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 SCHILLER'S LIFE.
 
 
 John Sull : 
 
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 ■
 
 THE LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. 
 
 CO.MlMlKHKNDINi; 
 
 AN 
 
 I ;\AMI NATION OF HIS WORKS. 
 
 Quique pii vatei ei Phaebo digna locuti. — Viroii . 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED FOB TAYLQB AND HESSEY, 
 
 ii. w \ rERLOO ri.\( I., PALL MALI., 
 \M> 98, II l ET Mill I ! 
 
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 CONTENTS. 
 
 SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 HIS YOUTH. 
 
 (1759—1784.) 
 Introduction, p. 1. — His Parentage, 5. — His Boyhood, 7. — 
 His Education, 9. — Stuttgard School, 13. — The Robbers, 21. 
 — Consequences of the Play, 35. — Army Surgeon, 37. — 
 CDurt Reproofs, 39. — Embarrassments, 41. — Leaves Stutt- 
 gard, 43. — Residence at Bauerbach, 45. — Fiesco, 49. — 
 K abate unci Llcbe, 55 — Goes to Manheim, Gl. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 ry' 1 ROM HIS SETTLEMENT AT MANHEIM TO HIS SETTLEMENT 
 
 AT JENA. 
 
 (1784 — 1790.) 
 
 Hardships of Literature, 65. — Literary Diligence, 71. — The- 
 atre in Germany, 73. — Employments, 75. — Rhemische 
 f Thalia, 77.— Philosophic Letters, 79. — Situation at Man- 
 
 heim, 83. — Letter to Huber. — Leipzig, 89. — Letter to 
 Schwann, 91. — Goes to Dresden, 95. — Don Carlos, 97. — 
 Scene from Don Carlos, 106. — Alficri's FiUppo, 121. — 
 Forsakes the Drama, 125. — Smaller Poems, 127. — Dei 
 ' tterseher, 129. History, 131. — Habits at Dresden, 
 135. — Visits Weimar and Bauerbach, 137. — Interview with 
 
 Goethe, L89. Mutual Feelings, 11.;. — Friendship with 
 Goethe, 145. — Revolt of the Netherlands, 147. Profes- 
 sorship at Jena, 149.— Marriage, 151.
 
 VI CONTENTS. 
 
 PART III. 
 
 FROM HIS SETTLEMENT AT JENA TO HIS DEATH. 
 
 (1790—1805.) 
 History, 155. — Thirty Years' War, 161.— Sickness, 165. — 
 Kant's Philosophy, 169. — Refinement of Taste, 179. — 
 Literary Projects, 183. — Epic Poem, 185. — Begins Wal- 
 lenstein, 187.— The Horen, 189.— The Xenien, 191. — 
 Connexion with Goethe, 193. — Visits his Parents, 195. — 
 Habits at Jena, 197. — Nocturnal Study, 199. — Wallen- 
 stein, 201. — Scenes from Wallenstein, 212. — Removes to 
 Weimar, 231. — Employment at Weimar, 233. — Maria 
 Stuart, 235. — The Maid of Orleans, 237. — Scenes from 
 The Maid of Orleans, 244.— Habits at Weimar, 259.— 
 The Bride of Messina, 261.— Wilhelm Tell, 263.— Scenes 
 from Wilhelm Tell, 269.— Last Sickness, 283.— Death, 
 285.— Character, 287. 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Appendix, Note A, Daniel Schubart, 311. —Appendix, Note 
 B, Letters of Schiller, 326. — Appendix, Note C, Friend- 
 ship with Goethe, 345. — Appendix, Note D, Death of 
 Gustavus Adolphus, 349.
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 Page 40, 1. 22, for Schonberg read Asperg. 
 109, 15, for speak read spread. 
 
 115, 10, after Decay substitute a comma. 
 2\3, 29, for 77<c read Y'//r/V. 
 252, 17, for a/ read <>/.

 
 SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 PART I. 
 
 HIS YOUTH (1751) — 1784). 
 
 Among the writers of the concluding part of the 
 Lt^t century, there is none more deserving of our 
 notice than Friedrich Schiller. Distinguished alike 
 for the splendour of his intellectual faculties, and 
 the elevation of his tastes and feelings, he has 
 left behind him in his works a noble emblem of 
 these great qualities : and the reputation which 
 he thus enjoy--, and has merited, excites our at- 
 tention the more on considering the circumstances 
 under which it was acquired. Schiller had pecu- 
 liar difficulties to strive with, and his success has 
 likewise been peculiar. Much of his life was de- 
 formed b\ inquietude and disease, and it termi- 
 nated at middle age ; lie composed in a language 
 then scarcely settled into form, or admitted to a 
 rank among the cultivated languages of Europe: 
 
 yet bis writings are remarkable for their extent 
 and variety as well B8 their intrinsic e\c< -Hem 
 
 'il lii-, own countrymen are not his only, <>r 
 
 it
 
 2 SCHILLER S LIFE. 
 
 perhaps, his principal admirers. It is difficult 
 to collect or interpret the general voice ; but the 
 World, no less than Germany, seems already to 
 have dignified him with the reputation of a 
 classic ; to have enrolled him among that select 
 number whose works belong not wholly to any 
 age or nation, but who, having instructed their 
 own contemporaries, are claimed as instructors 
 by the great family of mankind, and set apart for 
 many centuries from the common oblivion which 
 soon overtakes the mass of authors, as it does 
 the mass of other men. 
 
 Such has been the high destiny of Schiller. 
 His history and character deserve our study for 
 more than one reason. A natural and harmless 
 feeling attracts us towards such a subject ; we are 
 anxious to know how so great a man passed 
 through the world, how he lived, and moved, and 
 had his being ; and the question, if properly inves- 
 tigated, might yield advantage as well as pleasure. 
 It would be interesting to discover by what gifts 
 and what employment of them lie reached the 
 eminence on which we now see him ; to follow 
 the steps of his intellectual and moral culture ; to 
 gather from his life and works some picture of 
 himself. It is worth inquiring, whether he, who 
 could represent noble actions so well, -did himself 
 act nobly ; how those powers of intellect, which 
 in philosophy and art achieved so much, applied
 
 SCHILLER S LIFE. 3 
 
 themselves to the everv-day emergencies of life ; 
 how the generous ardour, which delights us in his 
 poetry, displayed itself in the common intercourse 
 between man and man. It would at once instruct 
 and gratify us if we could understand him tho- 
 roughly, could transport ourselves into his cir- 
 cumstances outward and inward, could see as he 
 saw. and feel as he felt. 
 
 But it the various utility of such a task is pal- 
 pable enough, its difficulties are not less so. We 
 should not lightly think of comprehending the 
 very simplest character, in all its bearings ; and 
 it might argue vanity to boast of even a common 
 acquaintance with one like Schiller's. Such men 
 as lie are misunderstood by their daily companions; 
 much more by the distant observer, who gleans 
 his information from scanty records, and casual 
 notices oi' characteristic events, which biogra- 
 phers are often too indolent or injudicious to 
 collect, and which the peaceful life of a man of 
 li iters usually supplies in little abundance. The 
 published details of Schiller's history are meagre 
 and insufficient ; and his writings, like those of 
 every author, can afford but a dim and dubious eopy 
 of his mind. Nor is it easy to decipher even this, 
 with moderate aeeiuaey. The haze of a foreign 
 language, ol foreign manners, and modes of 
 thinking strange to us, confuses and obscures the 
 
 In. often magnifying what is trivial, softenin 
 
 B 2
 
 4 SCHILLER S LIFE. 
 
 what is rude, and sometimes hiding or distorting 
 what is beautiful. To take the dimensions of 
 Schiller's mind were a hard enterprize, in any 
 case ; harder still with these impediments. 
 
 Accordingly we do not, in this place, pretend 
 to attempt it : we have no finished portrait of his 
 character to offer, no formal estimate of his 
 works. It will be enough for us if, in glancing 
 over his life, we can satisfy a simple curiosity, 
 about the fortunes and chief peculiarities of a man 
 connected with us by a bond so kindly as that 
 of the teacher to the taught, the giver to 
 the receiver of mental delight ; if, in wandering 
 through his intellectual creation 2 we can enjoy 
 once more the magnificent and fragrant beauty of 
 that fairy land, and express our feelings, where 
 we do not aim at judging and deciding, 
 
 Johann Christoph Friedrich Schiller was a 
 native of Marbach, a small town of Wiirtemberg, 
 situated on the banks of the Neckar. He was 
 born on the 10th of November, 1759, — a few 
 months later than our own Robert Burns. Schiller's 
 early culture was favoured by the dispositions, but 
 obstructed by the outward circumstances of his 
 parents. Though removed above the pressure of 
 poverty, their station was dependent and fluctuat- 
 ing ; it involved a frequent change of place and 
 plan. Johann Caspar Schiller, the father, had
 
 HIS PARENTAGE. 
 
 been a surgeon in the Bavarian army ; he served 
 in the Netherlands during the Succession War. 
 After his return home to Wurtemberg, he Laid 
 
 aside the medical profession, having obtained a 
 commission of ensign and adjutant under his 
 native Prince. This post he held successively in 
 two regiments ; he had changed into the second, 
 and was absent on active duty when Friedrich was 
 born. The Peace of Paris put an end to his 
 military employment ; but Caspar had shown 
 himself an intelligent, unassuming, and useful 
 man, and the Duke of Wurtemberg was willing 
 to retain him in his service. The laying out of 
 various nurseries and plantations in the pleasure- 
 grounds of Ludwigsburg and Solitude was en- 
 trusted to the retired soldier, now advanced to the 
 rank of captain : he removed from one establish- 
 ment to another, from time to time ; and con- 
 tinued in the Duke's pay till death. In his latter 
 years he resided chiefly at Ludwigsburg. 
 
