became illustrious, and though we have instances of youthful dullards
who have ripened into fame, they are rare in comparison with those who
in early youth have given some indications of future renown. Of these
last Germany's favorite bard is one. Born in the little village of
Marbach, in the duchy of Wuertemberg, on November 10, 1759, he, when a
child, evinced proofs of remarkable imaginative and creative power. At
as early an age as six he showed that he possessed a fearless nature
and an inquiring mind. A terrific storm was raging, and his parents
searched for him in vain; the vivid lightning and the crashing thunder
increased their anxiety, but they could find no trace of the child. At
length, when the storm was over, he was seen to descend from the
topmost branches of a great lime-tree near the house. They rushed
toward him and inquired why he had selected so dangerous a refuge. "I
wanted to see," he replied, with an intrepid air, "where all the fire
came from." Even at this period he found his favorite reading in the
prophetic books of the Old Testament, and it was probably from Ezekiel
that he derived his inspiration for Franz Moor's dream in "The
Robbers." His mother taught him to read, and the stories she related
to him were listened to with avidity; she was his closest companion
and friend, and from her he inherited the gifts which made his name a
household word in every home in Germany. He was brought up in a
religious and scholarly household. Prayers twice a day, regular
attendance at church, the study of Greek and Latin already
commenced--these were his principal occupations at seven years of age,
when other lads were playing about the fields. From his father he also
inherited the literary instinct. The elder Schiller, at the time his
son was born, was a lieutenant in the service of the dissolute and
tyrannical Duke of Wuertemberg, and was subsequently appointed governor
of the palace of Solitude. He was a struggling man, and often felt the
pinch of poverty. Nine books composed his library, among them
"Erkenntniss Sein Selbst" and a Wuertemberg "Hymnal." During the
performance of his duties in Solitude he wrote a treatise on the
cultivation of trees, which was very favorably received. Young
Schiller's poetic instinct displayed itself on his tenth New-Year,
when he greeted his father in German verse, to which he attached a
translation in Latin. His taste for the stage also found early vent in
the construction of a mimic theatre and cardboard characters, with
which he used to play till he was fourteen, when the important
question of his future education was discussed in family council. His
mother wished him to be placed in a private school at Tuebingen, and
his father was not averse; but the question was decided by the
despotic Duke Carl, who insisted that the lad should be educated in
the military academy he had established upon his estate, a few miles
from Ludwigsburg, and which, two or three years afterward, was
transferred to Stuttgart. Thither, therefore, Schiller was sent to
study and prepare himself for the battle of life, and it was there he
imbibed that contempt for servile obedience to military authority
which, in "The Robbers," gave so extraordinary an impetus to
revolutionary ideas in his native country, especially in the minds of
the young. Slavish discipline was the law in the academy; the scholars
wore a military uniform; they were soldiers, and were taught to obey
the word of command; the sword and the drum were the symbols of
authority; there were stated minutes and hours not only for important
duties, but for the smallest observances and pleasures. The drum
heralded the pupils to church, summoned them to their meals, announced
when they were to begin to play and when to leave off, dismissed them
to bed, commanded them to rise.
Schiller writhed under this discipline, which, to those who yielded
patiently and uncomplainingly, might have been a death-blow to
personal independence. In one of his letters to a young friend he
wrote, "Do not imagine that I shall bow to the yoke of this absurd and
revolting routine. So long as my spirit can assert its freedom it will
not submit to fetters. To the free man the sight of slavery is
abhorrent; to calmly survey the chains by which he is bound is not
possible. My soul often revolts at the anticipation of punishment in
cases where I am satisfied that my actions are reasonable." The
masters of the academy had a difficult task to subdue the spirit of
such a youth, and it was fortunate for literature that they did not
succeed. The poet's wings would not be clipped, and in spite of the
restrictions by which he was surrounded, Schiller pursued his
imaginative course, and found time to feed upon the poetry he adored.
