objects, even the most serious, must be capable of

such clarity and freedom if they were not bedizened with a merely

arrogant dignity, but contained within themselves a true value which did

not fear the test. In this spirited endeavor to become master of things

it was impossible to avoid casting about for deciding authorities, and

thus human reason was set as judge over the content, and taste over the

manner, of presentation.

In such a man our Wieland now found, not a predecessor whom he was to

follow, nor a colleague with whom he was to work, but a true elder twin

brother in the spirit, whom he perfectly resembled, without being formed

in his likeness; even as it could not be said of the Menæchmi which was

the original, and which the copy.

What Shaftesbury, born in a higher station, more favored with worldly

advantages, and more experienced by travel, office, and cosmopolitan

knowledge, did in a wider circle and at a more serious period in

sea-girt England, precisely this our friend, proceeding from a point at

first extremely limited, accomplished through persistent activity and

through ceaseless toil, in his native land, surrounded on every side by

hills and dales; and the result was--to employ, in our condensed

address, a brief but generally intelligible term--that popular

philosophy whereby a practically trained intelligence is set in decision

over the moral worth of things, and is made the judge of their aesthetic

value.

This philosophy, prepared in England and fostered by conditions in

Germany, was thus spread far and wide by our friend, in company with

countless sympathizers, by poems and by scholarly works, even by life

itself.

And yet, if we have found Shaftesbury and Wieland perfectly alike so far

as point of view, temperament, and insight are concerned, nevertheless,

the latter was far superior to the former in talent; for what the

Englishman rationally taught and desired, the German knew how to

elaborate poetically and rhetorically in verse and prose.

In this elaboration, however, the French mode of treatment was

necessarily most suitable to him. Serenity, wit, spirit, and elegance

are already at hand in France; his luxuriant imagination, which now

desires to be occupied only with light and joyous themes, turns to tales

of fairies and knights, which grant it the greatest freedom. Here,

again, in the _Arabian Nights_ and in the _Bibliotheque universelle des

romans_, France offered him materials half-prepared and adapted, while

the ancient treasures of this sort, which Germany possesses, still

remained crude and unavailable.

It is precisely these poems which have most widely spread and most

firmly established Wieland's fame. Their light-heartedness gained them

access to everyone, and even the serious Germans deigned to be pleased

with them; for all these works appeared indeed at a happy and favorable

time. They were all written in the spirit which we have developed above.

Frequently the fortunate poet undertook the artistic task of giving a

high value to very mediocre materials by revising them; and though it

cannot be denied that he sometimes permits reason to triumph over the

higher powers, and at other times allows sensuality to prevail over the

moral qualities, yet we must also grant that, in its proper place,

everything which can possibly adorn noble souls gains supremacy.

Earlier than most of these works, though not the earliest of all, was

the translation of Shakespeare. Wieland did not fear impairment of his

originality by study; on the contrary, he was convinced at an early date

that a lively, fertile spirit found its best stimulus not only in the

adaptation of material that was already well known, but also in the

translation of extant works.

In those days the translation of Shakespeare was a daring thought, for

even trained _litterateurs_ denied the possibility of the success of

such an undertaking. Wieland translated freely, grasped the sense of his

author, and omitted what appeared to him untranslatable; and thus he

gave to his nation a general idea of the most magnificent works of

another people, and to his generation an insight into the lofty culture

of by-gone centuries.

Great as was the effect of this translation in Germany, it appears to

have exercised little influence upon Wieland himself. He was too

thoroughly antagonistic to his author, as is sufficiently obvious from

the passages omitted and passed over, and still more from the appended

notes, in which the French type of thought is evident.

On the other hand, the Greeks, with their moderation and clarity, are to

him most precious models. He feels himself allied with them in taste;

religion, customs, and legislation all give him opportunity to exercise

his versatility, and since neither the gods nor the philosophers, and

neither the nation nor the nations are any more compatible than

politicians and soldiers, he everywhere finds the desired opportunity,

amid his apparent doubts and jests, of repeatedly inculcating his

equitable, tolerant, human doctrines.

At the same time, he takes delight in presenting problematical

characters, and he finds pleasure, for example, in emphasizing the

lovable qualities of a Musarion, a Lais, and a Phryne without regard to

womanly chastity, and in exalting their practical wisdom above the

scholastic wisdom of the philosophers.

But among these he also finds a man whom he can develop and set forth as

the representative of his own convictions--I mean Aristippus. Here

philosophy and worldly pleasure are through wise moderation so united in

serene and welcome fashion that the wish arises to be a contemporary in

so fair a land, and in such goodly company. Union with these educated,

right-thinking, cultivated, joyous men is so welcome, and it even seems

that so long as one may walk with them in thought, one's mind will be as

theirs, and one will think as they.

In these circles our friend maintained himself by careful experiments,

which are still more necessary to the translator than to the poet; and

thus arose the German _Lucian_, which necessarily presented the Greek to

us the more vividly since the author and the translator could be

regarded as true kindred spirits.

But however much a man of such talents preaches decency, he will,

nevertheless, sometimes feel himself tempted to transgress the

boundaries of propriety and decorum, since from time immemorial genius

has reckoned such escapades among its prerogatives. Wieland indulged

this impulse when he sought to assimilate himself to the daring,

extraordinary Aristophanes, and when he was able to translate his jests,

as audacious as they were witty, though he toned them down with his own

innate grace.

For all these presentations an insight into the higher plastic art was

also obviously necessary, and since our friend was never vouchsafed the

sight of those ancient masterpieces which still survive, he sought to

rise to them in thought, to bring them before his eyes by the power of

imagination; so that we cannot fail to be amazed to see how talent is

able to form for itself a conception even of what is far away. Moreover,

he would have been entirely successful if his laudable caution had not

restrained him from taking decisive steps; for art in general, and

especially the art of the ancients, can neither be grasped nor

comprehended without enthusiasm. He who will not commence with amazement

and with admiration finds no entrance into the holy of holies. Our

friend, however, was far too cautious, and how could he have been

expected to make in this single instance an exception from his general

rule of life?

If, however, he was near akin to the Greeks in taste, in sentiment he

was still more closely allied to the Romans--not that he would have

allowed himself to be carried away by republican or by patriotic zeal,

but he really finds his peers among the Romans, whereas he has, in a

sense, only fictitiously assimilated himself to the Greeks. Horace has

much similarity to him; himself an artist, and himself a man of the

court and of the world, he intelligently estimates life and art; Cicero,

philosopher, orator, statesman, and active citizen, also closely

resembles him--and both arose from inconsiderable beginnings to great

dignities and honors.

While our friend occupies himself with the works of both these men, how

gladly would he transport himself back into their century and their

surroundings, and transfer himself to their epoch, in order to transmit

to us a clear picture of that past; and he succeeds amazingly. Perhaps,

on the whole, more sympathy might be desired for the men with whom he is

concerned, but such is his fear of partisanship that he prefers to take

sides against them rather than on their behalf.

There are two maxims of translation. The one demands that the author of

an alien nation be brought over to us so that we may regard him as our

own; the other, on the contrary, lays upon us the obligation that we

should transfer ourselves to the stranger and accommodate ourselves to

his conditions, to his diction, and to his peculiarities. The advantages

of both are sufficiently well known to all cultured men by masterly

examples. Our friend, who here also sought the middle way, endeavored to

combine both; yet, as a man of taste and feeling, in doubtful cases he

gave the preference to the first maxim.

Perhaps no one has so keenly felt as he how complicated a task

translation is. How deeply was he convinced that not the letter but the

spirit giveth life! Consider how, in his introductions, he first

endeavors to shift us to the period and to make us acquainted with the

personages; how he then makes his author speak in a way which we already

know, akin to our own thought and familiar to our ear; and how, finally,

in his annotations, he seeks to explain and to obviate many a detail

which might remain obscure, rouse doubt, and be offensive. Through this

triple endeavor one can see clearly that he first has mastered his

subject, and then he also takes the most praiseworthy pains to put us in

a position in which his insight can be communicated to us, that we also

may share the enjoyment with him.

Although he was equally master of many tongues, yet he clung to the two

in which the value and the dignity of the ancient world have most purely

been transmitted to us. For little as we would deny that many a treasure

has been drawn and is still to be drawn from the mines of other ancient

literatures, so little shall we be contradicted when we assert that the

language of the Greeks and of the Romans has transmitted to us, down to

this very day, priceless gifts which in content are equal to the best,

and in form are superior to every other.

The organization of the German Empire, which includes so many small

states within itself, herein resembled the Greek. Since the tiniest,

most unimportant, and even invisible city had its special interests it

was constrained to cherish and to maintain them, and to defend them

against its neighbors. Accordingly, its youth were early roused and

summoned to reflect upon affairs of state. And thus Wieland, too, as the

chief of the chancery of one of the smallest imperial free-towns, was in

a position calculated to make of him a patriot and, in the best sense of

the term, a demagogue; as when later, in one such instance, he resolved

to bring down upon himself the temporary disfavor of his patron, the

neighboring Count Stadion, rather than to make an unpatriotic

submission.

His _Agathon_ itself teaches us that within this sphere as well he gave

preference to sound principles; nevertheless, he took such interest in

the realities of life that all his occupations and all his predilections

ultimately failed to prevent him from thinking about the same. He

particularly felt himself summoned anew to this when he dared promise

himself a weighty influence on the training of princes from whom much

might be expected.

