treats his subjects. In external forms he is indeed varied enough, but
throughout he makes too much use of direct irony; namely, in praising
the blameworthy and blaming the praiseworthy, whereas this figure of
speech should be used but extremely seldom; for, in the long run, it
becomes annoying to clear-sighted men, perplexes the weak, while indeed
it pleases the great middle class, who, without any special expense of
mind, can fancy themselves more knowing than others. But whatever he
brings before us, and however he does it, alike bears witness to his
rectitude, cheerfulness, and equanimity; so that we always feel
prepossessed in his favor. The unbounded applause of his own times was a
consequence of such moral excellencies.
That people looked for originals to his general descriptions and found
them, was natural; that individuals complained of him, followed from the
above; his lengthy apologies that his satire is not personal, prove the
spite it provoked. Some of his letters crown him at once as a man and an
author. The confidential epistle in which he describes the siege of
Dresden, and how he loses his house, his effects, his writings, and his
wigs, without having his equanimity in the least shaken or his
cheerfulness clouded, is highly valuable; although his contemporaries
and fellow-citizens could not forgive him his happy turn of mind. The
letter where he speaks of the decay of his strength and of his
approaching death is in the highest degree worthy of respect; and
Rabener deserves to be honored as a saint by all cheerful, intelligent
men, who cheerfully resign themselves to earthly events.
I tear myself away from him reluctantly, yet I would make this remark:
his satire refers throughout to the middle class; he lets us see here
and there that he is also well acquainted with the higher ranks, but
does not hold it advisable to come in contact with them. It may be said,
that he has had no successor, that no one has been found who could
consider himself equal or even similar to him.
Now for criticism! and first of all for the theoretic attempts. It is
not going too far when we say that the ideal had, at that time, escaped
out of the world into religion; it scarcely even made its appearance in
moral philosophy; of a highest principle of art no one had a notion.
They put Gottsched's "Critical Art of Poetry" into our hands; it was
useful and instructive enough, for it gave us a historical information
of all the kinds of poetry, as well as of rhythm and its different
movements: the poetic genius was presupposed! But, besides that, the
poet was to have acquirements and even learning: he should possess
taste, and every thing else of that kind. They directed us at last to
Horace's "Art of Poetry:" we gazed at single golden maxims of this
invaluable work, but did not know in the least what to do with it as a
whole, or how we should use it.
The Swiss stepped forth as Gottsched's antagonists: they must take it
into their heads to do something different, to accomplish something
better; accordingly we heard that they were, in fact, superior.
Breitinger's "Critical Art of Poetry" was taken in hand. Here we reached
a wider field, but, properly speaking, only a greater labyrinth, which
was so much the more tiresome, as an able man, in whom we had
confidence, was driving us about in it. Let a brief review justify these
words.
For poetry in itself they had been able to find no fundamental axiom: it
was too spiritual and too volatile. Painting, an art which one could
hold fast with one's eyes, and follow step by step with the external
senses, seemed more favorable for such an end: the English and French
had already theorized about plastic art; and, by a comparison drawn from
this, it was thought that poetry might be grounded. The former presented
images to the eye, the latter to the imagination: poetical images,
therefore, were the first thing which was taken into consideration.
People began with comparisons, descriptions followed, and only that was
expressed which had always been apparent to the external senses.
Images, then! But where should these images be got except from nature?
The painter professedly imitated nature: why not the poet also? But
nature, as she lies before us, cannot be imitated: she contains so much
that is insignificant and worthless, that one must make a selection; but
what determines the choice? one must select that which is important: but
what is important?
To answer this question, the Swiss may have taken a long time to
consider; for they came to a notion, which is indeed singular, but
clever, and even comical, inasmuch as they say, the new is always the
most important: and after they have considered this for a while, they
discover that the marvellous is always newer than every thing else.
They had now pretty well collected their poetical requisitions; but they
had still to consider that the marvellous might also be empty, and
without relation to man. But this relation, demanded as necessary, must
be a moral one, from which the improvement of mankind should manifestly
follow; and thus a poem had reached its utmost aim when, with every
thing else accomplished, it was useful besides. They now wished to test
the different kinds of poetry according to all these requisites: those
which imitated nature, besides being marvellous, and at the same time of
a moral aim and use, were to rank as the first and highest. And, after
much deliberation, this great pre-eminence was at last ascribed, with
the highest degree of conviction, to Aesop's fables!
Strange as such a deduction may now appear, it had the most decided
influence on the best minds. That Gellert and subsequently Lichtwer
devoted themselves to this department, that even Lessing attempted to
labor in it, that so many others turned their talents towards it, speaks
for the confidence which this species of poetry had gained. Theory and
practice always act upon each other: one can see from their works what
is the men's opinion, and, from their opinions, predict what they will
do.