To Klopstock's works he was specially indebted; that poet's "Messiah"
and Virgil's "Aeneid" may be said to have been the first solid stones
in the foundation upon which his fame was to rest. There were, it is
true, but slight traces of originality in a poem he wrote at this
period, the hero of which was the prophet Moses, and it was due to the
religious sentiment by which he was powerfully affected through
Klopstock's works, that he chose such a subject. It had been decided
that the church was to be his career, but he soon abandoned the idea,
and transferred his affections to medicine, which he studied
assiduously, without neglecting the groove to which his genius was
leading him by slow but sure steps. Gerstenberg's great tragedy,
"Ugolino," fell by chance into his hands, and gave him a new impetus;
"Goetz von Berlichingen" fascinated him; and then came a revelation
from a greater poet than all. Shakespeare, whose works he loved and
revered with passionate ardor, and to emulate whom was perhaps the
greatest ambition of his life. He was seventeen when he first saw
himself in print. He wrote a poem called "Evening," which he sent to
Haug's "Swabian Magazine;" it possessed no particular merit, and was
chiefly remarkable for its resemblance to the works he had read and
admired; but the editor spoke of it in terms of praise, and predicted
that its author would become an honor to Germany. He wrote in secret,
and was already busy sketching "The Robbers," and writing scenes in
that famous drama; he and his young friends used to meet clandestinely
and declaim their compositions, concealing their manuscripts when
their rooms were searched and inspected by the ushers and masters. He
suffered intensely in his friendships, and his letters breathed rather
the spirit of a man who had lived to see his fondest idols shattered,
than that of a youth who had scarcely reached his spring-time. In his
criticisms upon himself he was unsparingly harsh, and long after "The
Robbers" had been declared to be a work of the highest genius, he
penned the following remarkable condemnation of the play: "An
extraordinary mistake of nature doomed me, in my birthplace, to be a
poet. An inclination for poetry was an offence against the laws of the
institution in which I was educated. For eight years my enthusiasm had
to struggle with military discipline; but a passion for poetry is
strong and ardent as first love. It only served to inflame what it was
designed to extinguish. To escape from things that were a torment to
me my soul expatiated in an ideal world; but, unacquainted with the
real world, from which I was separated by iron bars--unacquainted with
mankind, for the four hundred fellow-creatures around me were but one
and the same individual, or rather faithful casts from the same model
which plastic nature solemnly disowned--unacquainted with the passions
and propensities of independent agents, for here only one arrived at
maturity (one that I shall not now mention)--unacquainted with the
fair sex, for it is well known that the doors of this institution are
not open to females, except before they begin to be interesting and
when they have ceased to be so--my pencil could not but miss that
middle line between angels and devils, and produce a monster, which
fortunately had no existence in the world, and to which I wish
immortality merely that it may serve as a specimen of the issue
engendered by the unnatural union of subordination and genius. I
allude to 'The Robbers.' The whole moral world had accused the author
of high treason. He has no other excuse to offer than the climate
under which this piece was born. If any of the numberless censures
launched against 'The Robbers' be just, it is this, that I had the
presumption to delineate men two years before I knew anything about
them." He was but twenty-one when The "Robbers" appeared in print and
was produced upon the stage, and while he was hailed on all sides as
the German Shakespeare, he lived in want and extreme privation.
Duke Carl was deeply incensed by the patriotic and independent
sentiments of the poet, and he sent an official mandate to Schiller,
ordering him to discontinue all further literary work and composition.
To disobey the despotic command and to remain in the Duke's service,
would have entailed imprisonment. He resolved upon flight from
Solitude, and on the night following that on which "The Robbers" was
being enacted for the first time in Hamburg to a crowded and
enthusiastic audience, he fled, with a friend, from his fatherland to
pursue his eventful and turbulent career. A description of his
appearance at this period is extant: "He was cramped into a uniform
of the old Prussian cut, that on army surgeons had an even uglier,
stiffer look; his little military hat barely covered his crown, behind
which hung a long queue, while round his neck was screwed a horse-hair
stock several sizes too small. More wondrous, however, was the nether
part of him. Owing to the padding of his long, white gaiters, his legs
seemed thicker at the calf than at the thigh. Moving stiffly about in
these blacking-stained gaiters, with knees rigid and unbent, he
reminded one irresistibly of a stork." Freed now by his own bold act
from military slavery, Schiller entered Mannheim with joyful hopes.