In all the works of this type which he wrote a cosmopolitan spirit is

manifest, and since they were composed at a time when the power of

absolute monarchy was not yet shaken, it became his main purpose

insistently to set their obligations before the rulers and to point them

to the happiness which they should find in the happiness of their

subjects.

Now, however, the epoch came when an aroused nation tore down all that

had thus far stood, and seemed to summon the spirits of all the dwellers

upon earth to a universal legislation. On this matter, likewise, he

declared himself with cautious modesty; and by rational presentations,

which he clothed under a variety of forms, he sought to produce some

measure of equilibrium in the excited masses. Since, however, the tumult

of anarchy became more and more furious, and since a voluntary union of

the masses appeared inconceivable, he was the first once more to counsel

absolutism and to designate the man to work the miracle of

reëstablishment.

If, now, it be remembered in this connection that our friend wrote

concerning these matters not, as it were, after, but during, events, and

that, as the editor of a widely-read periodical he had occasion--and was

even compelled--on the spur of the moment to express his views each

month, then he who is called to trace chronologically the course of his

life will perceive, not without amazement, how attentively he followed

the swift events of the day, and how shrewdly he conducted himself

throughout as a German and as a thinking, sympathetic man. And here is

the place to recall the periodical which was so important for Germany,

the _Deutscher Merkur_. This undertaking was not the first of its kind,

yet at that time it was new and significant. The name of its editor

immediately created great confidence in it; for the fact that a man who

was himself a poet also promised to introduce the poems of others into

the world, and that an author to whom such magnificent works were due

would himself pass judgment and publicly express his opinion--this

aroused the greatest hopes. Moreover, men of worth quickly gathered

about him, and this alliance of preëminent _litterateurs_ was so active

that the _Merkur_ during a period of several years may be employed as a

textbook of our literary history. On the public generally its influence

was profound and significant, for if, on the one hand, reading and

criticism became the possession of a greater multitude, the desire to

give instant expression to his thoughts became active in everyone who

had anything to give. More was sent to the editor than he expected and

desired; his success awakened imitators; similar periodicals arose which

crowded upon the public, first monthly, then weekly and daily, and which

finally produced that confusion of Babel of which we were and are

witnesses, and which, strictly speaking, springs from the fact that

everyone wishes to talk, but no one is willing to listen..

The quality which maintained the value and the dignity of the _Deutscher

Merkur_ for many years was its editor's innate liberality. Wieland was

not created to be a party leader; he who recognizes moderation as the

chief maxim cannot make himself guilty of one-sidedness. Whatever

excited his active spirit he sought to equalize within himself through

taste and common sense, and thus he also treated his collaborators, for

none of whom he felt very much enthusiasm; and as, while translating the

ancient authors whom he so highly esteemed, he was accustomed frequently

to attack them in his notes, so, by his disapproving annotations, he

often vexed, and actually estranged, valued and even favorite

contributors.

Even before this, our friend had been forced to endure full many an

attack on account of major or minor writings; so much the less as the

editor of a periodical could he escape literary controversies. Yet here,

too, he shows himself ever the same. Such a paper war can never last

long for him, and if it threatens to be in any degree protracted, he

gives his opponent the last word and goes his wonted path.

Foreigners have sagaciously observed that German authors regard the

public less than the writers of other nations, and that, therefore, one

can tell from his writings the man who is developing himself, and the

man who seeks to create something to his own satisfaction,--and,

consequently, the character of these two types soon becomes obvious.

This quality we have already ascribed to Wieland in particular; and it

will be so much the more interesting to arrange and to follow his

writings and his life in this sense, since, formerly and latterly, the

attempt has been made to cast suspicion on our friend's character from

these very writings. A large number of men are even yet in error

regarding him, since they fancy that the man of many sides must be

indifferent, and the versatile man must be wavering; it is forgotten

that character is concerned simply and solely with the practical. Only

in that which a man does and continues to do, and in that to which he is

constant, does he reveal his character, and in this sense there has been

no more steadfast man, no man constantly more true to himself, than

Wieland. If he surrendered himself to the multiplicity of his emotions,

and to the versatility of his thoughts, and if he permitted no single

impression to gain dominion over him, in this very way he proved the

firmness and the sureness of his mind. This witty man played gladly with

his opinions, but--I can summon all contemporaries as witnesses--never

with his convictions. And thus he won for himself many friends, and kept

them. That he had any decided enemy is not known to me. In the enjoyment

of his poetic works he lived for many years in municipal, civic,

friendly, and social surroundings, and gained the distinction of a

complete edition of his carefully revised works, and even of an _édition

de luxe_ of them.

But even in the autumn of his years he was destined to feel the

influence of the spirit of the age, and in an unforeseen manner to begin

a new life, a new youth. The blessings of sweet peace had long ruled

over Germany; general outward safety and repose coincided most happily

with the inward, human, cosmopolitan views of existence. The peaceful

townsman seemed no longer to require his walls; they were dispensed

with; and there was a yearning after rustic life. The security of landed

property gave confidence to everyone; the untrammelled life of nature

attracted everyone; and as man, born a social being, can often fancy to

himself the sweet deceit that he lives better, easier, happier in

isolation, so Wieland also, who had already been vouchsafed the highest

literary leisure, seemed to look about him for an abode more quiet in

which to cultivate the Muses; and when he found opportunity and strength

to obtain an estate in the very vicinity of Weimar, he formed the

resolution there to pass the remainder of his life. And here they who

have often visited him, and who have lived with him, may tell in detail

how it was precisely here that he appeared in all his charm as head of

the house and of the family, as friend, and as husband, and especially

how, since he could indeed withdraw from men but men could not dispense

with him, he most delightfully developed his social virtues as a

hospitable host.

While inviting younger friends to elaborate this idyllic portrayal, I

may merely note, briefly and sympathetically, how this rural joy was

troubled by the passing away of a dear woman friend who resided with

them, and then by the death of his esteemed and careful consort. He laid

these dear remains in his own property, and although he resolved to give

up agricultural cares, which had become too intricate for him, and to

dispense with the estate which for some years he had enjoyed, he

retained for himself the place and the space between his two dear ones

that there he, too, might find his resting place. And there, then, the

honorable brethren have accompanied him, yea, brought him, and thus have

they fulfilled his lovely and pleasant wish that posterity might visit

and reverence his tomb within a living grove.

Yet not without a higher reason did our friend return to the city, for

his devotion to his great patroness, the Duchess Dowager, had more than

once given him sad hours in his rural retirement. He felt only too

keenly how much it cost him to be far from her. He could not forego

association with her, and yet he could enjoy it only with inconvenience

and with discomfort. And thus, after he had seen his household now

expanded and now contracted, now augmented and now diminished, now

gathered together and now scattered, the exalted princess draws him into

her own immediate circle. He returns, occupies a house very close to the

princely residence, shares in the summer sojourn in Tiefurt, and now

regards himself as a member of the household and of the court.

In very peculiar measure Wieland was born for the higher circles of

society, and even the highest would have been his proper element; for

since he nowhere wished to stand supreme, but gladly sought to take part

in everything, and was inclined to express himself with moderation

regarding everything, he must inevitably appear an agreeable companion,

and in still higher degree he would have been such in a more

light-hearted nation which did not take too seriously every form of

recreation.

For his poetic and his literary aspirations were alike addressed

immediately to life, and though he did not seek a practical end with

absolute invariability, yet he ever had a practical aim before his eyes,

whether it was near or far. Therefore his thought was always clear, his

phraseology was lucid and readily intelligible, and since, with his

extensive knowledge, he continually held to the interest of the day,

followed it, and intelligently occupied himself with it, his

conversation also was diversified and stimulating throughout; so that I

have not readily become acquainted with anyone who more gladly received

and more spiritedly responded to whatever happy idea others might bring

forward.

Bearing in mind his type of thought, his mode of entertaining himself

and others, and his honorable purpose of influencing his generation, he

can scarcely be reproached for feeling an antagonism toward the more

modern philosophical schools. When, at an earlier period, Kant gave

merely the preludes of his greater theories in his minor writings, and

in a lighter style seemed to express himself problematically upon

the most weighty themes, then he still stood close enough to our friend;

but when the huge system was erected, all those who had thus far gone

their way poetizing and philosophizing in full freedom, were forced to

see in Kant's monumental work a menacing citadel which would limit their

serene excursions over the field of experience.

Yet not merely the philosophers, but also the poets, had much, and,

indeed, everything, to fear from the new intellectual tendency, so soon

as large numbers should allow themselves to be attracted by it. It would

at first appear as though its purpose was mainly directed toward

knowledge, and then toward the theory of morals and its immediately

subsidiary subjects. It was readily obvious, however, that, if it was

intended to establish, more firmly than had hitherto been the case,

those weighty affairs of higher knowledge and of moral conduct, and if

there the demand was made for a sterner, more coherent judgment,

developed from the depths of humanity--it was readily obvious, I repeat,

that taste also would soon be referred to such principles, and,

therefore, the attempt would be made absolutely to set aside individual

fancies, chance culture, and popular peculiarities, and to evoke a more

general law as a deciding factor.

This was, moreover, actually realized, and in poetry a new epoch emerged

which was necessarily as antagonistic to our friend as he was to it.