 This mode of life was not the most propitious 
 lor educating such a boy as Friedrich; but the 
 native worth of his parents did more than com- 
 pensate tor the disadvantages of their worldly 
 condition and their limited acquirements in know- 
 ledge. The benevolence, the modest and prudent 
 integrity, the true devoutness of these good peo- 
 ple -bone forth at an alter period, expanded and 
 beautified in tin character of their son. bis heart
 
 schiller's life. 
 
 was nourished by a constant exposure to such in- 
 fluences, and thus the better part of his education 
 prospered well. The mother was a woman of 
 many household virtues ; to a warm affection for 
 her children and husband, she joined a degree of 
 taste and intelligence which seldom goes along 
 with it. She is said to have been a lover of poe- 
 try ; in particular an admiring reader of Utz and 
 Gellert, writers whom it is creditable for one in 
 her situation to have relished.* Her kindness and 
 tenderness of heart peculiarly endeared her to 
 Friedrich. Her husband appears to have been a per- 
 son oi great probity and meekness of temper, sin- 
 cerely desirous to approve himself a useful mem- 
 ber of society, and to do his duty conscienciously 
 to all men. The seeds of many valuable qualities 
 had been sown in him by nature ; and though his 
 early life had been unfavourable for their cultiva- 
 tion, he at a late period laboured, not without suc- 
 cess, to remedy this disadvantage. Such branches 
 of science and philosophy as lay within his reach, 
 he studied with diligence, whenever his profes- 
 sional employments left him leisure ; on a subject 
 connected with the latter he became an author.-^ 
 
 * She was of humble descent and little education, the daugh- 
 ter of a baker in Kodweis. 
 
 f His book is entitled, Die Baumzucht im Grossen (the Cul- 
 tivation of Trees on the Grand Scale) : it came to a second 
 edition in 1 806.
 
 HIS IfOVIIOOD. i 
 
 But what chiefly distinguished him was the prac- 
 tice of a sincere piety, which seems to have 
 dithised itself over all his feelings, and given to his 
 clear and honest character that calm elevation 
 which, in such a case, is its natural result. As his 
 religion mingled itself with every motive and 
 action of his life, the wish which in all his wander- 
 ings lav nearest his heart, the wish for the educa- 
 tion of his son, was likely to he deeply tinctured 
 with it. There is yet preserved, in his hand wri- 
 ting, a prayer composed in advanced age, wherein 
 he mentions how, at the child's birth, he had en- 
 treated the great Father of all, ' to supply in 
 Strength of spirit what must needs he wanting in 
 outward instruction.' The grey-haired man, who 
 had lived to see the maturity of his hoy, could now 
 express his solemn thankfulness, that ' God had 
 heard the prayer of a mortal.' 
 
 Friedrich followed the movements of his pa- 
 rents for some time ; and had to gather the ele- 
 ments of learning from various masters. Perhaps 
 it was in part owing to this circumstance, that his 
 progress, though respectable, or more, was so 
 little commensurate with what he afterwards 
 became, or with thecapacities of which even his ear- 
 liest years gave Bymptoms. Thoughtless and gay, 
 
 H a l)u\ is wont to he, he would now and then dis- 
 
 lipate his time in childish sports, forgetful that the 
 itolen charms of ball and leap-frog must be dearly
 
 8 schiller's life. 
 
 bought by reproaches : but occasionally he was over- 
 taken with feelings of deeper import, and used to 
 express the agitations of his little mind in words 
 and actions, which were first rightly interpreted 
 when they were called to mind long afterwards. 
 His school-fellows can now recollect that even his 
 freaks had sometimes a poetic character ; that a 
 certain earnestness of temper, a frank integrity, an 
 appetite for things grand or moving, was discern- 
 ible across all the caprices of his boyhood. Once, 
 it is said, during a tremendous thunder-storm, his 
 father missed him in the young group within 
 doors ; none of the sisters could tell what was be- 
 come of Fritz, and the old man grew at length so 
 anxious that he was forced to go out in quest of 
 him. Fritz was scarcely past the age of infan- 
 cy, and knew not the dangers of a scene so 
 awful. His father found him at last, in a solitary 
 place of the neighbourhood, perched on the branch 
 of a tree, gazing at the tempestuous face of the 
 sky, and watching the flashes as in succession they 
 spread their lurid gleam over it. To the repri- 
 mands of his parent, the whimpering truant 
 pleaded in extenuation, ' that the lightning was 
 very beautiful, and that he wished to see where it 
 was coming from !' — Such anecdotes we have long 
 known, are in themselves of small value : the pre- 
 sent one has the additional defect of being some- 
 what dubious in respect of authenticity. We have
 
 His EDUCATION. \f 
 
 ventured to give it, as it came to us, notwith- 
 standing. The picture of the boy Schiller con- 
 templating the thunder, is not without a certain in- 
 trust, for such as know the man. 
 
 Schiller's first teacher was Moser, pastor and 
 schoolmaster in tli£ village of Lorch, where the 
 parents resided from the sixth to the ninth year 
 of their son. This person deserves mention for 
 the influence he exerted on the early history of his 
 pupil : he seems to have given his name to the 
 priest ' Moscr' in the Robbers ; his spiritual call- 
 ing, and the conversation of his son, himself after- 
 winds a preacher, arc supposed to have suggested 
 to Schiller the idea of consecrating himself to the 
 clerical profession. This idea, which laid hold of, 
 and cherished, some predominant though vague 
 propensities of the boy's disposition, suited well 
 D ith the religious sentiments of his parents, and 
 was soon formed into a settled purpose. In the 
 public school at Ludwigsburg, whither the family 
 bad now removed, his studies were regulated with 
 this view; and he underwent, in four successive 
 
 ire, the annual examination before the Stuttgard 
 Commission, to which young men destined for the 
 Church are subjected in that country. Schiller's 
 temper was naturally devout ; with a delicacy of 
 i< • lini: which tended towards bashfulness and 
 timidity* there was mingled in bim a fervid im 
 petuosity, which tvas evei struggling through it^
 
 10 schiller's life. 
 
 concealment, and indicating that he felt deeply 
 and strongly, as well as delicately* Such a turn 
 of mind easily took the form of religion, prescribed 
 to it by early example and early affections, as 
 well as nature. Schiller looked forward to the sa- 
 cred profession with alacrity : it was the serious 
 day-dream of all his boyhood, and much of his 
 youth. As yet, however, the project hovered be- 
 fore him at a great distance, and the path to its 
 fulfilment offered him but little entertainment. 
 His studies did not seize his attention firmly ; he 
 followed them from a sense of duty, not of plea- 
 sure. Virgil and Horace he learned to construe 
 accurately ; but is said to have taken no deep in- 
 terest in their poetry. The tenderness and meek 
 beauty of the first, the humour and sagacity 
 and capricious pathos of the last, the matchless 
 elegance of both, would of course escape his in- 
 experienced perception ; while the matter of their 
 writings must have appeared frigid and shallow 
 to a mind so susceptible. He loved rather to me- 
 ditate on the splendour of the Ludwigsburg thea- 
 atre, which had inflamed his imagination when he 
 first saw it in his ninth year, and given shape and 
 materials to many of- his subsequent reveries.* 
 
 * The first display of his poetic gifts occurred also in his ninth 
 year, but took its rise in a much humbler and less common 
 source than the inspiration of the stage. His biographers have
 
 His EDUCATION. 11 
 
 Under these circumstances, his progress, with all 
 
 his natural ability, could not be very striking ; the 
 
 recorded this small event with a consciencious accuracy, second 
 only to that of Boswell and I Iawkins in regard to the Litchfield 
 duck. ' Thclittle tale,' says one of them, 'isworth relating; the 
 rather that, after an interval of more than twenty years, Sehil- 
 ler himself, on meeting with his early comrade (the late Dr. 
 Blwert, of Kantstadt) for the first time since their boyhood, 
 reminded him of the adventure, recounting the circumstances 
 with great minuteness and glee. It is as follows : Once in 
 17GS, Elwert and he had to repeat their catechism together 
 on a certain day publicly in the church. Their teacher, an ill- 
 conditioned, narrow-minded pietist, had previously threatened 
 them with a thorough flogging if they missed even a single 
 word. To make the matter worse, this very teacher chanced 
 to be the person whose turn it was to catechise on the ap- 
 pointed day. Both the boys began their answers with dis- 
 mayed hearts and faultering tongues ; yet they succeeded in 
 accomplishing the task ; and were in consequence rewarded 
 by the mollified pedagogue with two kreutzcrs apiece. Four 
 kreutzcrs of ready cash was a sum of no common magnitude ; 
 how it should be disposed of formed a serious question for the 
 parties interested. Schiller moved that they should go to Harte- 
 k, a hamlet in the neighbourhood, and have a dish of curds 
 and cream: his partner assented; but alas! in I farteneck no par- 
 tic le of curds or cream was to be had. Schiller then made oflfel 
 for a quarter-cake of cheese; but for this four entire kreut- 
 sera win- demanded, leaving nothing whatever in reserve tor 
 breadl Twice baffled, tin- little gastronomes, unsatisfied in 
 mach, wandered onto Neckarweihingen ; whereat length 
 though not till after much inquiry, they did obtain a comfort- 
 abl of curds and cream, served up in ■> jaj platter, and 
 
 il\> i | Mm 1 1 iii < at it with. For all this, moreover, thej wer<
 
 12 schiller's life. 
 
 teachers did not fail now and then to visit him 
 with their severities ; yet still there was a negli- 
 gent success in his attempts, which, joined to his 
 honest and vivid temper, made men augur well of 
 him. The Stntteard Examinators have marked 
 him in their records with the customary formula 
 of approval, or, at worst, of toleration. They 
 usually designate him as e a boy of good hope,' 
 puer bonce spei. 
 