With the manuscript of "Fiesco" under his arm, he called upon the
regisseur, Meyer, in whose house he read two acts of the play before a
company of actors. His hopes were speedily dashed to the ground; when
he finished reading the second act every actor but one had left the
room, and Meyer thrust a dagger into the poet's heart by declaring
that "Fiesco" was nothing but high-flown rubbish. Having, however,
heard but two acts of the play, and probably stirred to compassion by
Schiller's mournful countenance, the regisseur requested that the
manuscript should be left with him; and the following morning the poet
was compensated for the intervening night of misery, by hearing Meyer
proclaim that "Fiesco" was a masterpiece, and that the bad effect it
had produced was due to the villainous manner in which Schiller had
read his verse. Notwithstanding this favorable opinion, which was
endorsed by others who read the play, it was with great difficulty
that Schiller succeeded in obtaining a publisher for the drama, and
then he was in an agony to see the public criticisms upon it.
Meanwhile he was working at fever heat on "Marie Stuart" and "Don
Carlos." Into this last work he threw all his heart and soul, spurred
on, doubtless, by the passion of love, which now for the first time
possessed him. The object of his affections was Charlotte von
Wolzogen, whom he had met in Stuttgart, and into whose society he was
now thrown. He experienced all an ardent lover's joys and tortures.
"It is fearful," he wrote, "to live apart from humanity, without some
sympathizing soul; yet no less fearful is it to cling to some kindred
heart from which, sooner or later, in a world where nothing stands
sure, one must wrench oneself, bleeding, away." On January 10, 1784,
he was elected a member of the Deutsche Gesellschaft, and on the
following day "Fiesco" was produced. Its first representation was but
a partial success. It met with more favor on its second performance on
the 18th. Its third representation was less favorable, and then it was
quietly laid aside. His suit with Charlotte did not prosper, and he
relinquished the hope of winning her. He was despondent and in debt.
He owed money to Charlotte's mother and to his father; but he
struggled on, and in the latter part of the year he issued a
prospectus of a new journal, "Thalia," which was to make his
fortune--an anticipation which was not realized. The journal was to be
published six times a year; philosophy, biography, literary reviews,
and dramatic criticisms were to be its leading features; and he threw
himself into the task with enthusiasm. The difficulties he encountered
were tremendous; these, with his love affairs (for Charlotte von
Wolzogen was not the only woman upon whom he set his affections), the
labor entailed by "Thalia," and the numberless ideas for fresh
romance with which his brain was teeming, would have broken down most
men; but though he repined at reverses, he rose continually superior
to them. Long before "Don Carlos" was finished he commenced "The
Ghostseer," in which he intended to develop an idea which had
originally formed the scheme of "Friedrich Imhof." His life was a kind
of fever; with his ardent friendships, his susceptible passions, his
pecuniary anxieties, and his fertile brain forever at work, he knew no
rest. He had removed to Jena, the capital of Saxe-Weimar, and at that
time the literary centre of Germany. The Prince Charles Augustus and
his famous mother, the Princess Amalia, made him welcome and
encouraged him. A gleam of sunshine now shone upon him; and he saw a
prospect of domestic happiness. He fell in love with Charlotte von
Lengenfeld, and in 1789 they were engaged. On February 22, 1790, the
fond couple were married at the little village church of Wenigen-Jena.
It was a simple wedding. "We spent the evening in quiet talk over our
tea," wrote Lotte, sixteen years after, when she was a widow. It was a
happy union, and the honeymoon was short, for Schiller had no time for
idleness. This year he wrote his "History of the Thirty Years' War,"
and had the satisfaction of hearing it highly praised in influential
quarters. He had never enjoyed such happiness as now, his only sorrow
in the early months of his marriage arising from a brief separation
from his wife, who had to go to Rudolstadt for her mother's birthday.
[Illustration: Schiller presented to the Princess of Saxe-weimar.]