From this time on he experienced many unfavorable judgments, yet without

being very deeply influenced by them; and I here expressly mention this

circumstance, since the consequent struggle in German literature is as

yet by no means allayed and adjusted, and since a friend who desires to

value Wieland's merits and sturdily to uphold his memory must be

perfectly conversant with the situation of affairs, with the rise and

with the sequence of opinions, and with the character and with the

talents of the cooperators; he must know well the powers and the

services of both sides; and, to work impartially, he must, in a sense,

belong to both factions. Yet from those minor or major controversies

which arose from his intellectual attitude I am drawn by a serious

consideration, to which we must now turn.

The peace which for many years had blissfully dwelt amid our mountains

and hills, and in our delightfully watered valleys, had long been, if

not disturbed, at least threatened, by military expeditions. When the

eventful day dawned which filled us with amazement and alarm, since the

fate of the world was decided in our walks, even in those terrible hours

toward which our friend's carefree life flowed on, fortune did not

desert him, for he was saved first through the precaution of a young and

resolute friend, and then through the attention of the French

conquerors, who honored in him both the meritorious author, famed

throughout the world, and a member of their own great literary

institute.

Soon afterward he had to bear the loss of Amelia, so bitter to us all.

Court and city endeavored to extend him every compensation, and soon

afterward he was favored by two emperors with insignia of honor, the

like of which he had not sought, and had not even expected, throughout

his long life.

Yet in the day of joy as in the day of sorrow he remained constant to

himself, and thus he exemplified the superiority of delicate natures,

whose equanimity knows how to meet with moderation good and evil fortune

alike.

But he appeared most remarkable of all, considered in body and in

spirit, after the bitter calamity which befell him in such advanced

years when, together with a beloved daughter, he was very severely

injured by the overturning of his carriage. The painful results of the

accident and the tedium of convalescence he bore with the utmost

equanimity, and he comforted his friends rather than himself by the

declaration that he had never met with a like misfortune, and it might

well have seemed pleasing to the gods that in this way he discharge the

debt of humanity. Now, moreover, he speedily recovered, since his

constitution, like that of a youth, was quickly restored, and thus he

became a proof for us of the way in which great physical strength may be

combined with delicacy and clean living.

As, then, his philosophy of life remained firm even under this test;

such an accident produced no change in his convictions or in his mode of

life. Companionable after his recovery as before, he took part in the

customary recreations of the social life of the court and of the city,

and with true affection and with constant endeavor shared in the

activities of the brethren of our lodge. But however much his eye seemed

always fixed on things earthly, and on the understanding and utilization

of them--yet, as a man of exceptional gifts, he could in no wise

dispense with the extramundane and the supersensual. Here also that

conflict, which we have deemed it our duty to portray in detail above,

became evident in a remarkable degree; for though he appeared to reject

everything which lay outside the bounds of general knowledge, and beyond

the sphere of what may be exemplified from experience, none the less,

while he did not transgress the lines so sharply drawn, he could never

refrain, in tentative fashion, as it were, from peeping over them, and

from constructing and representing, in his own way, an extramundane

world, a state concerning which all the innate powers of our soul can

give us no information.

Single traits of his writings afford manifold examples of this; but I

may especially recall his _Agathodämon_ and his _Euthanasie_, and also

those beautiful declarations, as rational as they were sincere, which he

was permitted, only a short while since, to express openly and frankly

before this assembly. For a confiding love toward our lodge of brethren

had developed within him. Acquainted even as a youth with the historical

traditions regarding the mysteries of the ancients, he indeed shunned,

in conformity with his serene, lucid mode of thought, those dark

secrets; yet he did not deny that precisely under these, perhaps

uncouth, veils, higher conceptions had first been brought to barbarous

and sensual men, that, through awe-inspiring symbols, powerful,

illuminating ideas had been awakened, the belief in one God, ruling over

all, had been introduced, virtue had been represented more desirably,

and hope for the continuance of our existence had been purified both

from the false terrors of a dark superstition and from the equally false

demands of an Epicurean sensuality.

Then, as an aged man left behind on earth by so many valued friends and

contemporaries, and feeling himself in many respects alone, he drew near

to our dear lodge. How gladly he entered it, how constantly he attended

our gatherings, vouchsafed his attention to our affairs, rejoiced in the

reception of excellent young men, was present at our honorable banquets,

and did not refrain from expressing his thoughts upon many a weighty

matter--of this we are all witnesses; we have recognized it with

friendly gratitude. Indeed, if this ancient lodge, often reëstablished

after many a change of time, required any testimony here, the most

perfect would be ready at hand, since a talented man, intelligent,

cautious, circumspect, experienced, benevolent, and moderate, felt that

with us he found kindred spirits, and that with us he was in a company

which he, accustomed to the best, so gladly recognized to be the

realization of his wishes as a man and as a social being.

Although summoned by our masters to speak a few words concerning the

departed, before this so distinguished and highly esteemed assembly, I

might surely have ventured to decline to do so, in the conviction that

not a fleeting hour, not loose notes superficially jotted down, but

whole years, and even several well weighed and well ordered volumes are

requisite worthily to celebrate his memory in consideration of the

monument which he has worthily erected for himself in his works and in

his influence. This delightful duty I undertook only in the conviction

that what I have here said may serve as an introduction to what should

in future be better done by others at the repeated celebration of his

memory. If it shall please our honored masters to deposit in their ark,

together with this essay, all that shall publicly appear concerning our

friend, and, still more, what our brethren, whom he most greatly and

most peculiarly influenced and who enjoyed an uninterrupted and a closer

association with him, may confidentially express and communicate, then

through this would be collected a treasure of facts, of information, and

of valuations which might well be unique of its kind, and from which our

posterity might draw, in after times, in order to protect, to maintain,

and to hallow for evermore so worthy a memory with love unwavering.

THE PEDAGOGIC PROVINCE (1827)

TRANSLATED BY EDWARD BELL From WILHELM MEISTER'S TRAVELS

Our pilgrims had performed the journey according to program, and

prosperously reached the frontier of the province in which they were to

learn so many wonderful things. On their first entry they beheld a most

fertile region, the gentle slopes of which were favorable to

agriculture, its higher mountains to sheep-feeding, and its broad

valleys to the rearing of cattle. It was shortly before the harvest, and

everything was in the greatest abundance; still, what surprised them

from the outset, was that they saw neither women nor men, but only boys

and youths busy getting ready for a prosperous harvest, and even making

friendly preparations for a joyous harvest-home. They greeted now one,

and now another, and inquired about the master, of whose whereabouts no

one could give an account. The address of their letter was: _To the

Master or to the Three_, and this too the boys could not explain;

however, they referred the inquirers to an overseer, who was just

preparing to mount his horse. They explained their object; Felix's frank

bearing seemed to please him; and so they rode together along the road.

Wilhelm had soon observed that a great diversity prevailed in the cut

and color of the clothing, which gave a peculiar aspect to the whole of

the little community. He was just on the point of asking his companion

about this, when another strange sight was displayed to him; all the

children, howsoever they might be occupied, stopped their work, and

turned, with peculiar yet various gestures, toward the party riding

past; and it was easy to infer that their object was the overseer. The

youngest folded their arms crosswise on the breast, and looked

cheerfully toward the sky; the intermediate ones held their arms behind

them, and looked smiling upon the ground; the third sort stood erect

and boldly; with arms at the side, they turned the head to the right,

and placed themselves in a row, instead of remaining alone, like the

others, where they were first seen.

Accordingly, when they halted and dismounted, just where several

children had ranged themselves in various attitudes and were being

inspected by the overseer, Wilhelm asked the meaning of these gestures.

Felix interposed, and said cheerfully: "What position have I to take,

then?"

"In any case," answered the intendant, "at first the arms across the

breast, and looking seriously and gladly upward, without turning your

glance." He obeyed; how ever he soon exclaimed: "This does not please me

particularly; I see nothing overhead; does it last long? But yes,

indeed," he exclaimed joyfully, "I see two hawks flying from west to

east; that must be a good omen!"

"It depends on how you take to it, how you behave yourself," rejoined

the former; "now go and mingle with them, just as they mingle with each

other."

He made a sign, the children forsook their attitudes, resumed their

occupations or went on playing as before. "Will you, and can you,"

Wilhelm now asked, "explain to me that which causes my wonder? I suppose

that these gestures, these positions, are greetings, with which they

welcome you."

"Just so," answered the other; "greetings, that tell me at once at what

stage of cultivation each of these boys stands."

"But could you," Wilhelm added, "explain to me the meaning of the

graduation? For that it is such, is easy to see."

"That is the part of better people than me," answered the other; "but I

can assure you of this much, that they are no empty grimaces, and that,

on the contrary, we impart to the children, not indeed the highest, but

still a guiding and intelligible explanation; but at the same time we

command each to keep and cherish for himself what we may have chosen to

impart for the information of each: they may not chat about it with

strangers, nor amongst themselves, and thus the teaching is modified in

a hundred ways. Besides this the secrecy has very great advantages; for

if we tell people immediately and perpetually the reason of everything,

they think that there is nothing behind. To certain secrets, even if

they may be known, we have to show deference by concealment and silence,

for this tends to modesty and good morals."

"I understand you," said Wilhelm. "Why should we not also apply

spiritually, what is so necessary in bodily matters? But perhaps in

another respect you can satisfy my curiosity. I am surprised at the

great variety in the cut and color of their clothes, and yet I do not

see all kinds of color, but a few only, and these in all their shades,

from the brightest to the darkest. Still I observe, that in this there

cannot be meant any indication of degrees of either age or merit; since

the smallest and biggest boys mingled together, may be alike in cut and

color, whilst those who are alike in gestures do not agree with one

another in dress."