 This good hope was not, however, destined to 
 be realised in the way they expected : accidents 
 occurred which changed the direction of Schiller's 
 exertions, and threatened for a time to prevent the 
 success of them altogether. The Duke of Wur- 
 temberg had lately founded a free seminary for 
 certain branches of professional education : it was 
 was first set up at Solitude, one of his country re- 
 sidences ; and had now been transferred to Stutt- 
 gard, where, under an improved form, and with 
 the name of Karls-schide, we believe it still ex- 
 charged but three kreutzers ; so that there was still one left to 
 provide them with a bunch of St. John grapes. Exhilarated 
 by such liberal cheer, Schiller rose into a glow of inspiration : 
 having left the village, he mounted with his comrade to the 
 adjacent height, which overlooks both Harteneck and Neck- 
 arweihingcn ; and there in a truly poetic effusion he pronounced 
 his malediction on the creamless region, bestowing with the 
 same solemnity his blessing on the one which had afforded 
 him that savoury refreshment.' — ■ Friedrich von Schillers Le- 
 ben. (Heidelberg, 1817:)*. 11.
 
 BTUTTGARB SCHOOL. 13 
 
 ists. The Duke proposed to give the sons of his 
 
 military officers a preferable claim to the benefits 
 of this institution ; and having formed a good opi- 
 nion both of Schiller and his father, he invited the 
 former to profit by this opportunity. The offer oc- 
 casioned great embarrassment : the young man 
 and his parents were alike determined in favour oi 
 the Church, a project with which this new one 
 was inconsistent. Their embarrassment was but 
 increased, when the Duke, on learning the nature 
 of their scruples, desired them to think well be- 
 fore they decided. It was out of fear, and with 
 reluctance that his proposal was accepted. Schil- 
 ler enrolled himself in 1 773 ; and turned, j^nth a 
 heavy heart, from freedom and cherished hopes, to 
 Greek, and seclusion, and Law. 
 
 I lis anticipations proved to be but too just: 
 the six years which he spent in this establishment 
 were the most harrassing and comfortless of his 
 life. The Stuttgard system of education seems to 
 have been formed on the principle, not of cherish- 
 ing and correcting nature, but of rooting it out, 
 and Bupplying its place with something better. 
 The process of teaching and lmiii; was conducted 
 with the still' formality of military drilling; every 
 thing went on by statute and ordinance, there was 
 
 no scope for the exercise of free-will, do allow- 
 ance lor the varieties of original structure. A 
 nolar might possess what instincts or capacities
 
 14 schiller's life. 
 
 he pleased ; the c regulations of the school' took 
 no account of this ; he must fit himself into the 
 common mould, which, like the old Giant's bed, 
 stood there, appointed by superior authority, to 
 be filled alike by the great and the little. The same 
 strict and narrow course of reading and composi- 
 tion was marked out for each beforehand, and it 
 was by stealth if he read or wrote any thing be- 
 side. Their domestic economy was regulated in 
 the same spirit as their preceptorial : it consisted 
 of the same sedulous exclusion of all that could bor- 
 der on pleasure, or give any exercise to choice. The 
 pupils were kept apart from the conversation or 
 sight of any person but their teachers ; none ever 
 got beyond the precincts of despotism to snatch 
 even a fearful joy ; their very amusements pro- 
 ceeded by the word of command. 
 
 How grievous all this must have been it is easy 
 to conceive. To Schiller it was more grievous 
 than to any other. Of an ardent and impetuous, 
 yet delicate nature, whilst his discontentment de- 
 voured him internally, he was too modest and ti- 
 mid to give it the relief of utterance by deeds or 
 words. Locked up within himself, he suffered 
 deeply, but without complaining. Some of his 
 letters written during this period have been pre- 
 served : they exhibit the ineffectual struggles of a 
 fervid and busy mind veiling its many chagrins 
 under a certain dreary patience, which only shews
 
 STUTTGARD 8< HOOL. 15 
 
 them more painfully. He pored over his lexicons, 
 and grammars, and insipid tasks, with an artificial 
 composure ; hut his spirit pined within him like a 
 captives, when he looked forth into the cheerful 
 VI orld, or recollected the affection of parents, the 
 hopes and frolicksomc enjoyments of past years. 
 The misery he endured in this severe and lonely 
 modi' of existence strengthened or produced in him 
 a habit of constraint and shyness, which clung to 
 his character through life. 
 
 The study of Law, for which he had never felt 
 any predilection, naturally grew in his mind to 
 be the representative of all these evils, and his 
 distaste for it went on increasing. On this point 
 he made no secret of his feelings. One of the 
 exercises, yearly prescribed to every scholar, was a 
 written delineation of his own character, according 
 to his own views of it, to be delivered publicly, at 
 an appointed time: Schiller, on the first of these 
 exhibitions, ventured to state his persuasion, that 
 he was not made to he a jurist, hut called rather 
 by his inclinations and faculties to the clerical 
 profession. This statement, of course, produced 
 no effect ; he was forced to continue the accus- 
 tomed course, and liis dislike for Law kept fast 
 approaching to absolute disgust. In 1775, he was 
 Fortunate enough to gel it relinquished, though at 
 the expense of adopting another employment, for 
 whicn, in different circumstances, hehardU would
 
 16 schiij.er's ufe. 
 
 have declared himself. The study of Medicine, 
 for which a new institution was about this time 
 added to the Stuttgard school, had no attractions 
 for Schiller : he accepted it only as a galling ser- 
 vitude in exchange for one more galling. His 
 mind was bent on higher objects ; and he still 
 felt all his present vexations aggravated by the 
 thought, that his fairest expectations from the 
 future had been sacrificed to worldly convenience, 
 and the humblest necessities of life. 
 
 Meanwhile, the youth was waxing into man- 
 hood, and the fetters of discipline lay heavier on 
 him, as his powers grew stronger, and his eyes 
 became open to the stirring and variegated interests 
 of the world, now unfolding itself to him under 
 new and more glowing colours. As yet he con- 
 templated the scene only from afar, and it seemed 
 but the more gorgeous on that account. He 
 longed to mingle in its busy current, and delighted 
 to view the image of its movements in his favour- 
 ite poets andhistorians. Plutarch andShakspeare;* 
 
 * The feeling produced in him by Shakspeare he described 
 long afterwards : it throws light on the general state of his 
 temper and tastes. ' When I first, at a very early age,' he 
 says, ' became acquainted with this poet, I felt indignant at 
 his coldness, his hardness of heart, which permitted him in 
 the most melting pathos to utter jests, — to mar, by the intro- 
 duction of a fool, the soul-searching scenes of Hamlet, Lear, 
 and other pieces ; which now kept him still where my sensibi-
 
 STUTTGARD SCHOOL. 17 
 
 the writings of Klopstock, Lessing, Garve, Her- 
 der, Gerstenberg, Goethe, and a multitude of 
 
 others, which marked the dawning literature of 
 Germany, he had studied with a secret avidity : 
 they gave him vague ideas of men and life, or 
 awakened in him splendid visions of literary 
 glorv. Klopstock'a Messias, combined with his 
 own religions tendencies, had early turned him to 
 sacred poetry : before the end of his fourteenth 
 year, he had finished what he called an ' epic 
 poem,' entitled ' Moses.' The extraordinary 
 popularity of Gerstenbcrg's Ugolbw, and Goethe's 
 Go/; von ller/ichingen, next directed his attention 
 to the drama ; and as admiration in a mind like 
 his, full of blind activity and nameless aspirings 
 naturally issues in imitation, he plunged with 
 equal ardour into this new subject, and produced 
 his first tragedy, ( 'osmo con Meriicis, some frag- 
 ments of which he retained and inserted in his 
 Robbers. A mass of minor performances, pre- 
 served among his papers, or published in the Ma- 
 gazines of the time, serve sufficiently to show 
 that his mind bad already dimly discovered its 
 
 lities hastened forward, now drove him carelessly onward where 
 I would bo gladly have lingered. * * * He was the object of ray 
 reverenci and zealous study for years before I could love himself. 
 I was noi yet capable of comprehending Natureat first hand: 
 F bad but learned to admire In r image, reflected in the under- 
 nd put in order by rules. 1 Werke, Bd. viii, .'. ?. 77. 
 i
 
 18 schiller's life. 
 
 destination, and was striving with a restless vehe- 
 mence to reach it, in spite of every obstacle. 
 
 Such obstacles were in his case neither few nor 
 small. Schiller felt the mortifying truth that to 
 arrive at the ideal world, he must first gain a foot- 
 ing in the real ; that he might entertain high 
 thoughts and longings, might reverence the beau- 
 ties of nature and grandeur of mind, but was born 
 to toil for his daily bread. Poetry he loved with 
 the passionateness of a first affection ; but he 
 could not live by it; he honoured it too highly to 
 wish to live by it. His prudence told him that 
 he must yield to stern necessity, must ' forsake 
 the balmy climate of Pindus for the Greenland of 
 a barren and dreary science of terms ;' and he 
 did not hesitate to obey. His professional studies 
 were followed with a rigid though reluctant fide- 
 lity ; it was only in leisure gained by superior dili- 
 gence that he could yield himself to more 
 favourite pursuits. Genius was to serve as the 
 ornament of his inferior qualities, not as an ex- 
 cuse for the want of them. 
 