Yet we must not dismiss our Swiss theory without doing it justice.
Bodmer, with all the pains he took, remained theoretically and
practically a child all his life. Breitinger was an able, learned,
sagacious man, whom, when he looked rightly about him, the essentials of
a poem did not all escape,--nay, it can be shown that he may have dimly
felt the deficiencies of his system. Remarkable, for instance, is his
query, "Whether a certain descriptive poem by König, on the 'Review-camp
of Augustus the Second,' is properly a poem?" and the answer to it
displays good sense. But it may serve for his complete justification
that he, starting from a false point, on a circle almost run out
already, still struck upon the main principle, and at the end of his
book finds himself compelled to recommend as additions, so to speak, the
representation of manners, character, passions,--in short, the whole
inner man; to which, indeed, poetry pre-eminently belongs.
It may well be imagined into what perplexity young minds felt themselves
thrown by such dislocated maxims, half-understood laws, and shivered-up
dogmas. We adhere to examples, and there, too, were no better off;
foreigners as well as the ancients stood too far from us; and from the
best native poets always peeped out a decided individuality, to the good
points of which we could not lay claim, and into the faults of which we
could not but be afraid of falling. For him who felt any thing
productive in himself it was a desperate condition.
When one considers closely what was wanting in the German poetry, it was
a material, and that, too, a national one: there was never a lack of
talent. Here we make mention only of Günther, who may be called a poet
in the full sense of the word. A decided talent, endowed with
sensuousness, imagination, memory, the gifts of conception and
representation, productive in the highest degree, ready at rhythm,
ingenious, witty, and of varied information besides,--he possessed, in
short, all the requisites for creating, by means of poetry, a second
life within life, even within common real life. We admire the great
facility with which, in his occasional poems, he elevates all
circumstances by the feelings, and embellishes them with suitable
sentiments, images, and historical and fabulous traditions. Their
roughness and wildness belong to his time, his mode of life, and
especially to his character, or, if one would have it so, his want of
fixed character. He did not know how to curb himself; and so his life,
like his poetry, melted away from him.
By his vacillating conduct, Günther had trifled away the good fortune of
being appointed at the court of Augustus the Second, where, in addition
to every other species of ostentation, they were also looking about for
a court-poet, who could give elevation and grace to their festivities,
and immortalize a transitory pomp. Von König was more mannerly and more
fortunate: he filled this post with dignity and applause.
In all sovereign states the material for poetry comes downwards from
above; and "The Review-camp at Mühlberg" ("Das Lustlager bei Mühlberg")
was, perhaps, the first worthy object, provincial, if not national,
which presented itself to a poet. Two kings saluting one another in the
presence of a great host, their whole courts and military state around
them, well-appointed troops, a mock-fight, /fêtes/ of all kinds,--
this is business enough for the outward sense, and overflowing material
for delineating and descriptive poetry.
This subject had, indeed, the internal defect, that it was only pomp and
show, from which no real action could result. None except the very first
distinguished themselves; and, even if they had done so, the poet could
not render any one conspicuous lest he should offend the others. He had
to consult the "Court and State Calendar;" and the delineation of the
persons therefore went off pretty dryly,--nay, even his contemporaries
very strongly reproached him with having described the horses better
than the men. But should not this redound to his credit, that he showed
his art just where an object for it presented itself? The main
difficulty, too, seems soon to have manifested itself to him,--since the
poem never advanced beyond the first canto.
Amidst such studies and reflections, an unexpected event surprised me,
and frustrated my laudable design of becoming acquainted with our new
literature from the beginning. My countryman, John George Schlosser,
after spending his academical years with industry and exertion, had
repaired to Frankfort-on-the-Main, in the customary profession of an
advocate; but his mind, aspiring and seeking after the universal, could
not reconcile itself to this situation for many reasons. He accepted,
without hesitation, an office as private secretary to the Duke Ludwig of
Wurtemberg, who resided in Treptow; for the prince was named among those
great men who, in a noble and independent manner, purposed to enlighten
themselves, their families, and the world, and to unite for higher aims.
It was this Prince Ludwig who, to ask advice about the education of his
children, had written to Rousseau, whose well-known answer began with
the suspicious-looking phrase, "/Si j'avais le malheur d'être né
prince/."