"As concerns this, too," their companion replied, "I cannot explain any

further; yet I shall be much mistaken it you depart hence without being

enlightened about all that you may wish to know."

They were now going in search of the master, whom they thought that they

had found; but now a stranger could not but be struck by the fact that

the deeper they got into the country, the more they were met by a

harmonious sound of singing. Whatsoever the boys set about, in whatever

work they were found engaged, they were for ever singing, and in fact it

seemed that the songs were specially adapted to each particular

occupation, and in similar cases always the same. If several children

were in any place, they would accompany each other in turns.

Toward evening they came upon some dancing, their steps being animated

and guided by choruses. Felix from his horse chimed in with his voice,

and, in truth, not badly; Wilhelm was delighted with this entertainment,

which made the neighborhood so lively. "I suppose," he observed to his

companion, "you devote a great deal of care to this kind of instruction,

for otherwise this ability would not be so widely diffused, or so

perfectly developed."

"Just so," replied the other; "with us the art of singing forms the

first step in education; everything else is subservient to it, and

attained by means of it. With us the simplest enjoyment, as well as the

simplest instruction, is enlivened and impressed by singing; and even

what we teach in matters of religion and morals is communicated by the

method of song. Other advantages for independent ends are directly

allied; for, whilst we practise the children in writing down by symbols

on the slate the notes which they produce, and then, according to the

indication of these signs, in reproducing them in their throats, and

moreover in adding the text, they exercise at the same time the hand,

ear, and eye, and attain orthography and calligraphy quicker than you

would believe; and, finally, since all this must be practised and copied

according to pure metre and accurately fixed time, they learn to

understand much sooner than in other ways the high value of measure and

computation. On this account, of all imaginable means, we have chosen

music as the first element of our education, for from this equally easy

roads radiate in every direction."

Wilhelm sought to inform himself further, and did not hide his

astonishment at hearing no instrumental music.

"We do not neglect it," replied the other, "but we practise it in a

special place, inclosed in the most charming mountain-valley; and then

again we take care that the different instruments are taught in places

lying far apart. Especially are the discordant notes of beginners

banished to certain solitary spots, where they can drive no one crazy;

for you will yourself confess, that in well-regulated civil society

scarcely any more miserable nuisance is to be endured than when the

neighborhood inflicts upon us a beginner on the flute or on the violin.

Our beginners, from their own laudable notion of wishing to be an

annoyance to none, go voluntarily for a longer or shorter period into

the wilds, and, isolated there, vie with one another in attaining the

merit of being allowed to draw nearer to the inhabited world; on which

account they are, from time to time, allowed to make an attempt at

drawing nearer, which seldom fails, because in these, as in our other

modes of education, we venture actually to develop and encourage a sense

of shame and diffidence. I am sincerely glad that your son has got a

good voice; the rest will be effected all the more easily."

They had now reached a place where Felix was to remain, and make trial

of his surroundings, until they were disposed to grant a formal

admission. They already heard from afar a cheerful singing; it was a

game, which the boys were now enjoying in their play-hour. A general

chorus resounded, in which each member of a large circle joined

heartily, clearly, and vigorously in his part, obeying the directions of

the superintendent. The latter, however, often took the singers by

surprise, by suspending with a signal the chorus-singing, and bidding

some one or other single performer, by a touch of his bâton, to adapt

alone some suitable song to the expiring tune and the passing idea. Most

of them already showed considerable ability, a few who failed in the

performance willingly paid their forfeit, without exactly being made a

laughing-stock. Felix was still child enough to mix at once among them,

and came tolerably well out of the trial. Thereupon the first style of

greeting was conceded to him; he forthwith folded his arms on his

breast, looked upward, and with such a droll expression withal, that it

was quite plain that no hidden meaning in it had as yet occurred to him.

The pleasant spot, the kind reception, the merry games, all pleased the

boy so well, that he did not feel particularly sad when he saw his

father depart; he looked almost more wistfully at the horse as it was

led away; yet he had no difficulty in understanding, when he was

informed that he could not keep it in the present locality. On the other

hand, they promised him that he should find, if not the same, at all

events an equally lively and well-trained one when he did not expect it.

As the superior could not be found, the overseer said: "I must now leave

you, to pursue my own avocations; but still I will take you to the

Three, who preside over holy things: your letter is also addressed to

them, and together they stand in place of the Superior."

Wilhelm would have liked to learn beforehand about the holy things, but

the other replied. "The Three in return for the confidence with which

you have left your son with us, will certainly, in accordance with

wisdom and justice, reveal to you all that is most necessary. The

visible objects of veneration, which I have called holy things, are

included within a particular boundary, are not mingled with anything, or

disturbed by anything; only at certain times of the year, the pupils,

according to the stages of their education, are admitted to them, in

order that they may be instructed historically and through their senses;

for in this way they carry off with them an impression, enough for them

to feed upon for a long time in the exercise of their duty."

Wilhelm now stood at the entrance of a forest-valley, inclosed by lofty

walls; on a given signal a small door was opened, and a serious,

respectable-looking man received our friend. He found himself within a

large and beautifully verdant inclosure, shaded with trees and bushes of

every kind, so that he could scarcely see some stately walls and fine

buildings through the dense and lofty natural growth; his friendly

reception by the Three, who came up by-and-by, ultimately concluded in a

conversation, to which each contributed something of his own, but the

substance of which we shall put together in brief.

"Since you have intrusted your son to us," they said, "it is our duty

to let you see more deeply into our methods of proceeding. You have seen

many external things, that do not carry their significance with them all

at once; which of these do you most wish to have explained?"

"I have remarked certain seemly yet strange gestures and obeisances, the

significance of which I should like to learn; with you no doubt what is

external has reference to what is within, and vice versa; let me

understand this relation."

"Well-bred and healthy children possess a great deal; Nature has given

to each everything that he needs for time and continuance: our duty is

to develop this; often it is better developed by itself. But one thing

no one brings into the world, and yet it is that upon which depends

everything through which a man becomes a man on every side. If you can

find it out yourself, speak out."

Wilhelm bethought himself for a short time, and then shook his head.

After a suitable pause, they exclaimed "Veneration!"

Wilhelm was startled.

"Veneration," they repeated. "It is wanting in all, and perhaps in

yourself. You have seen three kinds of gestures, and we teach a

threefold veneration, which when combined to form a whole, only then

attains to its highest power and effect. The first is veneration for

that which is above us. That gesture, the arms folded on the breast, a

cheerful glance toward the sky, that is precisely what we prescribe to

our untutored children, at the same time requiring witness of them that

there is a God up above who reflects and reveals Himself in our parents,

tutors and superiors. The second, veneration for that which is below us.

The hands folded on the back as if tied together, the lowered, smiling

glance, bespeak that we have to regard the earth well and cheerfully; it

gives us an opportunity to maintain ourselves; it affords unspeakable

joys; but it brings disproportionate sufferings. If one hurts oneself

bodily, whether faultily or innocently; if others hurt one,

intentionally or accidentally; if earthly chance does one any harm--let

these be well thought of, for such danger accompanies us all our life

long. But from this condition we deliver our pupil as soon as possible,

directly we are convinced that the teachings of this stage have made a

sufficient impression upon him; but then we bid him be a man, look to

his companions, and guide himself with reference to them. Now he stands

erect and bold, yet not selfishly isolated; only in a union with his

equals does he present a front toward the world. We are unable to add

anything further."

"I see it all," replied Wilhelm; "it is probably on this account that

the multitude is so inured to vice, because it takes pleasure only in

the element of ill-will and evil speech; he who indulges in this, soon

becomes indifferent to God, contemptuous toward the world, and a hater

of his fellows; but the true, genuine, indispensable feeling of

self-respect is ruined in conceit and presumption."

"Allow me, nevertheless," Wilhelm went on, "to make one objection: Has

it not ever been held that the fear evinced by savage nations in the

presence of mighty natural phenomena, and other inexplicable foreboding

events, is the germ from which a higher feeling, a purer disposition,

should gradually be developed?"

To this the other replied: "Fear, no doubt, is consonant with nature,

but not reverence; people fear a known or unknown powerful being; the

strong one tries to grapple with it, the weak to avoid it; both wish to

get rid of it, and feel happy when in a short space they have conquered

it, when their nature in some measure has regained its freedom and

independence. The natural man repeats this operation a million times

during his life; from fear he strives after liberty, from liberty he is

driven back into fear, and does not advance one step further. To fear is

easy, but unpleasant; to entertain reverence is difficult but pleasing.

Man determines himself unwillingly to reverence, or rather never

determines himself to it; it is a loftier sense which must be imparted

to his nature, and which is self-developed only in the most

exceptionally gifted ones, whom therefore from all time we have regarded

as saints, as gods. In this consists the dignity, in this the function

of all genuine religions, of which also there exist only three,

according to the objects toward which they direct their worship."

The men paused. Wilhelm remained silent for awhile in thought; as he did

not feel himself equal to pointing these strange words, he begged the

worthy men to continue their remarks, which too they at once consented

to do.

"No religion," they said, "which is based on fear, is esteemed among us.