 But if, when such sacrifices were required, it 
 was painful to comply with the dictates of his 
 own reason, it was still more so to endure the 
 harsh and superfluous restrictions of his teachers. 
 He felt it hard enough to be driven from the en- 
 chantments of poetry by the dull realities of duty ; 
 but it was intolerable and degrading to be hemmed
 
 STUTTGARD SCHOOL. 10 
 
 in still farther by the caprices of severe and for- 
 mal pedagogues. Schiller brooded gloomily over 
 the constraints and hardships of his situation. 
 .Many plans he formed for deliverance. Sometimes 
 he would escape in secret to catch a glimpse of 
 the free and busy world to him forbidden : some- 
 times he laid schemes for utterly abandoning a 
 place which he abhorred, and trusting to fortune 
 lor the rest. Often the sight of his class-books 
 and school apparatus became irksome beyond en- 
 durance; he would feign sickness, that he might 
 be left in his own chamber to write poetry and 
 pursue his darling studies without hindrance. Such 
 artifices did not long avail him ; the masters 
 noticed the regularity of his sickness, and sent 
 him tasks to be done while it lasted. Even Schil- 
 ler's patience could not brook this; his natural 
 timidity gave place to indignation ; he threw the 
 paper of exercises at the feet of the messenger, 
 and said sternly that ' Iiere he would chase his 
 OWn studies." 
 
 Cnder such corroding and continual vexations, 
 an ordinary spirit would have sunk at length, 
 would have gradually given up its loftier aspira- 
 tions, and s,,uglit refuge in vicious indulgence, 
 or at besl have sullenly harnessed itself into the 
 yoke, and plodded through existence, weary, dis- 
 COntented, and broken, ever easting back a hank- 
 ering look upon the dreams of youth, and evei 
 
 ( 2
 
 20 schiller's life. 
 
 without power to realise them. But Schiller was 
 no ordinary character, and did not act like one. 
 Beneath a cold and simple exterior, dignified with 
 no artificial attractions, and marred in its native 
 amiableness by the incessant obstruction, the iso- 
 lation and painful destitutions under which he 
 lived, there was concealed a burning energy of 
 soul, which no obstruction could extinguish. The 
 hard circumstances of his fortune had prevented 
 the natural development of his mind ; his facul- 
 ties had been cramped and misdirected ; but they 
 had gathered strength by opposition and the habit 
 of self-dependence which it encouraged. His 
 thoughts, unguided by a teacher, had sounded into 
 the depths of his own nature and the mysteries of 
 his own fate ; his feelings and passions, unshared 
 by any other heart, had been driven back upon 
 his own ; where, like the volcanic fire that smoul- 
 ders and fuses in secret, they accumulated till 
 their force grew irresistible. 
 
 Hitherto Schiller had passed for an unprofita- 
 ble, a discontented, and a disobedient Boy : but the 
 time was now come when the gyves of school- 
 discipline could no longer cripple and distort the 
 giant might of his nature : he stood forth as a 
 Man, and wrenched asunder his fetters with a 
 force that was felt at the extremities of Europe. 
 The publication of the Robbers forms an sera not 
 only in Schiller's history, but in the literature of
 
 THE ROliHERS. "21 
 
 the World ; and there seems no doubt that, but for 
 so mean a pause as the perverted discipline of the 
 Stattgard Bchool, avc had never seen this tragedy. 
 Schiller commenced it in his nineteenth year; and 
 the circumstances under which it was composed 
 are to be traced in all its parts. It is the produc- 
 tion of a strong untutored spirit, consumed by an 
 activity for which there is no outlet, indignant at 
 the barriers which restrain it, and grappling darkly 
 with the phantoms to which its own energy thus 
 painfully imprisoned gives being. A rude sim- 
 plicity, combined with a gloomy and overpowering 
 force, are its chief characteristics ; they remind 
 us of the defective cultivation, as well as of the 
 fervid and harassed feelings of its author. Above 
 all, the latter quality is visible ; the tragic interest 
 of the Robbers is deep throughout, so deep that 
 frequently it borders upon horror. A grim inex- 
 piable Fate is made the ruling principle: it enve- 
 lopes and overshadows the whole; and under its 
 louring influence, the fiercest efforts of human 
 will appear bat like flashes that illuminate the 
 wild BCene with a brief and terrible splendour, 
 and are lost for ever in the darkness. The 
 unsearchable abysses of man's destiny are laid 
 open before us, Mack and profound, and appalling, 
 as they s ( en) to the young mind when it first at- 
 tempta to explore them : the obstacles thai thwart 
 our faculties and wishes, the deceitfulness of hope,
 
 22 schiller's life. 
 
 the nothingness of existence, are sketched in the 
 sable colours, so natural to the enthusiast, when 
 he first ventures upon life, and compares the 
 world that is without him to the anticipations that 
 were within. 
 
 Karl von Moor is a character such as young 
 poets always delight to contemplate or delineate ; 
 to Schiller, the analogy of their situations must 
 have peculiarly recommended him. Moor is ani- 
 mated into action by feelings similar to those 
 under which his author was then suffering and 
 longing to act. Gifted with every noble quality 
 of manhood in overflowing abundance, Moor's 
 first expectations of life, and of the part he was 
 to play in it, had been glorious as a poet's dream. 
 But the minor dexterities of management were 
 not among his endowments ; in his eagerness to 
 reach the goal, he had forgotten that the course 
 is a labyrinthic maze, beset with difficulties, of 
 which some may be surmounted, some can only 
 be evaded, many can be neither. Flurried on by 
 the headlong impetuosity of his temper, he entan- 
 gles himself in these perplexities ; and thinks to 
 penetrate them, not by skill and patience, but by 
 open force. He is baffled, deceived, and still more 
 deeply involved ; but injury and disappointment 
 exasperate rather than instruct him. He had 
 expected heroes, and he finds mean men ; friends, 
 and he finds smiling traitors to tempt him aside,
 
 THE ROBBERS. 23 
 
 to profit by his aberrations, and load him onward to 
 destruction : he had dreamed of magnanimity and 
 every generous principle, he finds that prudence 
 is the only virtue sure of its reward. Too fiery 
 by nature, the intensity of his sufferings has now 
 maddened him still farther : he is himself inca- 
 pable of calm reflection, and there is no counsel- 
 lor at hand to assist him ; none, whose sympathy 
 might assuage his miseries, whose wisdom might 
 teach him to remedy or to endure them. He is 
 stung by fury into action, and his activity is at 
 once blind and tremendous. Since the world is 
 not the abode of unmixed integrity, he looks 
 upon it as a den of thieves ; since its institutions 
 may obstruct the advancement of worth, and 
 screen delinquency from punishment, he regards 
 th«- social union as a pestilent nuisance, the mis- 
 chiefs of which it is fitting that he in his degree 
 should do his best to repair, by means however 
 \ iolent. Revenge is the main spring of his con- 
 duct ; but he ennobles it in his own eyes, by giving 
 it the colour of a disinterested concern for the 
 maintenance of justice, — the abasement of vice 
 from it*, high places, and the exaltation of Buf- 
 fering virtue Single against the universe, to 
 appeal to the primary law of the stronger, to 
 ■ grasp the scales of Providence in a mortal's 
 hand, 1 is frantic and wicked ; but Moor has a 
 force of mhiI which make-, it likewise awful. The 
 
 *
 
 24 schiller's life. 
 
 interest lies in the conflict of this gigantic soul 
 against the fearful odds which at length over- 
 whelm it, and hurry it down to the darkest 
 depths of ruin. 
 
 The original conception of sueh a work as this 
 betrays the inexperience no less than the vigour 
 of youth : its execution gives a similar testimony. 
 The characters of the piece, though traced in 
 glowing colours, are outlines more than pictures : 
 the few features we discover in them are drawn 
 with elaborate minuteness ; but the rest are want- 
 ing. Every thing indicates the condition of a 
 keen and powerful intellect, which had studied 
 men in books only ; had, by self-examination and 
 the perusal of history, detected and strongly 
 seized some of the leading peculiarities of human 
 nature ; but was yet ignorant of all the minute 
 and more complex principles which regulate men's 
 conduct in actual life, and which only a knowledge 
 of living men can unfold. If the hero of the 
 play forms something like an exception to this 
 remark, he is the sole exception, and for reasons 
 alluded to above : his character resembles the 
 author's own. Even with Karl, the success is 
 incomplete : with the other personages it is far 
 more so. Franz von Moor is an amplified copy 
 of Iago and Richard ; but the copy is distorted 
 as well as amplified. There is no air of reality in 
 Franz : he is a villain of theory, who studies to
 
 THE ROBBERS. 25 
 
 accomplish his object bv the most diabolical 
 expedients, and soothes his conscience by arguing 
 
 with the priest in favour of atheism and material- 
 ism ; not the genuine villain of Shakspeare and 
 Nature, who employs his reasoning powers in 
 creating new schemes and devising new means, 
 and conquers remorse by avoiding it — by fixing 
 his hopes and Fears on the more pressing emergen- 
 cies of worldly bnsiness. So reflective a miscreant 
 as Franz could not exist : his calculations would 
 lead him to honesty, if merely because it was the 
 best policy. 
 