Not only in the affairs of the prince, but also in the education of his
children, Schlosser was now willingly to assist in word and deed, if not
to superintend them. This noble young man, who harbored the best
intentions and strove to attain a perfect purity of morals, would have
easily kept men from him by a certain dry austerity, if his fine and
rare literary cultivation, his knowledge of languages, and his facility
at expressing himself by writing, both in verse and prose, had not
attracted every one, and made living with him more agreeable. It had
been announced to me that he would pass through Leipzig, and I expected
him with longing. He came and put up at a little inn or wine-house that
stood in the /Brühl/ (Marsh), and the host of which was named
Schönkopf. This man had a Frankfort woman for his wife; and although he
entertained few persons during the rest of the year, and could lodge no
guests in his little house, yet at fair-time he was visited by many
Frankforters, who used to eat, and, in case of need, even take quarters,
there also. Thither I hastened to find Schlosser, when he had sent to
inform me of his arrival. I scarcely remembered having seen him before,
and found a young, well-formed man, with a round, compressed face,
without the features losing their sharpness on that account. The form of
his rounded forehead, between black eyebrows and locks, indicated
earnestness, sternness, and perhaps obstinacy. He was, in a certain
measure, the opposite of myself; and this very thing doubtless laid the
foundation of our lasting friendship. I had the greatest respect for his
talents, the more so as I very well saw, that, in the certainty with
which he acted and produced, he was completely my superior. The respect
and the confidence which I showed him confirmed his affection, and
increased the indulgence he was compelled to have for my lively,
impetuous, and ever-excitable disposition, in such contrast with his
own. He studied the English writers diligently: Pope, if not his model,
was his aim; and, in opposition to that author's "Essay on Man," he had
written a poem in like form and measure, which was to give the Christian
religion the triumph over the deism of the other work. From the great
store of papers which he carried with him, he showed me poetical and
prose compositions in all languages, which, as they challenged me to
imitation, once more gave me infinite disquietude. Yet I contrived to
get over it immediately by activity. I wrote German, French, English,
and Italian poems, addressed to him, the subject-matter of which I took
from our conversations, which were always important and instructive.
Schlosser did not wish to leave Leipzig without having seen face to face
the men who had a name. I willingly took him to those I knew: with those
whom I had not yet visited, I in this way became honorably acquainted;
since he was received with distinction as a well-informed man of
education, of already established character, and well knew how to pay
for the outlay of conversation. I cannot pass over our visit we paid to
Gottsched, as it exemplifies the character and manners of that man. He
lived very respectably in the first story of the Golden Bear, where the
elder Breitkopf, on account of the great advantage which Gottsched's
writings, translations, and other aids had brought to the trade, had
promised him a lodging for life.
We were announced. The servant led us into a large chamber, saying his
master would come immediately. Now, whether we misunderstood a gesture
which he made, I cannot say: it is enough, we thought he directed us
into an adjoining room. We entered, to witness a singular scene: for, on
the instant, Gottsched, that tall, broad, gigantic man, came in at the
opposite door in a morning-gown of green damask lined with red taffeta;
but his monstrous head was bald and uncovered. This, however, was to be
immediately provided for: the servant rushed in at a side-door with a
great full-bottomed wig in his hand (the curls came down to the elbows),
and handed the head-ornament to his master with gestures of terror.
Gottsched, without manifesting the least vexation, raised the wig from
the servant's arm with his left hand, and, while he very dexterously
swung it up on his head, gave the poor fellow such a box on the ear with
his right paw, that the latter, as often happens in a comedy, went
spinning out at the door; whereupon the respectable old grandfather
invited us quite gravely to be seated, and kept up a pretty long
discourse with good grace.
As long as Schlosser remained in Leipzig, I dined daily with him, and
became acquainted with a very pleasant set of boarders. Some Livonians,
and the son of Hermann (chief court-preacher in Dresden), afterwards
burgomaster in Leipzig, and their tutor, Hofrath Pfeil, author of the
"Count von P.," a continuation of Gellert's "Swedish Countess;"
Zachariä, a brother of the poet; and Krebel, editor of geographical and
genealogical manuals,--all these were polite, cheerful, and friendly
men. Zachariä was the most quiet; Pfeil, an elegant man, who had
something almost diplomatic about him, yet without affectation, and with
great good humor; Krebel, a genuine Falstaff, tall, corpulent, fair,
with prominent, merry eyes, as bright as the sky, always happy and in
good spirits. These persons all treated me in the most handsome manner,
partly on Schlosser's account--partly, too, on account of my own frank
good humor and obliging disposition; and it needed no great persuasion
to make me partake of their table in future. In fact, I remained with
them after Schlosser's departure, deserted Ludwig's table, and found
myself so much the better off in this society, which was limited to a
certain number, as I was very well pleased with the daughter of the
family, a very neat, pretty girl, and had opportunities to exchange
friendly glances with her,--a comfort which I had neither sought nor
found by accident since the mischance with Gretchen. I spent the dinner-
hours with my friends cheerfully and profitably. Krebel, indeed, loved
me, and continued to tease me and stimulate me in moderation: Pfeil, on
the contrary, showed his earnest affection for me by trying to guide and
settle my judgment upon many points.