With the reverence which a man allows himself to entertain, whilst he

accords honor, he may preserve his own honor; he is not at discord with

himself, as in the other case. The religion which rests on reverence for

that which is above us, we call the ethnical one; it is the religion of

nations, and the first happy redemption from a base fear; all so-called

heathen religions are of this kind, let them have what names they will.

The second religion, which is founded on that reverence which we have

for what is like ourselves, we call the Philosophic; for the

philosopher, who places himself in the middle, must draw downward to

himself all that is higher, and upward to himself all that is lower, and

only in this central position does he deserve the name of the sage. Now,

whilst he penetrates his relations to his fellows, and therefore to the

whole of humanity, and his relations to all other earthly surroundings,

necessary or accidental, in the cosmical sense he lives only in the

truth. But we must now speak of the third religion, based on reverence

for that which is below us; we call it the Christian one, because this

disposition of mind is chiefly revealed in it; it is the last one which

humanity could and was bound to attain. Yet what was not demanded for

it? not merely to leave earth below, and claim a higher origin, but to

recognize as divine even humility and poverty, scorn and contempt,

shame and misery, suffering and death; nay, to revere and make lovable

even sin and crime, not as hindrances but as furtherances of holiness!

Of this there are indeed found traces throughout all time; but a track

is not a goal, and this having once been reached, humanity cannot turn

backward; and it may be maintained, that the Christian religion having

once appeared, can never disappear again; having once been divinely

embodied, cannot again be dissolved."

"Which of these religions do you then profess more particularly?" said

Wilhelm.

"All three," answered the others, "for, in point of fact, they together

present the true religion; from these three reverences outsprings the

highest reverence, reverence for oneself, and the former again develop

themselves from the latter, so that man attains to the highest he is

capable of reaching, in order that he may consider himself the best that

God and nature have produced; nay, that he may be able to remain on this

height without being drawn through conceit or egoism into what is base."

"Such a profession of faith, developed in such a manner, does not

estrange me," replied Wilhelm; "it agrees with all that one learns here

and there in life, only that the very thing unites you, that severs the

others."

To this the others replied: "This confession is already adhered to by a

large part of the world, though unconsciously."

"How so, and where?" asked Wilhelm.

"In the Creed!" exclaimed the others, loudly; "for the first article is

ethnical, and belongs to all nations: the second is Christian, for those

struggling against sufferings and glorified in sufferings; the third

finally teaches a spiritual communion of saints, to wit, of those in the

highest degree good and wise: ought not therefore in fairness the three

divine Persons, under whose likeness and name such convictions and

promises are uttered, to pass also for the highest Unity?"

"I thank you," replied the other, "for having so clearly and coherently

explained this to me--to whom, as a full-grown man, the three

dispositions of mind are not new; and when I recall, that you teach the

children these high truths, first through material symbols, then through

a certain symbolic analogy, and finally develop in them the highest

interpretation, I must needs highly approve of it."

"Exactly so," replied the former; "but now you must still learn

something more, in order that you may be convinced that your son is in

the best hands. However, let this matter rest for the morning hours;

rest and refresh yourself, so that, contented and humanly complete, you

may accompany us farther into the interior tomorrow."

WINCKELMANN AND HIS AGE (1804)

TRANSLATED BY GEORGE KRIEHN, PH. D.

TO HER MOST SERENE HIGHNESS THE DUCHESS ANNA AMALIA OF SAXE-WEIMAR AND

EISENACH

_Most Serene Princess,_

_Most Gracious Lady,_

Another benefaction has been added to the many which art and science owe

to Your Highness by the most gracious permission to publish the

following letters of Winckelmann. They are addressed to a man who had

the happiness of counting himself among your servants, and soon

afterward of living in close relation with Your Highness, at the time

when Winckelmann found himself in the most embarrassing circumstances,

the straightforward and touching narration of which one cannot read

without sympathy.

Had these pages come to the attention of Your Highness in those days,

the dictates of your noble and charitable heart would have immediately

put an end to such distress, changed the fate of a most excellent man,

and directed it more happily for the future.

But who indeed ought to think of what might have happened, when so many

gratifying things that actually took place lie before us?

Your Highness has, since that time, established and supported much that

is useful and promotive of happiness, while our gracious and sympathetic

Prince adds constantly to the great number of his benefactions.

One may without vainglory recall the good that for us and for others has

been accomplished in our limited circle, the least significant aspects

of which cannot but excite the observer's admiration, which would be

greatly increased if a well informed writer should take the trouble to

describe its origin and growth.

[Illustration: PRINCESS AMALIA]

The intention of the benefactors was never selfish but was always

directed toward the good to be accomplished. The higher culture of this

land all the more deserves an annalist, since much formerly existed and

flourished of which all visible traces have now disappeared. May Your

Highness, in the consciousness of having been the prime mover and

constant participant in these enterprizes, attain that peculiar domestic

happiness, a hale and hearty old age, and long continue to enjoy the

brilliant period now opening for our circle, in which we hope that all

that has been accomplished will be further increased, unified and

strengthened, and thus handed down to posterity.

Cherishing the flattering hope that I shall continue to rejoice in that

inestimable favor with which Your Highnesses have deigned to adorn my

life, I am, with respectful devotion,

Your Most Serene Highness' obedient servant,

J. W. VON GOETHE.

PREFACE

The friends of art who have for several years been associated at Weimar

are surely privileged to speak of their relation to the general public,

because (and this is the final test) they have always expressed similar

convictions and have been guided by well tried principles. Not that,

limited to certain modes of apprehending matters, they have obstinately

maintained a single point of view. On the contrary, they willingly

confess that they have learned much from diverse expression of opinion,

all the more so as they now learn with pleasure that their efforts in

behalf of culture are constantly becoming more closely allied to the

general progress of higher education in Germany.

With much gratification they call attention to the _Propyloea_, to the

critical and descriptive programs of no less than six exhibitions of

painting and statuary, to the many expressions of opinion in the

_Jenaisische Litteraturzeitung, and to the published translation of the

Life of Benvenuto Cellini.

Although these writings have not been printed and bound in the same

volumes and do not form parts of a single work, they have, nevertheless,

all been written in the same spirit. They have proved a leaven to the

whole, as we are learning slowly, but not without gratification; so that

there is no longer occasion to remember ingratitude often experienced,

and open or secret opposition.

The present publication is an immediate sequel to the foregoing works,

and of its contents we mention here only the most important.

PLAN FOR A HISTORY OF ART DURING THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY

The historical conception of related conditions promotes the more rapid

development of the artist as well as of the man. Every individual,

especially if he be a man of capacity, at first seems far too important

to himself. Trusting in his independent power, he is inclined to

champion far too quickly this or that maxim; he strives and labors with

energy along the path he has himself chosen; and when at length he

becomes conscious of his one-sidedness and his error, he changes just as

violently, enters upon another perhaps equally erroneous course, and

clings to principles equally faulty. Not until late in life does he

become aware of his own history and realize how much further a constant

development in accordance with well tested principles might have led

him.

If the connoisseur owes his insight to history alone, which embodies the

ideas which give rise to art, for the young artist the history of art is

of the greatest importance.

[Illustration: WINCKELMANN]

He should not, however, search in it for indistinct models, to be

pursued passionately, but for the means of realizing himself and his

point of view, with its limitations. But unfortunately, even the

immediate past is seldom instructive to man, through no fault of his

own. For while we are learning to understand the mistakes of our

predecessors, time is itself producing new errors which, unobserved,

ensnare us, and the account of which is left to the future historian

with just as little advantage to his own generation.

But who would indulge in such mournful observations, and not rather

endeavor to promote the greatest possible clearness of view in his own

branch of study? This is the duty assumed by the writer of the present

sketch, the difficulty of which will be seen by connoisseurs, who, it is

hoped, will point out its deficiencies and correct its imperfections,

thereby making a satisfactory future work possible.

WINCKELMANN'S LETTERS To BERENDIS

Letters are among the most important monuments which the individual

leaves behind him. Imaginative persons often picture to themselves, even

in solitary musings, the presence of a distant friend, to whom they

impart their most private opinions; and in the same manner a letter is a

kind of soliloquy. For often the friend to whom, we write is rather the

occasion than the subject of the letter. Whatever rejoices or pains,

oppresses or occupies us, is poured forth from the heart. As lasting

evidences of an existence or a condition, such papers are the more

important for posterity, the more the writer lives in the moment and the

less he is concerned with the future. Winckelmann's letters sometimes

have this desirable character.

Although this excellent man, who educated himself in solitude, was

reticent in society, serious and discreet in his personal life and

conduct toward others, he was free and unconstrained in his letters, in

which he often reveals himself, without hesitation, just as he felt. We

see him worried, troubled, confused, doubting and dilatory, but also

cheerful, alert, bold, daring, and unrestrained to the degree of

cynicism; altogether, however, as a man of tempered character and

confident in himself; who, although the outer conditions offered to his

imagination so much to choose from, usually chose the best way, except

when he took the last impatient step which cost him his life.

His letters, having the general characteristics of rectitude and

directness, differ according to the persons to whom they are addressed,

which is always the case when a clever correspondent imagines those

present with whom he is speaking at a distance, and therefore no more

neglects what is proper and suitable than he would in their presence.