 Amelia, the only female in the piece, is a beau- 
 tiful creation; but as imaginary as her persecutor 
 Franz. Still and exalted in her warm enthusiasm, 
 devoted in her love to Moor, she moves before 
 u> as the inhabitant of a higher and simpler 
 world than ours. ' He sails on troubled seas,' 
 she exclaims, with a confusion of metaphors, 
 which it is easy to pardon, ' he sails on troubled 
 M'a\ Amelia's love sails with him ; he wanders 
 in pathless deserts, Amelias Love makes the burn- 
 ing ^and grow green beneath him, and the stunted 
 shrnbs i<> blossom ; tin; south Bcorches his bare 
 
 bead, his feet are pinched by the northern snow, 
 Stormy bail beats round his temples Amelia's 
 love rockfl him to sleep in the storm. Seas, and 
 bills, and horizons, are between 08 : but souls 
 
 ■ scape from their ela\ prisons, and meet in tlu
 
 26 schiller's life. 
 
 paradise of love !' She is a fair vision, the beau 
 ide'al of a poet's first mistress; but has few mor- 
 tal lineaments. 
 
 Similar defects are visible in almost all the 
 other characters. Moor, the father, is a weak 
 and fond old man, who could have arrived at grey 
 hairs in such a state of ignorance, no where but 
 in a work of fiction. The inferior banditti are 
 painted with greater vigour, yet still in rugged 
 and ill-shapen forms ; their individuality is kept 
 up by an extravagant exaggeration of their seve- 
 ral peculiarities. Schiller himself pronounced a 
 severe but not unfounded censure, when he said 
 of this work, in a maturer age, that his chief 
 fault was in ' presuming to delineate men, two 
 years before he had met one.' 
 
 His skill in the art of composition surpassed 
 his knowledge of the world ; but that too was far 
 from perfection. Schiller's style in the Robbers 
 is partly of a kind with the incidents and feelings 
 which it represents ; strong and astonishing, and 
 sometimes wildly grand ; but likewise inartificial, 
 coarse, and grotesque. His sentences, in their 
 rude emphasis, come down like the club of Her- 
 cules ; the stroke is often of a crushing force, 
 but its sweep is irregular and awkward. When 
 Moor is involved in the deepest intricacies of the 
 old question, necessity and free will, and has 
 convinced himself that he is but an engine in the
 
 I HE ROBBERS. '27 
 
 bands of some dark and irresistible power, be 
 era a out : • Why lias my Periling made of me a 
 brazen bull to roast men in my glowing holly ?' 
 The stage-direction says, ' shaken with horror:' 
 no wonder that he shook! 
 
 Schiller has admitted these faults, and explained 
 their origin, in strong and sincere language, in a 
 passage of which we have already quoted the 
 conclusion. 'A singular miscalculation of nature,' 
 he says, * had combined my poetical tendencies 
 with the place of my birth. Any disposition to 
 poetry did violence to the laws of the institution 
 where 1 was educated, and contradicted the plan 
 of its founder. For eight years my enthusiasm 
 straggled with military discipline ; but the passion 
 tor poetry is vehement and fiery as a first love. 
 What discipline was meant to extinguish it blew 
 into a flame. To escape from arrangements that 
 tortured me, my heart sought refuge in the world 
 of ideas, when as yet I was unacquainted with 
 the world ol realities, from which iron bars ex- 
 cluded me. 1 was unacquainted with men ; for 
 the lour hundred that lived with me were but 
 i. petitions of the same creature, true easts of one 
 single mould, and of that \eiy mould which plas- 
 tie nature solemnly disclaimed. * * * Thus 
 circumstanced, a stranger to human characters and 
 human fortunes, to hit the medium line between 
 angelfl and devils was an enterprize in which 1
 
 28 schiller's life. 
 
 necessarily failed. In attempting it, my pencil 
 necessarily brought out a monster, for which by 
 good fortune the world had no original, and 
 which I would not wish to be immortal, except to 
 perpetuate an example of the offspring which 
 Genius in its unnatural union with Thraldom may 
 give to the world. I allude to the Robbers'* 
 
 Yet with all these excrescences and defects, the 
 unbounded popularity of the Robbers is not dif- 
 ficult to account for. To every reader, the ex- 
 citement of emotion must be a chief considera- 
 tion ; to the mass of readers it is the sole one : 
 and the grand secret of moving others is that 
 the poet be moved himself. We have seen 
 how well Schiller's temper and circumstances 
 qualified him to fulfil this condition : treatment, 
 not of his choosing, had raised his own mind into 
 something like a Pythian frenzy ; and his genius, 
 untrained as it was, sufficed to communicate 
 abundance of the feeling to others. Perhaps more 
 than abundance: to judge from our individual 
 impression, the perusal of the Robbers produces 
 an effect powerful even to pain ; we are absolutely 
 wounded by the catastrophe ; our minds are 
 darkened and distressed, as if we had witnessed 
 the execution of a criminal. It is in vain that we 
 rebel against the inconsistencies and crudities of 
 
 * Deutsches Museum v. Jahr. 1784, cited by Doering.
 
 THE ROBBERS. '2!) 
 
 the work: its faults are redeemed by the living 
 energy that pervades it. We may exclaim against 
 
 the blind madness of the hero ; hut there is a 
 towering grandeur ahout him, a whirlwind force 
 of passion and of will, which catches our hearts, 
 and puts the scruples of criticism to silence. The 
 most delirious of cntcrpri/es is that of Moor, but 
 the TOStness of his mind renders even that inter- 
 esting. We see him leagued with desperadoes 
 directing their savage strength to actions more 
 and more audacious ; he is in arms against the 
 conventions of men and the everlasting laws of 
 Fate : vet we follow him with anxiety through the 
 forests and desart places, where he wanders, 
 encompassed with peril, inspired with lofty daring, 
 and torn by nnceasing remorse ; and we wait with 
 awe for the doom which he has merited and can- 
 not avoid. Nor amid all his frightful aberrations do 
 we ever erase to love him: he is an 'archangel 
 though in rains*; and the strong agony with which 
 he feels the present, the certainty of that 
 
 stern future which awaits him, which his own 
 eve never loses si^ht of, make ns lenient to his 
 Climes. When lie poors forth his wild recollec- 
 tions, or still wilder forebodings, there is a terrible 
 vehemence in his expressions, which overpowers 
 ns, in spite both of his and their extravagance. 
 The scene on the hills beside the Danube, where 
 
 he looks at the Betting sun, and thinks ol old
 
 30 schiller's life. 
 
 hopes, and times, ' when he could not sleep if 
 his evening prayer had been forgotten/ is one, 
 with all its improprieties, that ever clings to the 
 memory. ' See,' he passionately continues, c all 
 things are gone forth to bask in the peaceful 
 beam of the spring : why must I inhale alone the 
 torments of hell out of the joys of heaven i 
 That all should be so happy, all so married 
 together by the spirit of peace ! The whole 
 world one family, its Father above ; that Father 
 not mine ! I alone the castaway, I alone struck 
 out from the company of the just ; for me no 
 child to lisp my name, never for me the languish- 
 ing look of one whom I love ; never, never, the 
 embracing of a bosom friend ! Encircled with 
 murderers ; serpents hissing around me ; riveted 
 to vice with iron bonds ; rushing down to the 
 gulph of perdition on the eddying torrent of 
 wickedness ; amid the flowers of the glad world, 
 a howling Abaddon ! O that I might return into 
 my mother's womb — that I might be born a beg- 
 gar ! I would never more — O Heaven that I 
 could be as one of these day labourers ! Oh ! I 
 would toil till the blood ran down from my tem- 
 ples, to buy myself the pleasure of one noon-tide 
 sleep, the blessing of a single tear. There ivas 
 a time too, when I could weep — O ye days of 
 peace, thou castle of my father, ye green lovely 
 valleys ! — O all ye Elysian scenes of my child-
 
 THE ROBBERS. 31 
 
 hood ! will vc never come again, never with your 
 balmy sighing cool my burning bosom ? Mourn 
 with me Nature! They will never come again, 
 never cool mv burning bosom with their balmy 
 sighing. They are gone ! gone ! and may not 
 return V 
 
 No less striking is the soliloquy where Moor, 
 with the instrument of self destruction in his 
 hands, the ' dread key that is to shut behind 
 him the prison of life, and to unbolt before him 
 the dwelling of eternal night,' — meditates on the 
 gloomy enigmas of his future destiny. Soliloquies 
 on this subject are numerous — from the time of 
 Hamlet, of Cato, and downwards. Perhaps the 
 worst of them has more ingenuity, perhaps the 
 best of them has less awfulnrss than the present. 
 St. Dominick himself might shudder at such a 
 question, with such an answer, as this : 'What il" 
 thou BDonldst send me cotnpanionlcss to some 
 burnt and blasted circle of the universe ; which 
 tlmii bast banished from thy sight; where the 
 lone darkness and the motionless desart were my 
 prospects — for ever? I would people the silent 
 wilderness with my fantasies ; I should have Eter- 
 nity for leisure to examine the perplexed image <>l 
 the universal woe. 
 
 Strength, wild impassioned strength, is the dis- 
 tinguishing quality of Moor. All bis bistorj 
 
 BhofTS il : and bis death is of ;i piece with the
 
 32 schiller's life. 
 
 fierce splendour of his life. Having finished the 
 bloody work of crime, and magnanimity, and 
 horror, he thinks that, for himself, suicide would 
 be too easy an exit. He has noticed a poor m an 
 toiling by the way-side, for eleven children ; a 
 great reward has been promised for the head of 
 the Robber ; the gold will nourish that poor 
 drudge and his boys, and Moor goes forth to give 
 it them. We part with him in pity and sorrow ; 
 looking less at his misdeeds than at their frightful 
 expiation. 
 