During this intercourse, I perceived through conversation, through
examples, and through my own reflections, that the first step in
delivering ourselves from the wishy-washy, long-winded, empty epoch,
could be taken only by definiteness, precision, and brevity. In the
style which had hitherto prevailed, one could not distinguish the
commonplace from what was better; since all were brought down to a level
with each other. Authors had already tried to escape from this wide-
spread disease, with more or less success. Haller and Ramler were
inclined to compression by nature: Lessing and Wieland were led to it by
reflection. The former became by degrees quite epigrammatical in his
poems, terse in "Minna," laconic in "Emilia Galotti,"--it was not till
afterwards that he returned to that serene /naiveté/ which becomes
him so well in "Nathan." "Wieland, who had been occasionally prolix in
"Agathon," "Don Sylvio," and the "Comic Tales," becomes condensed and
precise to a wonderful degree, as well as exceedingly graceful in
"Musarion" and "Idris." Klopstock, in the first cantos of "The Messiah,"
is not without diffuseness: in his "Odes" and other minor poems he
appears compressed, as also in his tragedies. By his emulation of the
ancients, especially Tacitus, he sees himself constantly forced into
narrower limits, by which he at last becomes obscure and unpalatable.
Gerstenberg, a fine but eccentric talent, also distinguishes himself:
his merit is appreciated, but on the whole he gives little pleasure.
Gleim, diffuse and easy by nature, is scarcely once concise in his war-
songs. Ramler is properly more a critic than a poet. He begins to
collect what the Germans have accomplished in lyric poetry. He now
finds, that scarcely one poem fully satisfies him: he must leave out,
arrange, and alter, that the things may have some shape or other. By
this means he makes himself almost as many enemies as there are poets
and amateurs; since every one, properly speaking, recognizes himself
only in his defects: and the public interests itself sooner for a faulty
individuality than for that which is produced or amended according to a
universal law of taste. Rhythm lay yet in the cradle, and no one knew of
a method to shorten its childhood. Poetical prose came into the
ascendant. Gessner and Klopstock excited many imitators: others, again,
still demanded an intelligible metre, and translated this prose into
rhythm. But even these gave nobody satisfaction, for they were obliged
to omit and add; and the prose original always passed for the better of
the two. But the more, with all this, conciseness is aimed at, the more
does a judgment become possible; since that which is important, being
more closely compressed, allows a certain comparison at last. It
happened, also, at the same time, that many kinds of truly poetical
forms arose; for, as they tried to represent only what was necessary in
the objects they wished to imitate, they were forced to do justice to
every one of these: and in this manner, though no one did it
consciously, the modes of representation multiplied themselves, among
which, indeed, were some which were really caricatures, while many an
attempt proved unsuccessful.
Without question, Wieland possessed the finest natural gifts of all. He
had early cultivated himself thoroughly in those ideal regions where
youth so readily lingers; but when, by what is called experience, by the
events of the world, and women, these were rendered distasteful to him,
he threw himself on the side of the actual, and pleased himself and
others with the contest of the two worlds, where, in light skirmishing
between jest and earnest, his talent displayed itself most beautifully.
How many of his brilliant productions fall into the time of my academic
years! "Musarion" had the most effect upon me; and I can yet remember
the place and the very spot where I got sight of the first proof-sheet,
which Oeser gave me. Here it was that I believed I saw antiquity again
living and fresh. Every thing that is plastic in Wieland's genius here
showed itself in its highest perfection; and when that Phanias-Timon,
condemned to an unhappy insipidity, finally reconciles himself to his
mistress and to the world, one can well, with him, live through the
misanthropical epoch. For the rest, we readily conceded to these works a
cheerful aversion from those exalted sentiments, which, by reason of
their easy misapplication to life, are often open to the suspicion of
dreaminess. We pardoned the author for prosecuting with ridicule what we
held as true and reverend, the more readily as he thereby gave us to
understand that it caused him continual trouble.
How miserably criticism then received such labors may be seen from the
first volumes of "The Universal German Library." Of "The Comic Tales"
there is honorable mention, but there is no trace of any insight into
the character of the kind of poetry. The reviewer, like every one at
that time, had formed his taste by examples. He never takes it into
consideration, that, in a judgment of such parodistical works, one must
first of all have before one's eyes the original noble, beautiful
object, in order to see whether the parodist has really gotten from it a
weak and comical side, whether he has borrowed any thing from it, or,
under the appearance of such an imitation, has perhaps given us an
excellent invention of his own. Of all this there is not a notion, but
the poems are praised and blamed by passages. The reviewer, as he
himself confesses, has marked so much that pleased him, that he cannot
quote it all in print. When they even meet the highly meritorious
translation of Shakespeare with the exclamation, "By rights, a man like
Shakespeare should not have been translated at all!" it will be
understood, without further remark, how infinitely "The Universal German
Library" was behind-hand in matters of taste, and that young people,
animated by true feeling, had to look about them for other guiding
stars.