Thus the letters addressed to Stosch (to mention only a few of the

larger groups of Winckelmann's letters) seem to us fine testimonials of

honest cooperation with a friend for a definite purpose; a proof of his

great endurance in a difficult task, thoughtlessly undertaken without

proper preparation, but courageously and happily concluded; they sparkle

with the liveliest literary, political, and society news, and form a

charming picture of life, which would have been more interesting if they

could have been printed entire and unmutilated. Charming also is his

frankness, even in passionate disapproval of a friend for whom the

writer was never tired of testifying as much respect as love, as much

gratitude as attachment.

The consciousness of his own superiority and dignity, combined with a

genuine appreciation of others, the expression of friendship,

cordiality, playfulness and pleasantry, which characterize the letters

to his Swiss friends, make this collection extremely interesting and

lovable as well as exceedingly instructive, although Winckelmann's

letters cannot on the whole be termed instructive.

The first letters to Count Bünau, in the valuable Dassdorf collection,

reveal an oppressed, self-absorbed spirit, which hardly ventures to

look up to such an exalted patron. That remarkable letter in which

Winckelmann announces his change of religion is a real galimatias, an

unfortunate and confused document.

The first half of our own collection serves to make this period

comprehensible, yea, immediately intelligible. They were written partly

at Nöthenitz, partly at Dresden, and are directed to an intimate and

trusted friend and comrade. The writer stands revealed in all his

distress, with his pressing, irresistible desires, but on the road to a

new and distant happiness, earnestly sought.

The other half of our letters are written from Italy. They preserve

their direct, unrestrained character; but above them hovers the

joyfulness of the southern sky, and they are inspired with an exuberant

delight in the goal which he has attained. Besides this, they give,

compared with other contemporary letters that are already known, a more

complete view of his position.

The pleasure of appreciating and passing judgment upon the importance of

this collection, which is perhaps greater from the psychological than

from the literary point of view, we leave to receptive hearts and

judicious minds. We shall add only a few words about the man to whom

they were written, in accordance with our available information.

Hieronymus Dieterich Berendis was born at Seehausen in the Altmark in

the year 1720, studied law in the University of Halle, and was for some

years after his student days auditor of the Royal Prussian Regiment of

Hussars, usually called the Black Hussars from their uniform, but at the

time named after their Commander von Ruesch. After leaving that rude

life, he continued his studies in Berlin. During a sojourn at Seehausen

he made the acquaintance of Winckelmann, whose intimate friend he

became, and through whose recommendation he was afterward engaged as

tutor of the youngest Count Bünau. He conducted his pupil to Brunswick

where the latter studied at the Karolinum. When the Count afterward

entered the French service, his father, who was at that time minister

of state at Weimar, conducted Berendis into the service of the Duke, in

which he first became military counsellor, entering afterward the

service of the Dowager Duchess as Financial Councillor and Keeper of the

Privy Purse. He died on the 26th of October, 1783, at Weimar.

DESCRIPTION OF WINCKELMANN

The most deserving citizen, no matter how great his service may have

been to his country and his city in a wider or narrower field, receives

but one funeral. Others, however, have so distinguished themselves by

worthy benefactions that they are honored by a public celebration of the

anniversary of their death, on which occasion the lasting influence of

their beneficence is praised. In the same sense we have every cause to

offer from time to time a well meaning tribute to the memory of the men

who have bestowed inexhaustible mental benefactions upon us.

From this point of view the slight tribute which friends of similar

opinions now offer should be regarded as a testimonial of their

appreciation, not as an account of his services. The feast at which it

is offered will be participated in by all appreciative minds on the

occasion of the recently discovered letters of Winckelmann, now for the

first time published.

SKETCHES FOR AN ESSAY ON WINCKELMANN

PREFACE

The following essays, written by three friends, whose opinions on art in

general, as well as on the services of Winckelmann, coincide, were

intended as a basis for a more extended essay on this remarkable man,

and to furnish the materials for a work which should have at once the

merit of diversity and of unity.

[Illustration: WEIMAR SEEN FROM THE NORTH]

But as in life many an undertaking encounters all kinds of obstacles,

which hardly allow the requisite material to be collected, to say

nothing of giving it the desired form, so here only half of the whole as

planned appears.

In the present instance, however, the half may be prized more than the

whole, since, by the study of three individual opinions on the same

subject, the reader may to a greater extent be stimulated and incited to

form an individual conception of the significant life and character of

Winckelmann, which can now be easily accomplished by the aid of the

earlier and more recently published materials. We therefore hope to

merit gratitude if, instead of waiting for a later opportunity and

promising a future achievement, we freely offer, in Winckelmann's own

refreshing manner, only that which is already prepared, even though it

be not complete, in order that it may after its own fashion exert a

timely influence in the great world of life and culture.

INTRODUCTION

The memory of noteworthy men and the presence of important works of art,

awaken from time to time a spirit of contemplation. Both stand before us

as legacies of each succeeding generation, the former by reason of their

deeds and fame, the latter actually preserved as indefinable realities.

Every judicious observer knows full well that only the contemplation of

these men and monuments in their entirety would be of real value, and

yet we are always attempting to make them more comprehensible by our

reflection and our words.

One is especially impelled to this when something new relating to such

subjects is discovered and made known. We trust therefore that the

public will find our renewed observations on Winckelmann, his character

and his achievements a timely contribution, since the letters which are

now published throw a more vivid light upon his mode of thought and the

conditions under which he labored.

ENTER WINCKELMANN

Even to ordinary mortals Nature has not denied a very precious

endowment--I refer to that lively impulse felt from earliest childhood,

to take hold of the external world, to learn to know it, to enter into

relation with it, and to form with it a complete whole. Certain chosen

spirits, on the other hand, often have the peculiarity of feeling a kind

of aversion to actual life, withdraw into themselves, and create in

themselves a world of their own, in this wise achieving the highest

inner development.

But when, in especially gifted men, appears the need common to all of us

of seeking in the external world a corresponding realization for all the

gifts with which Nature has endowed them, thereby raising their inner

being to a self-relying whole, we may be assured of the development of a

character in which both the present and the future world will rejoice.

Winckelmann was a man of this kind. Nature had placed in him whatever

makes and adorns the true man. Furthermore, he devoted his entire life

to the search for that which is harmonious and worthy in man and in art,

which is primarily concerned with man.

An obscure childhood, insufficient instruction in his youth, disjointed

and scattered studies in early manhood, the pressure of a school

position, and all the worry and annoyance that are experienced in such a

career--all these he had suffered as many others have. He had reached

the age of thirty without having enjoyed a single favor at the hands of

fate; yet in him were planted the germs of an enviable happiness, very

possible to realize.

Even in these unhappy days we find the trace of that impulse to know for

himself with his own eyes the conditions of the world, gloomy and

disjointed traces it is true, but expressed with sufficient decision. A

few attempts to see strange lands, undertaken without sufficient

reflection, were unsuccessful. He dreamed of a journey to Egypt; he set

out by way of France, but unforeseen obstacles turned him back. More

wisely guided by his genius, he at last seized upon the idea of forcing

his way to Rome. He felt how very profitable a sojourn in the Eternal

City would be for him. This was no whim, no mere thought; it was a

decided plan, which he undertook to realize with cleverness and

decision.

THE ANTIQUE

Man can accomplish much by the opportune use of individual powers, he

can even accomplish extraordinary things by the combination of several

powers; but the unique, the startling, he can only achieve when all

capabilities are evenly united in him. This last was the happy lot of

the ancients, especially of the Greeks in their best period; to the

other two alternatives we moderns are unfortunately limited by fate.

When the healthy nature of man acts as a unit, when he realizes his

place in the world as part of a great and worthy whole, when a

harmonious well-being accords him a pure and free happiness--then the

universe, if it had the power of self-realization, its end attained,

would rejoice and admire this culmination of its own genesis and

existence. For to what purpose is the array of suns, planets and moons,

of stars and milky ways, of comets and nebulae, of worlds existing and

arising, if it be not that a happy man may unconsciously rejoice in his

own existence?

While, in almost every act of contemplation, the modern thinker, as we

have just done, projects himself into the infinite, to return only in

the end--if he is happy enough in succeeding therein--to a limited

proposition, the ancients, without following a long, round-about path,

found their exclusive happiness within the lovely confines of this

world. Here they were placed, to this end they had been called, here

their activity found its field, their passion its object and

nourishment.

Why are their poets and historians the wonder of the judicious, the

despair of rivals, unless it be because the actors introduced by them

were so deeply concerned in their own selves, in the narrow circle of

the fatherland, within the circumscribed path of their own life as well

as that of their fellow citizens, and because with all their mind,

inclination, and power, they worked in and for the present? Under such

conditions it could not be difficult for a writer of their opinion to

immortalize such a present. What was actually occurring was for them the

only thing of value, just as for us only what is thought or felt seems

of greatest worth.

In a certain sense the poet lived in his imagination, just as the

historian lived in the political, and the investigator in the natural

world. All held fast to the nearest, the true, the actual, and even the

pictures of their fantasy have bone and marrow. Man, and whatever was

human, was considered of the highest value, and all his inner and

external relations to the world were represented with the same great

intelligence with which they were observed. Feeling and observation had

not been separated; that almost incurable breach in the healthy power of

man had not yet occurred.

Not only in enjoying happiness, but in enduring unhappiness also, these

natures were remarkably gifted. For as a healthy tissue resists illness

and is speedily restored after every attack, so the wholesome mind of

such natures quickly and easily recovers from internal and external

misfortune. Such an antique nature, in so far as one can make this

statement of any of our contemporaries, was reincarnated in Winckelmann.