 The subordinate personages, though diminished 
 in extent and varied in their forms, are of a similar 
 quality with the hero ; a strange mixture of 
 extravagance and true energy. In perusing the 
 work which represents their characters and fates, 
 we are alternately shocked and inspired ; there is 
 a perpetual conflict between our understanding 
 and our feelings. Yet the latter on the whole 
 come off* victorious. The Robbers is a tragedy 
 that will long find readers to astonish, and, with 
 all its faults, to move. It stands, in our imagina- 
 tion, like some ancient rugged pile of a barbarous 
 age ; irregular, fantastic, useless ; but grand in 
 its height and massiveness and black frowning 
 strength. It will long remain a singular monu- 
 ment of the early genius and early fortune of its 
 author. 
 
 The publication of such a work as this natu-
 
 THE ROBBERS. 33 
 
 rally produced an extraordinary feeling in the 
 literary world. Translations of the Robbers soon 
 appeared in almost all the languages of Europe, 
 and were read in all ol them, with a deep interest, 
 compounded ol admiration and aversion, accord- 
 ing to the relative proportions of sensibility and 
 judgment in the various minds which content* 
 plated the Bubject. In Germany, the enthusiasm 
 which the Robbers excited was extreme. The 
 young author had hurst upon the world like a 
 meteor; and surprise, for a time, suspended the 
 power of cool and rational criticism. In the fer- 
 ment produced by the universal discussion ot 
 this single topic, the poet was magnified above 
 his natural dimensions, great as they were : and 
 though the general sentence was loudly in his 
 favour, yet he found detractors as well as praisers, 
 and both equally beyond the limits of moderation. 
 One charge brought against him must have 
 damped the joy of literary glory, and stung 
 Schiller's pure and virtuous mind more deeply 
 than any other. He was accused of having in- 
 jured the cause of morality by his work ; ol 
 
 having Bel up to the impetuous and fiery tempera- 
 ment ol youth a model of imitation which the 
 young Were Too likely to pursue with eagerness, 
 and which could only lead them from the safe and 
 beaten tracks ol duty into error and destruction. 
 It has even been stated, and often been repeated 
 
 i)
 
 34 schiller's life. 
 
 since, that a practical exemplification of this doc- 
 trine occurred, about this time, in Germany. A 
 young nobleman, it was said, of the fairest gifts 
 and prospects, had cast away all these advantages ; 
 betaken himself to the forests, and, copying Moor, 
 had begun a course of active operations, — which, 
 also copying Moor, but less willingly, he bad 
 ended by a shameful death. 
 
 It can now be hardly necessary to contradict 
 these theories ; or to show tbat none but a can- 
 didate for Bedlam as well as Tyburn could be 
 seduced from the substantial comforts of existence, 
 to seek destruction and disgrace, for the sake of 
 such imaginary grandeur. The German nobleman 
 of the fairest gifts and prospects turns out, on in- 
 vestigation, to have been a German blackguard, 
 whom debauchery and riotous extravagance had 
 reduced to want ; who took to the highway, when 
 he could take to nothing else, — not allured by an 
 ebullient enthusiasm, or any heroical and misdi- 
 rected appetite for sublime actions, but driven by 
 the more palpable stimulus of importunate duns, 
 an empty purse, and five craving senses. Perhaps 
 in his later days, this philosopher may have re- 
 ferred to Schiller's tragedy, as the source from 
 which he drew his theory of life : but if so, we 
 believe he was mistaken. For characters like him, 
 the great attraction was the charms of revelry, 
 and the great restraint, the gallows, — before the
 
 CON8EOUENCE8 ol PHE PLAY. 35 
 
 period of Karl von Moor, just as they have been 
 Bince, and will be to the end of time. Among 
 motives like these, the influence of even the most 
 malignant hook could scarcely he discernible, and 
 would be little detrimental, if it were. 
 
 Nothing, at any rate, could he farther from 
 Schiller's intention than such a consummation. 
 In his preface, lie speaks of the moral effect of the 
 Robbers in terms which do honour to his heart, 
 while they show the inexperience ol his head. 
 Ridicule, he signifies, has long been tried against 
 the wickedness of the times, whole cargoes of 
 hellebore have been expended — in vain ; and now, 
 he thinks, recourse must he had to more pungent 
 medicines. We may smile at the simplicity of 
 this idea: and safely conclude that, like other 
 specifics, the present one would fail to produce a 
 perceptible effect : hut Schiller s vindication rests 
 on higher grounds than these. His work has on the 
 whole famished nourishment to the more exalted 
 powers of our nature; the sentiments and images 
 which he has shaped and uttered, tend, in spite 
 of their alloy, to elevate the soul to a nobler pitch : 
 
 and this is a sufficient defence. As to the danger of 
 
 misapplying the inspiration he communicates, oi 
 
 for g e tti ng the dictates of prudence in our zeal for 
 
 the dictates of poetry, we have no great cause to 
 
 fear it. Hitherto, at least, there has always heen 
 
 enough of dull reality, <>n every Bide <>l us. to 
 
 D 2
 
 3(J SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 abate such fervours in good time, and bring us 
 back to the most sober level of prose, if not to 
 sink us below it. We should thank the poet 
 who performs such a service ; and forbear to in- 
 quire too rigidly whether there is any ' moral' in 
 his piece or not. The writer of a work, which 
 interests and excites the spiritual feelings of men, 
 has as little need to justify himself by showing 
 how it exemplifies some wise saw or modern 
 instance, as the doer of a generous action has to 
 demonstrate its merit, by deducing it from the 
 system of Shaftesbury, or Smith, or Paley, or 
 whichever happens to be the favourite system for 
 the age and place. The instructiveness of the 
 one, and the virtue of the other, exist independ- 
 ently of all systems or saws, and in spite of all. 
 
 But the tragedy of the Robbers produced some 
 inconveniences of a kind much more sensible 
 than these its theoretical mischiefs. We have 
 called it the signal of Schiller's deliverance from 
 school tyranny and military constraint ; but its 
 operation in this respect was not immediate ; at 
 first, it seemed to involve him more deeply and 
 dangerously than before. He had finished the 
 original sketch of it in 1778 ; but for fear of 
 offence, he kept it secret till his medical studies 
 were completed.* These, in the mean time, he 
 
 * On this subject Doering gives an anecdote, which may 
 perhaps be worth translating. ' One of Schiller's teachers
 
 \KMY SI ftGEON. 'M 
 
 had pursued with sufficient assiduity to merit the 
 usual honours:* in 1780, he had, in consequence, 
 obtained the post of surgeon to the regiment 
 Aue 6. in the Wurtembere army. This advance- 
 ment enabled him to complete his project, to 
 print the Robbers at his own expense, not being 
 able to find any bookseller that would undertake 
 it. The nature of the work, and the universal 
 interest it awakened, drew attention to the private 
 circumstances of the author, whom the Robbers, 
 as well as other pieces of his writing, that had 
 found their way into the periodical publications 
 
 surprised him, on one occasion, reciting a scene from the 
 /, ' •In rs, before some of his intimate companions. At the 
 words, which Franz von Moor addresses to Moser: Ila what! 
 thou knomesi hour greater? Think again! Death, heaven, 
 nity, damnation, hovi rs in the ■••mind of thy voice ! Not 
 . ! — the door opened, and the master saw Schiller 
 stamping in desperation up and down the room. ' For 
 shame,' said he, ' for shame to get into such a passion, and 
 curse -.i !' Tin other scholars tittered covertly at the worthy 
 in>])i ( tor, and Schiller tailed after him with a hitter smile: 
 ■ \ noodle!'— /.';,/ Confiscirter Kerl.) 
 
 1 1 1 ^ I. aiin 1. ..-, on tin- Philosophy of Physiology v\as 
 written in l ; ; 8, and never printed. His concluding thesis 
 was published, according to custom : the subject is arduous 
 I nough, ' the connection between the animal and spiritual 
 nature of man' — which Dr. Cabanis has since treated in so 
 
 offensive a fa hion. Schiller's tract we bave never seen, 
 Doering says it h I ' out of print,' till N< reproduced 
 >i in his Medical Journal (Leipzig I 50 \ he is ilent ic- 

 
 38 schiller's life. 
 
 of the time, sufficiently showed to be no common 
 man. Many grave persons were offended at the 
 vehement sentiments expressed in the Robbers, 
 and the unquestioned ability, with which these 
 extravagances were expressed, but made the 
 matter worse. To Schiller's superiors, above all, 
 such things were inconceivable : he might perhaps 
 be a very great genius, but was certainly a dange- 
 rous servant for His Highness, the Grand Duke of 
 Wurtemberg. Officious people mingled them- 
 selves in the affair: nay, the graziers of the Alps 
 were brought to bear upon it. The Grisons ma- 
 gistrates, it appeared, had seen the book ; and 
 were mortally huffed at being there spoken of, 
 according to a Swabian adage, as common high- 
 waymen.* They complained in the Hamburgh 
 Correspondent ; and a sort of Jackall, at Lud- 
 wigsburg, one Walter, whose name deserves to 
 be thus kept in mind, volunteered to plead their 
 cause before the Grand Duke. 
 