In one of his letters to her he says, "Your dear picture is ever
before me; all seems to speak to me of where the little wife walked,
and My Lady Comfort" (Lotte's sister, Caroline) "sat enthroned. And to
feel that my hand can always reach what my heart would have near it,
to feel that we are inseparable, _that_ is a sense which I unceasingly
foster in my bosom, finding it exhaustless and ever new." Recognition
of his genius came from all sides, from Goethe, Wieland, Koerner; and
by the press he was hailed as the Shakespeare of Germany. He needed
some such encouragement, for he was attacked by a dangerous illness,
which was aggravated by pecuniary troubles; had it not been for his
wife's tender care he could scarcely have recovered, and it was well
for him and for his country that there came to him at this crisis an
offer from the Hereditary Prince and Count von Schimmelmann, of a
thousand thalers per annum for three years, in order that he might
obtain the rest needed for his restoration to health. "I am freed for
a long time," he wrote joyfully to his dear friend Koerner, "perhaps
forever, from all care." To the generous donor he said, "I have to pay
my debt, not to you, but to mankind. That is the common altar where
you lay down your gifts and I my gratitude." The method he adopted to
recruit his health was to begin to work again. The French National
Assembly conferred upon several celebrated foreigners the right of
citizenship, and at this distance of time it is strange to read the
name of the German Schiller among them. Though seldom free from
suffering, which was frequently so acute that he spoke of it as
torture, it was a proof of his indomitable spirit that during his last
decade he achieved his most memorable triumphs; and yet, in the height
of his powers, his youthful dread returned to him, and he expressed
a doubt whether he had not mistaken his vocation. The encouragement of
Goethe went far to sustain him; between these two great poets existed
a warm friendship, and Goethe showed his confidence in Schiller by
asking him to correct "Egmont" for the stage. But still he desponded,
and it was not till he read Goethe's "Wilhelm Meister" that the full
force of poetic fervor awoke within him. "Wallenstein" had been laid
aside; he took it up again with glowing feelings; he wrote "The Glove"
and "The Ring of Polycrates;" he revised "The Ghostseer" for a new
edition, and later on he had the joy of witnessing a masterly
performance of the part of Wallenstein by the fine actor, Graff.
Following his great dramatic trilogy, "The Camp of Wallenstein," "The
Piccolomini," and "The Death of Wallenstein" (the English rights in
which he sold to Bell, the publisher, for L60). Schiller now devoted
himself to "Mary Stuart" and "Macbeth," and still farther undermined
his health by regularly burning the midnight oil. On May 14, 1790,
"Macbeth" was performed, and received with tumultuous applause; three
days before this performance he had read to the players the first four
acts of "Mary Stuart," and when the last and fifth act was written he
said to Koerner, "I am only now beginning to understand my trade."
Following "Mary Stuart," he wrote "The Maid of Orleans," and then he
was absorbed in what is perhaps the greatest of his works, "William
Tell," the first reading of which took place in Goethe's house on
March 6, 1804. On the 9th it was rehearsed at the theatre, and on the
very next day he commenced a new drama, "Demetrius, or, The Bloody
Bridal of Moscow," thus following out, as indeed he had done
throughout the whole of his career, his axiom that life without
industry was valueless. "William Tell" was a triumphant success, and
may be said to have been the last leaf in his laurel wreath, for he
was destined not to live long after this great triumph. On May 9,
1805, he died, at the early age of forty-six, and all Germany mourned
the loss. "Dear good one!" he said to his devoted wife, fondling her
hand and kissing it the day before his death. It is recorded that in
his last hours he spoke of hearing in his dreams the pealing of a
bell. It may be that his own beautiful poem, "The Song of the Bell,"
was in his mind, and that, with the conviction that death was nigh,
the fancy was inspired by the lines in his poem:
"And as the strains die on the ear
That it peals forth with tuneful might,
So let it teach that nought lasts here,
That all things earthly take their flight."
[Signature of the author.]
GOETHE[10]
[Footnote 10: Copyright, 1894, by Selmar Hess.]
By REV. EDWARD EVERETT HALE
(1749-1832)
[Illustration: Goethe.]
Johann Wolfgang Goethe was born on August 28, 1749, at
Frankfort-on-the-Main, one of the free cities of Germany. He died in
Weimar, in Saxony, at the age of eighty-two, on March 22, 1832.
In any classification of the men of his time it is impossible to rank
him, especially, among men of letters generally, or as a poet, or as a
naturalist. He is especially what our time is fond of calling "an
all-round man." But he differs from most men who are thus praised,
because he is the acknowledged leader of the thought of the first half
of the century. He does equally well all that he does. If in the year
1850 anyone had asked who was the first poet of the preceding half
century, Goethe would have been named by almost all who answered. If
you had asked who was the first man of letters, he would have been
named by all. It was certain that his philosophy of human life
affected the thought of the students and scholarly people of Europe
and America more than that of any other author of his time. Indeed, to
this hour, many an humble listener or reader receives suggestions,
from the pulpit or the newspaper, of which he does not know the
origin, but which are in truth born from some suggestion of Goethe.