At the very beginning it endured its mighty probation, and was not tamed

by thirty years of humility, discomfort, and sorrow; it could neither be

diverted from its path, nor blunted by adversity. As soon as he attained

a worthy freedom, he appears well rounded and complete, quite in the

antique sense. He was to live a life of action, enjoyment and self

denial, joy and suffering, possession and loss, exaltation and

debasement--yet in such a strange medley he was always satisfied with

the beautiful world in which such a variable fate befalls us.

Just as in life he possessed a really antique spirit, so in his studies

he was faithful to the same ideal. In the treatment of science in

general the ancients were in a rather unfortunate position, since for

the comprehension of the varied objects of nature a division of powers

and capabilities, a disintegration of unity (so to speak) is almost

unavoidable. In a like case the modern scholar encounters an even

greater danger, because in the detailed investigation of manifold

subjects, he runs the risk of scattering his energies and of losing

himself in disconnected knowledge, without supplementing the incomplete,

as the ancients succeeded in doing, by the completeness of his own

personality.

However much Winckelmann wandered about in the fields of possible and

profitable knowledge, guided partly by pleasure and inclination, partly

by necessity, he always came back sooner or later to antiquity,

especially to Greek antiquity, with which he felt himself most closely

related, and with which he was destined so happily to be united in his

best days.

PAGANISM

The description of the ancient point of view, concerned only with this

world and its assets, leads us directly to the observation that such

advantages are conceivable only in a pagan mind. That confidence in

oneself, that activity in the present, the pure worship of the gods as

ancestors and the admiration of them _quasi_ as artistic creations only,

resignation to an all-powerful fate, the yearning for future fame,

itself dependent upon activities in this world--all these belonging

necessarily together, constitute such an inseparable whole that they

form a condition of human existence planned by Nature herself. In the

highest moment of happiness, as well as in the deepest of sacrifice,

even of destruction, we are always conscious of an indestructible

well-being.

This pagan point of view pervades Winckelmann's deeds and writings, and

is expressed especially in his early letters, where he is still wearing

himself out in the conflict with more modern religious opinions. This

mode of thought, this remoteness from the Christian point of view,

indeed his repugnance of it, must be remembered in judging his so-called

change of religion. The churches into which the Christian religion is

divided were a matter of complete indifference to him, because in his

inmost nature he never belonged to any of them.

FRIENDSHIP

Since the ancients, as we boast, were really entire men, they must, as

they found all happiness in themselves and the world, have learned to

know the relations of human beings in the widest sense; they could not

therefore be lacking in that delight which arises from the attachment of

similar natures.

Here also a remarkable difference between ancient and modern times is

revealed. The relation to woman, which with us has become so tender and

spiritual, hardly rose above the limits of the lowest satisfaction. The

relation of parents to children seems to have been of a somewhat more

tender character. The friendship of persons of the male sex for one

another, with them took the place of all other sentiments; although they

pictured the maidens Chloris and Thyia as inseparable friends, even in

Hades.

The passionate fulfilment of loving duties, the joy of inseparability,

the devotion of one for the other, their avowed allegiance during life,

and the duty of sharing death itself, if necessary, fill us with

astonishment. One even feels ashamed of one's own generation when poets,

historians, philosophers and orators overwhelm one with amazing stories,

events, sentiments and opinions, all of the same tenor and purport.

For a friendship of this character, Winckelmann felt himself born--not

only capable of it, but requiring it to the highest degree. He realized

himself only in the relation of friendship; he recognized himself only

in that image of the whole which requires a third for its completion.

Even at an early period he applied this ideal to a probably unworthy

object; to whom he consecrated himself, for whom he vowed himself to

live and to suffer; for whom he found even in his poverty the means of

being rich, of giving and of sacrificing; indeed he would not have

hesitated to surrender his existence, his very life. It is in this

relation that Winckelmann, even in the midst of poverty and need, feels

rich, generous and happy, because he is able to do something for him

whom he loves above everything else, and in whom he has, as the highest

sacrifice, to excuse even ingratitude.

However the times and circumstances might alter, Winckelmann reshaped

every object of worth with which he came in contact, to fit this ideal

of friendship. Although many of these attachments easily and quickly

vanish, the fine sentiment underlying them won for him the heart of many

an excellent man, and brought him the happiness of living in the most

beautiful relation with the best men of his age and environment.

BEAUTY

Although such a deep need of friendship really creates and idealizes the

object of its affection, the lover of antiquity would, through it alone,

achieve only a one-sided moral excellence. The external world would

offer him little, if along with it a related, similar need and a

satisfying object of this need did not fortunately appear--we refer to

the demand for the sensuously beautiful, as revealed in a tangible

object. For the supreme product of an ever evolving nature is the

beautiful man. It is true that Nature can but seldom produce him,

because the ideal is opposed by many existing conditions, and even her

almighty power cannot tarry long with the perfect, and perpetuate the

beauty it has produced; for, to be exact, we may say it is only for a

moment that the beautiful man remains beautiful.

Against this mutability art now enters the lists. For, by being placed

at the summit of nature, man views himself as a complete nature, which

must now produce another consummation. He attains this end by striving

for virtue and perfection, by appealing to selection, arrangement,

harmony and significance, through which he at length rises to the

production of a work of art, which achieves a brilliant place among his

other works and actions. Once achieved and standing in its ideal reality

before the world, it produces a lasting and supreme effect. For in its

spiritual development from all of man's powers, it adopts all that is

noble and lovable; and by spiritualizing the human form and raising man

above himself, it closes the circle of his life and activity, and

deifies him in the present, in which both past and future are included.

By such emotions were those overwhelmed who saw the Olympian Jupiter, as

we gather from the descriptions and testimony of the ancients. God had

become man in order to raise man to God. One beheld supreme dignity and

was inspired by supreme beauty. In this sense we can only acknowledge

that the ancients were right when they said, with profoundest

conviction, that it was a misfortune to die without having seen this

great work.

For the appreciation of this beauty Winckelmann was by nature fitted. He

first learned of it in the writings of the ancients, but encountered it

personified in the works of art, in which we all first learn to know it,

that we may recognize and treasure it in nature's living creations.

When, however, the requirements of friendship and of beauty both find

inspiration in the same object, the happiness and gratitude of man seem

to pass all bounds. All that he possesses he would gladly give as a

feeble testimony of his attachment and his devotion.

So we often find Winckelmann in friendship with beautiful youths, and

never does he appear more animated and lovable than in such, though

often only flitting, moments.

CATHOLICISM

With such opinions, with such needs and longings, Winckelmann for a long

time served objects alien to his own desires. Nowhere about him did he

see the least hope of help and assistance.

Count Bünau, in his capacity of a private gentleman, needed only to buy

one valuable book less in order to open for Winckelmann the road to

Rome; as a minister of state he had influence enough to have helped this

excellent man out of every difficulty; but he was probably unwilling to

lose so capable a servant, or else he had no appreciation of the great

service he would have rendered the world by encouraging a gifted man.

The Court at Dresden, from which Winckelmann might eventually hope for

adequate support, professed the Roman faith, and there was scarcely any

other way to attain favor and consideration than through confessors and

other members of the clergy.

The example of a Prince is a mighty influence in his country, and

incites with secret power every citizen to like actions in private life,

especially to moral actions. The religion of a Prince always remains in

a certain sense the ruling religion, and the Roman faith, like a

whirlpool, draws the quietly passing waves to itself and into its

vortex.

In addition to this Winckelmann must have felt that a man, in order to

be a Roman in Rome, in order to identify himself with the life there,

and to enjoy confidential association, must necessarily profess the

religion of his associates, must yield to their faith, and accommodate

himself to their usages. The final result actually shows that he could

not have attained his end without this early decision, which was made

much easier for him by the fact that, as a thorough heathen by nature,

he had never become Christianized by his Protestant baptism.

Yet this change in his condition was not achieved without a bitter

struggle. We may, in accordance with our convictions, and for reasons

sufficiently weighty, make a final decision which is in perfect harmony

with our volition, desires and needs, which indeed seems unavoidable for

the maintenance and continuance of our very existence, so that we are in

perfect accord with ourselves. But such a decision may contradict the

prevailing opinion and the convictions of many people. Then a new

struggle begins, which, while it may cause no uncertainty, yet may

occasion discomfort, impatience and annoyance, because we discover

occasional inconsistencies in our actions while we suspect the existence

of many more in ourselves.

And so Winckelmann, before his intended step, seemed anxious, fearful,

sorrowful and swayed by deep emotion when he thought of its probable

effect, especially upon his first patron, Count Bünau. How beautiful,

sincere and upright are his confidential expressions upon this point!

For every man who changes his religion is marked by a certain stigma

from which it seems impossible to free him. From this it is evident that

men cherish a steadfast purpose above all else, all the more so because

they, divided into factions, constantly have their own safety and

stability in mind. This is not a matter of feeling or conviction. We

should be steadfast precisely there where fate rather than choice places

us. To remain faithful to one people, one city, one Prince, one friend,

one woman; to trace back everything to them; to labor, want and suffer

everything for their sake--this is estimable. To desert them is hateful;

inconstancy is contemptible.

Thus is indeed the harsh, the very serious side of the question, but it

may also be viewed from another point of view from which it has a more

pleasing and less serious aspect. Certain conditions of society, which

we in no sense approve of, certain moral blemishes in others, have an

especial charm for the imagination. If the comparison be permitted, we

might say that it is in this matter as it is with game which, to the

cultivated palate, tastes far better slightly tainted than when fresh. A

divorced woman or a renegade make an especially interesting impression.