 * The obnoxious passage has been carefully expunged from 
 subsequent editions. It was in the third scene of the second 
 act; Spiegelberg discoursing with Razmann, observes, 'an 
 honest man you may form of windle-straws ; but to make a 
 rascal you must have grist: besides, there is a national genius 
 in it, a certain rascal-climate, so to speak.' In the first edition, 
 there was added : ' Go to the Grisons, for instance : that is 
 what I call the thief's Athens.' The patriot who stood forth 
 on this occasion for the honour of the Grisons, to deny this 
 weighty charge, and denounce the crime of making it, was 
 (not Dogberry or Verges, but) 'one of the noble family of Salis.*
 
 COURT REPROOFS. 39 
 
 Informed of all these circumstances, the Grand 
 Dnke expressed his disapprobation of Schiller's 
 poetical labours in the most unequivocal terms. 
 Schiller was al Length summoned to appear before 
 him ; and it then turned out, that his Highness 
 \v;i> not only dissatisfied with the moral or politi- 
 cal errors of the work, hut scandalized moreover 
 at its want of literary merit. In this latter re- 
 spect, he was kind enough to proffer his own 
 services. But Schiller seems to have received the 
 proposal with no sufficient gratitude; and the 
 interview passed without advantage to either 
 party. It terminated in the Duke's commanding 
 Schiller to abide by medical subjects : or at least, 
 to beware of writing any more poetry, without 
 submitting it to kis inspection. 
 
 We need not comment on this portion of the 
 Grand Duke's history: his treatment of Schiller 
 has already been sufficiently avenged. By the great 
 body of mankind, his name will be recollected, 
 chiefly, if at all, for the sake of the unfriended 
 youth whom he now schooled so sharply, and after- 
 wards afflicted BO cruelly : it will be recollected also 
 with the angry triumph which we feel against a 
 -hallow and despotic * noble of convention,' wiio 
 strains himself to oppress * one of nature's nobi- 
 lity, 1 submitted by blind chance to his dominion, 
 
 and finds that he cannot ' All this is far more than 
 
 'he Prince ofWurtemberg deserves. 01 limited
 
 40 schiller's life. 
 
 faculties, and educated in the French principles of 
 taste, then common to persons of his rank in 
 Germany, he had perused the Robbers with un- 
 feigned disgust ; he could see in the author only 
 a misguided enthusiast, with talents barely enough 
 to make him dangerous. And though he never 
 fully or formally retracted this injustice, he did 
 not follow it up ; when Schiller became known 
 to the world at large, the Duke ceased to perse- 
 cute him. The father he still kept in his service, 
 and nowise molested. 
 
 In the mean time, however, various mortifica- 
 tions awaited Schiller. It was in vain that he dis- 
 charged the humble duties of his station with the 
 most strict fidelity, and even, it is Said, with supe- 
 rior skill : he was a suspected person, and his most 
 innocent actions were misconstrued, his slightest 
 faults were visited with the full measure of official 
 severity. His busy imagination aggravated the 
 evil. He had seen poor Schubart* wearing out his 
 tedious eight years of durance in the fortress of 
 Schonberg, because he had been i a rock of offence 
 to the powers that were.' The fate of this unfor- 
 tunate author appeared to Schiller a type of his 
 own. His free spirit shrank at the prospect of 
 wasting its strength in strife against the pitiful 
 constraints, the minute and endless persecutions of 
 men, who knew him not, yet had his fortune in 
 
 * See Appendix, Note A.
 
 EMBARRASSMENTS. tl 
 
 their hands: the idea of dungeons and jailors 
 haunted and tortured his mind ; and the means of 
 escaping them, the renunciation of" poetry, the 
 source of all his joy, it likewise of many woes, the 
 radiant guiding-star ot his turbid and obscure ex- 
 istence, seemed a sentence of death to all that was 
 dignified, and delightful, and worth retaining, in 
 his character. Totally ignorant of what is called 
 the world ; conscious too of the might that slum- 
 bered in his soul, and proud of it, as kings are of 
 their sceptres ; impetuous when roused, and spurn- 
 ing unjust restraint; yet wavering and timid from 
 the delicacy of his nature, and still more restricted 
 in the freedom of his movements by the cir- 
 cumstances of his father, whose all depended on 
 the pleasure of the court, Schiller felt himsell 
 embarrassed, and agitated, and tormented in no 
 common degree. Urged this way and that, by 
 the most powerful and conflicting impulses ; 
 driven to despair by the paltry shackles that 
 chained him, yet forbidden by the most sacred 
 Considerations to break them, lie knew not on 
 what he should resolve ; he reckoned himself ' the 
 mosl unfortunate of men.' 
 
 Time at length gave him the solution ; circum- 
 Btances occurred which forced him to decide. 1 he 
 
 popularity of the Robbers had brought him into 
 correspondence with several friends ol literature, 
 who wished to patronize the author, or engag<
 
 42 schillkr's life. 
 
 him in new undertakings. Among this number 
 was the Freiherr von Dalberg, superintendant of 
 the theatre at Manheim, under whose encourage- 
 ment and countenance Schiller remodelled the 
 Robbers, altered it in some parts, and had it 
 brought upon the stage in 1781. The correspond- 
 ence with Dalberg began in literary discussions, but 
 gradually elevated itself into the expression of 
 more interesting sentiments. Dalberg loved and 
 sympathized with the generous enthusiast, invol- 
 ved in troubles and perplexities which his inex- 
 perience was so little adequate to thread : he gave 
 him advice and assistance ; and Schiller repaid 
 this favour with the gratitude due to his kind, his 
 first, and then almost his only benefactor. His 
 letters to this gentleman have been preserved, 
 and lately published ; they exhibit a lively picture 
 of Schiller's painful situation at Stuttgard, and 
 of his unskilful as well as eager anxiety to be de- 
 livered from it.* His darling project was that 
 Dalberg should bring him to Manheirn, as thea- 
 trical poet, by permission of the Duke : at one 
 time he even thought of turning player. 
 
 Neither of these projects could take immediate, 
 effect, and Schiller's embarrassments became more 
 pressing than ever. With the natural feeling of a 
 young author, he had ventured to go in secret, and 
 witness the first representation of his tragedy, at 
 
 * See Appendix, Note B.
 
 LE W ES -ll IK. YKD. 43 
 
 Mauheim. His incognito did not conceal him ; 
 he was put under arrest, during a week, lor this 
 offence: and as the punishment did not deter him 
 from again transgressing in a similar manner, he 
 learned I hat it was in contemplation to try more 
 rigorous measures with him. Dark hints were 
 given to him of some exemplary as well as immi- 
 nent Beverity : and Dal berg's aid, the sole hope of 
 averting it by quiet means, was distant and dubi- 
 ous. Schiller saw himself reduced to extremities. 
 Beleaguered with present distresses, and the most 
 horrible forebodings, on every side; roused to the 
 highest pitch of indignation, vet forced to keep 
 silence, and wear the face of patience, lie could 
 endure this maddening constraint no longer. He 
 resolved to be free, at whatever risk ; to abandon 
 advantages which he could not buy at such a 
 price; to quit his step-dame home, and go forth, 
 though friendless and alone, to seek his fortune in 
 the great market of life. Some foreign Duke or 
 Prince was arriving at Stuttgard ; and all the pea 
 pie were in movement, occupied with seeing the 
 spectacle of his entrance : Schiller seized this op- 
 portunity of retiring from the City, careless whither 
 be went, so be got beyond the reach of turnkeys, 
 
 and Grand Dukes, and commanding officers, it 
 
 u.is in the month ol October, I 782. 
 
 This last step tonus the catastrophe of the pub- 
 lication of the Robber* • it completed the deliver-
 
 
 44 schiller's live. 
 
 ance of Schiller from the grating thraldom under 
 which his youth had been passed, and decided his 
 destiny for life. Schiller was in his twenty-third 
 year, when he left Stuttgard. He says he ' went 
 empty away — empty in purse and hope. 5 The 
 future was indeed sufficiently dark before him. 
 Without patrons, connexions, or country, he had 
 ventured forth to the warfare on his own charges ; 
 without means, experience, or settled purpose, it 
 was greatly to be feared that the fight would go 
 against him. Yet his situation, though gloomy 
 enough, was not entirely without its brighter side. 
 He was now a free man, free, however poor ; and 
 his strong soul quickened as its fetters dropped 
 off, and gloried within him in the dim anticipation 
 of great and far-extending enterprizes. If cast too 
 rudely among the hardships and bitter disqui- 
 etudes of the world, his past nursing had not been 
 delicate, he was already taught to look upon pri- 
 vation and discomfort as his daily companions. If 
 he knew not how to bend his course among the 
 perplexed vicissitudes of society, there was a force 
 within him which would triumph over many dif- 
 ficulties ; and a c light from Heaven' was about 
 his path, which, if it failed to conduct him to 
 wealth and preferment, would keep him far from 
 baseness and degrading vices. Literature, and 
 every great and noble thing which the right pur- 
 suit of it implies, he loved with all his heart and
 
 RESIDENCE AT BAUERBACH. 15 
 
 all his soul : to this inspiring object he was hence- 
 forth exclusively devoted j advancing towards this, 
 and possessed of common necessaries on the hum- 
 blest scale, then' was little cl-e to tempt .him. His 
 life might he unhappy, but would hardly be dis- 
 graceful. 
 