It is natural to attempt to account for so remarkable a man, in a
measure at least, by tracing back his genealogy. Goethe himself gave
some attention to the study of his ancestry, and his biographers have
worked at it faithfully. But their work gives no confirmation to the
doctrines of heredity which are so well supported in other lives. His
father, Johann Caspar Goethe, was a respectable member of the city
government of Frankfort, with the title of imperial councillor. He had
a craving for knowledge, a delight in communicating it, a love of
order, and a certain stoicism, which appear in his son. But there is
no ray of genius apparent in him. His father was a respectable tailor
in the city of Frankfort, named Frederick. Frederick's father was a
farrier or blacksmith in Thuringia, named Hans Christian Goethe. In
neither of these ancestors is found any germ of the poet's genius.
On the other hand, the successful life of Wolfgang von Goethe is one
more instance, in a large number afforded in the history of the last
two centuries, which show that a good education under prosperous
circumstances, with the appliances which tend to health of body, mind,
and soul, is a very fortunate help to native genius, when native
genius finds itself in such surroundings. In the imperial councillor's
house his son had every comfort. He was surrounded by pictures books,
medals, and other works of art. His reasonable wishes could all be
gratified. And he knew none of the hardships which, if they are
sometimes the stimulus of genius, more often make its penance.
To his mother he seems to have owed more of the qualities which have
made him distinguished. He says himself that his love of story-telling
came from her, and his happy disposition. She taught him how he could
find the good which is in everyone, and her own habit was to leave
people's vices to the God who made them. Much more than this, Goethe
had at home the blessing, which cannot be overestimated, of the
presence of a sister who shared in his tastes, who joined in his
studies, and whom he loved with a passionate affection. He could pour
out his enthusiasms to her; she poured out hers to him. So that both
of them were blessed through their childhood in that greatest of
blessings, a happy home.
He was a precocious boy, and his father and mother both observed his
remarkable abilities. There was no lack of good teachers in Frankfort,
and he was well trained in the classics in early life. He also studied
Hebrew at the same time, having the advantage of the instruction of
learned Jews who lived in Frankfort. There never was any question but
that he should go to the university. His father's wish was that he
should enter upon the career of what he would have called
jurisprudence. With this view some of the younger Goethe's earlier
studies were conducted. But, before he was old enough to take any very
decided steps in the profession of law, his determination to follow a
wider literary career became so evident that the plan of jurisprudence
was eventually entirely abandoned.
When he was sixteen years old he went to Leipsic, and entered at the
university there, in the month of October, 1765. The university was
classed in the "Four Nations," as they were called--the Misnian, the
Saxon, the Bavarian, and the Polish. Goethe was from Frankfort, and
was classed as a Bavarian. His father left him wide freedom in the
choice of subjects and teachers, and though he attended some lectures
which bore on subjects of jurisprudence, he was more interested in the
wider range of natural science and of general literature. It would
seem that he learned more from the people around him in whose society
he was intimately thrown than from his professors. He tried his hand
in fine art, occupied himself in drawing, and even in engraving.
Although the three years spent in Leipsic show but little which is
remarkable in any scientific course of study, it is quite clear that
he laid foundations here which were of use to him in all his future
life. But at the end of three years his health was seriously affected.
He was depressed in hypochondria, and was physically ill. He was
"destitute of faith, yet terrified at scepticism," and he returned to
his home in 1768, discouraged and physically broken down.
But a year and a half of the regularity of home life, quite different
from his Bohemian courses at the university--a life inspired by his
mother's and his sister's love--and a physical life sustained by a
home diet which was so much better than a student's fare, wholly
restored him, and in April, 1770, he went to the University of
Strasburg, not far from Frankfort, now with the real purpose of
studying jurisprudence. He was nearly twenty-one years old, in stature
rather above the middle size, and because his presence was imposing he
was generally spoken of as tall; but he was not really a tall man, but
gave this impression by his erect carriage and because his bust was
large. Long before he was celebrated, he was called an Apollo.