Persons who would otherwise appear to be merely interesting and

agreeable, now appear admirable. It cannot be denied that Winckelmann's

change of religion considerably heightens in our imagination the

romantic side of his life and being.

But to Winckelmann himself the Catholic religion presented nothing

attractive. He saw in it only the masquerade dress which he threw around

him, and expressed himself bitterly enough about it. Even at a later

period he does not seem to have sufficiently observed its usages, and by

loose speech he perhaps made himself suspicious to devout

believers--here and there at least a slight fear of the Inquisition is

perceptible.

REALIZATION OF GREEK ART

The transition from literature, even from the highest things that have

been expressed in word and language, from poetry and rhetoric, to the

plastic and graphic arts is difficult, indeed almost impossible. For

there lies between the two a tremendous chasm, over which only a

specially adapted nature can help us. We have now a sufficiently large

number of documents lying before us to enable us to judge how far

Winckelmann succeeded in doing this.

Through the joy of appreciation he was first attracted to the treasures

of art; but in order to use and judge them, he required artists as

intermediaries, whose more or less authoritative opinions he was able to

comprehend, revise, and express. In this manner originated his treatise

_Concerning the Imitation of Greek Masterpieces in Painting and

Sculpture_, with two appendices, published while he was still in

Dresden.

However much Winckelmann appears, even here, to be upon the right path;

however many delightful, fundamental passages these writings contain,

however correctly the final aim of art is already defined in them, they

are nevertheless, both as regards form and subject, so baroque and

curious, that one would in vain seek their meaning, unless he had

definite information concerning the personality of the connoisseurs and

judges of art at that time assembled in Saxony, and concerning their

abilities, opinions, inclinations and whims. These writings will

therefore remain a sealed book to posterity, unless well informed

connoisseurs of art, who lived nearer those times, should soon decide

either to write or cause to be written a description of the then

existing conditions, in so far as this is still possible. Lippert,

Hagedorn, Oeser, Dietrich, Heinecken and Oesterreich loved, practised

and promoted art, each in his own way. Their purposes were restricted,

their maxims were one-sided, yea, very often, freakish. They circulated

stories and anecdotes, the varied application of which was intended not

only to entertain but also to instruct society. From such elements arose

the earliest treatises of Winckelmann, which he himself very soon found

unsatisfactory, as indeed he did not conceal from his friends.

Although not sufficiently prepared, yet with some practical experience,

he at length began his journey, and reached that country where for the

receptive mind the time of real culture begins--that culture which

permeates the entire being, and finds expression in creations which must

be as real as they are harmonious, because they have, as a matter of

fact, proved powerful as a firm bond of union between most different

natures.

ROME

Winckelmann was at last in Rome, and who could be worthier to feel the

influence which that great privilege is able to produce upon a truly

perceptive nature! He sees his wish fulfilled, his happiness

established, his hopes more than satisfied. His ideals stand embodied

about him. He wanders astonished through the ruins of a gigantic age,

the greatest that art has produced, under the open sky; freely he lifts

his eyes to these wonderful works as to the stars of the firmament, and

every locked treasure is opened for a small gift. Like a pilgrim, the

newcomer creeps about unobserved; he approaches the most sublime and

holy treasures in an unseemly garment. As yet he permits no detail to

distract him, the whole affects him with endless variety, and he already

feels the harmony which finally must arise for him out of these

infinitely diversified elements. He gazes upon, he examines everything,

and to make his happiness complete, he is taken for an artist, as every

one in his heart would gladly be.

In lieu of further observations, we submit to our readers the

overpowering influence of the situation, as a friend has clearly and

sympathetically described it.

"Rome is a place where all antiquity is concentrated into a unity for

our inspection. What we have felt with the ancient poets, concerning

ancient forms of government, we believe more than ever to feel, even to

see, in Rome. As Homer cannot be compared with other poets, so Rome can

be compared with no other city, the Roman country with no other

landscape. Most of this impression is no doubt due, it is true, to

ourselves, and not to the subject; but it is not only the sentimental

thought of standing where this or that great man has stood, it is an

irresistible attraction toward what we regard as--although it may be

through a necessary deception--a noble and sublime past; a power which

even he who wished to cannot resist, because the desolation in which the

present inhabitants leave the land and the incredible masses of ruins

themselves attract and convince the eye. And as this past appears to the

mind in a grandeur which excludes all envy, in which one is more than

happy to take part, if only with the imagination (indeed, no other

participation is conceivable); and as the senses too are charmed by the

beauty of form, the grandeur and simplicity of the figures, the richness

of the vegetation (though not luxuriant like that of a more southern

region), the precision of the outlines in the clear air and the beauty

of the colors in their transparency--so the enjoyment of nature is here

a purely artistic one, free from everything distracting. Everywhere else

the ideas of contrast appear and the enjoyment of nature is elegiac or

satiric. It is true that these sentiments exist only for us. To Horace,

Tibur seemed more modern than does Tivoli to us, as is proved by his

'Beatus ille qui procul negotiis,' but it is only an illusion to imagine

that we ourselves would like to be inhabitants of Athens or Rome. Only

in the distance, separated from everything common, only as a thing of

the past, must antiquity appear to us. This is the sentiment of a friend

and myself, at least, in regard to the ruins; we are always incensed

when a half sunken ruin is excavated; for this can only be a gain for

scholarship at the expense of the imagination. There are only two things

which inspire me with an equal horror: that the Campagna di Roma should

be built up, and that Rome should become a well policed city, in which

no man any longer carried a knife. Should such an order-loving Pope

appear--which may the seventy-two cardinals prevent--shall move

away. Only if such divine anarchy and such a heavenly wilderness remain

in Rome, is there place for the shadows, one of which is worth more than

the whole present race."

RAFAEL MENGS

But Winckelmann might have groped a long time among the multitudes of

antique survivals in search of the most valuable objects and those most

worthy of his observation, if good fortune had not immediately brought

him into contact with Mengs. The latter, whose own great talent was

enthralled by the ancient works of art and especially by such as were

beautiful, immediately introduced his friend to the most excellent--a

fact worthy of our attention. Here Winckelmann learned to recognize

beauty of form and its treatment, and was immediately inspired to

undertake a treatise, _Concerning the Taste of the Greek Artists_. But

one cannot go about studying works of art for any length of time

without discovering that they are the productions not only of different

artists but of different epochs, and that all investigations concerning

the place of their origin, their age, their individual merit must be

undertaken together. Winckelmann, with his unerring perception, soon

found that this was the axis on which the entire knowledge of art

revolves. He confined himself at first to the most sublime works, which

he intended to present in a treatise, _Concerning the Style of Sculpture

in the Age of Phidias_, but he soon rose above these details to the idea

of a history of art, and discovered a new Columbus, a land long

surmised, hinted at and discussed--yea, a land, we might say, that had

formerly been known and forgotten.

It is sad to observe how at first through the Romans, afterward through

the invasion of northern peoples, and the confusion arising in

consequence, mankind came into such a state that all true and pure

culture was for a long time retarded in its development, indeed was

almost made impossible for the entire future. In any field of art and

science that we may contemplate, a direct and unerring perception had

already revealed much to the ancient investigator which, during the

barbarism which followed, and through the barbaric manner of escaping

from barbarism, became and remained a secret; which it will long

continue to be for the masses, because the general progress of higher

culture in modern times is but slow. This remark does not apply to

technical progress, of which mankind happily makes use without asking

questions as to whence it comes and whither it leads.

We are impelled to this observation by certain passages of ancient

authors, in which anticipations, even indications, of a possible and

necessary history of art appear. Velleius Paterculus observes with great

interest, the coincidence in the rise and fall of all the arts. As a man

of the world, he was especially concerned with the observation that they

could be maintained only for a short time at the highest point which it

was possible for them to reach.

From his standpoint he could not regard all arts as a living entity

[Greek: (psoon)], which must necessarily reveal an imperceptible

beginning, a slow growth, a short and brilliant period of perfection,

and a gradual decline--like every other organic being, except that it is

manifested in a number of individuals. He therefore assigns only moral

causes, which certainly must be included as contributory, but hardly

satisfy his own great sagacity, because he probably feels that a

necessity here exists which cannot be compounded out of detached

elements.

"That the grammarians, painters and sculptors fared as did also the

orators, every one will find who examines the testimony of the ages; the

highest development of every art is invariably circumscribed by a very

short space of time. Just why a number of similarly endowed, capable men

make their appearance within a certain cycle of years and devote

themselves to the same art and its advancement, is a matter upon which I

have often reflected, without discovering any cause that I might present

as true. Among the most probable causes the following seem to me the

most important: Rivalry nourishes the talents; here envy, and there

admiration, incite to imitation, and the art promoted with so much

diligence quickly reaches its culmination. It is difficult to remain in

a state of perfection, and what does not advance retrogrades. And so in

the beginning we endeavor to attain our models, but when we despair of

surpassing or even approaching them, diligence and hope grow old, and

what we fail to attain, is no longer pursued. We cease to strive after

the possession already obtained by another, and search for something

new. Relinquishing that in which we cannot shine, we seek another goal

for our efforts. From this inconstancy, it seems to me, arises the

greatest obstacle to the production of perfect works of art."