 Schiller gradually felt all this, and gathered com- 
 fort, while better days began to dawn upon him. 
 Fearful of trusting himself so near Stuttirard as 
 at iManheim. he had passed into Franconia, and 
 was living painfully at Oggersheim, under the 
 name of Schmidt : but Dalberg, who knew all his 
 distresses, supplied him with money for immediate 
 wants : and a generous lady made him the offer of 
 a home. Madam von Wollzogen lived on her 
 ■ state of Banerbach, in the neighbourhood of 
 Meinungeil ; she knew Schiller from his works, 
 and his intimacy with her sons, who had been his 
 fellow-students at Stuttgard. She invited him to 
 her house; and there treated him with an affec- 
 tion which helped him to forget the past, and look 
 cheerfully forward to the future. 
 
 Under this hospitable roof, Schiller had leisure 
 to examine calmly the perplexed and dubious 
 aspect of his affairs. Happily his character be- 
 longed not. to the whining or sentimental sort : 
 
 be was not of those, in whom the pressure oi mis- 
 fortune produces nothing but unprofitable pain ; 
 
 who spend, in cherishing and investigating and
 
 46 schtller's life. 
 
 deploring their miseries, the time which should he 
 spent in providing a relief for them. With him, 
 strong feeling was constantly a call to vigorous 
 action : he possessed in a high degree the faculty 
 of conquering his afflictions, by directing his 
 thoughts, not to maxims for enduring them, or 
 modes of expressing them with interest, but to 
 plans for getting rid of them ; and to this disposi- 
 tion or habit, — too rare among men of genius, 
 men of a much higher class than mere sentimen- 
 talists, but whose sensibility is out of proportion 
 with their inventiveness or activity, — we are to 
 attribute no small influence in the fortunate con- 
 duct of his subsequent life. With such a turn of 
 mind, Schiller, now that he was at length master 
 of his own movements, could not long be at a 
 loss for plans or tasks. Once settled at Bauerbach, 
 he immediately resumed his poetical employments ; 
 and forgot, in the regions of fancy, the vague un- 
 certainties of his real condition, or saw prospects 
 of amending it in a life of literature. By many 
 safe and sagacious persons, the prudence of his 
 late proceedings might be more than questioned ; 
 it was natural for many to forebode that one who 
 left the port so rashly, and sailed with such preci- 
 pitation, was likely to make shipwreck ere the 
 voyage had extended far : but the lapse of a few 
 months put a stop to such predictions. A year 
 had not passed since his departure, when Schiller
 
 I \vo DRAMAS. 47 
 
 sent forth his Verschworuns des Fiesco and 
 Kabale und Liebe ,■ tragedies which testified that, 
 dangerous and arduous as the life he had seleeted 
 might be, he possessed resources more than ade- 
 quate to its emergencies. Fiesco he had com- 
 menced during the period of his arrest at Stutt- 
 gard ; it was published, with the other play, in 
 1783; and soon after brought upon the Manlieim 
 theatre, with universal approbation. 
 
 It was now about three years since the compo- 
 sition of the Robbers had been finished ; five since 
 the first sketch of it had been formed. With what 
 zeal and success Schiller had, in that interval, pur- 
 sued the work of his mental culture, these two 
 dramas are a striking proof. The first ardour of 
 youth is still to be discerned in them ; but it is now 
 chastened by the dictates of a maturer reason, and 
 made to animate the products of a much happier 
 and more skilful invention. Schiller's ideas of 
 art had expanded and grown clearer, his know- 
 ledge of life had enlarged. lie exhibits more 
 acquaintance with the fundamental principles of 
 human nature, as well as with the circumstances 
 under which it usually displays itself; and far 
 higher and juster views of the manner in which its 
 manifestations should be represented. 
 
 In the Conspiracy of Fiesco, we have to admire 
 
 not only the energetic animation which the author 
 
 ha- infused into all his characters, but the dis-
 
 48 schiller's life. 
 
 tinctness with which he lias discriminated, with- 
 out aggravating them ; and the vividness with 
 which he has contrived to depict the scene where 
 they act and move. The political and personal 
 relations of the Genoese nobility ; the luxurious 
 splendour, the intrigues, the feuds, and jarring 
 interests, which occupy them, are made visible be- 
 fore us : we understand and may appreciate the 
 complexities of the conspiracy ; we mingle, as 
 among realities, in the pompous and imposing 
 movements which lead to the catastrophe. The 
 catastrophe itself is displayed with peculiar effect. 
 The midnight silence of the sleeping city, inter- 
 rupted only by the distant sounds of watchmen, 
 by the low hoarse murmur of the sea, or the 
 stealthy footsteps and disguised voice of Fiesco, is 
 conveyed to our imagination by some brief but 
 graphic touches ; we seem to stand in the solitude 
 and deep stillness of Genoa, awaiting the signal 
 which is to burst so fearfully upon its slumber. 
 At length the gun is fired ; and the wild uproar 
 which ensues is no less strikingly exhibited. The 
 deeds and sounds of violence, astonishment, and 
 terror ; the volleying cannon, the heavy toll of 
 the alarm-bells, the acclamation of assembled 
 thousands, i the voice of Genoa speaking with 
 Fiesco,' — all is made present to us with a force 
 and clearness, which of itself were enough to shew 
 no ordinary power of close and comprehensive
 
 FIESCO. 49 
 
 conception, no ordinary skill in arranging and ex- 
 pressing its' results. 
 
 But it is not this felicitous delineation of cir- 
 cumstances and visible scenes which constitutes our 
 principal enjoyment. The faculty of penetrating 
 through obscurity and confusion, to seize thecha- 
 racteristic features of an object, abstract or mate- 
 rial ; of producing a lively description in the latter 
 case, an accurate and keen scrutiny in the former, 
 i» the essential property of intellect, and occupies 
 in its best form a high rank in the scale of mental 
 gifts : but the creative faculty of the poet, and espe- 
 cially of the dramatic poet, is something superad- 
 ded to this ; it is far rarer, and occupies a rank far 
 higher. In this particular, Fiesco, without ap- 
 proaching the limits of perfection, yet stands in an 
 elevated range of excellence. The characters, on 
 the whole, are imagined and pourtraved with great 
 impressiveness and vigour. Traces of old faults 
 are indeed still to be discovered: there still seems 
 a want of pliancy about the genius of the author ; 
 a Btiflhess and heaviness in his motions. His 
 sublimity is not to be questioned ; but it docs not 
 always disdain the aid ot rude contrasts, and mere 
 theatrical effect. lie paints in colours deep and 
 
 glowing, but without Bufficienl skill to blend them 
 
 delicately : be amplifies nature more than purifies 
 it ; be omits, but does not well conceal the omis- 
 sion. Fiesco has not the complete charm of a
 
 50 schiller's life. 
 
 true though emhcllished resemblance to reality ; 
 its attraction rather lies in a kind of colossal mag- 
 nitude, which requires it, if seen to advantage, to 
 be viewed from a distance. Yet the pervading 
 qualities of the piece do more than make us par- 
 don such defects. If the dramatic imitation is 
 not always entirely successful, it is never very dis- 
 tant from success ; and a constant flow of power- 
 ful thought and sentiment counteracts, or prevents 
 us from noticing, the failure. We find evidence 
 of great philosophic penetration, great resources 
 of invention, directed by a skilful study of history 
 and men ; and everywhere a bold grandeur of feel- 
 ing and imagery gives life to what study has 
 combined. The chief incidents have a dazzling 
 magnificence ; the chief characters, an aspect of 
 majesty and force which corresponds to it. Fer- 
 vour of heart, capaciousness of intellect and 
 imagination, present themselves on all sides : the 
 general effect is powerful and exalting. 
 
 Ficsco himself is a personage at once probable 
 and tragically interesting. The luxurious dissipa- 
 tion, in which he veils his daring projects, softens 
 the rudeness of that strength which it half con- 
 ceals. His immeasurable pride expands itself not 
 only into a disdain of subjection, but also into the 
 mostlofty acts of magnanimity : his blind confidence 
 in fortune seems almost warranted by the resources, 
 which he finds in his own fearlessness and imper-
 
 FIESCO. 51 
 
 tnrbable presence of mind. His ambition parti* 
 cipates in the nobleness of his other qualities; 
 he is less anxious that his rivals should yield to 
 him in power, than in generosity and greatness 
 of character, attributes of which power is with 
 him hut the symbol and the fit employment. 
 \mbition in Fieseo is indeed the common Avish of 
 every mind to diffuse its individual influence, to 
 <»wn activity reflected back from the 
 united minds of millions : hut it is the common 
 wish acting on no common man. He does not 
 long to rule that he may sway other wills, as it 
 were, by the physical exertion of his own : he 
 would lead us captive by the superior grandeur 
 of his qualities, once fairly manifested ; and he 
 aims at dominion, chiefly as it will enable him to 
 manifest them. ' It is not the arena that he values, 
 but what lies in that arena:' the sovereignty is 
 enviable, not for its adventitious splendour, not 
 because it is the object of coarse and universal 
 wonder ; hut as it offers, in the collected force of 
 a nation, something which the loftiest mortal may 
 bud scope for all his powers in guiding. ' Spread 
 out the thunder/ Fieseo exclaims, ' into its 
 single tones, and it becomes a lullaby for children : 
 pour it forth together in one quick peal, and the 
 royal sound shall move the heavens.' His affec- 
 tions are not less vehement than his other pas- 
 sions : bis brut can be united into powerlessness 
 
 2
 
 52 schiller's life. 
 
 and tenderness by the mild persuasions of his 
 Leonora ; the idea of exalting this amiable being 
 mingles largely with the other motives to his 
 enterprize. He is, in fact, a great, and might 
 have been a virtuous man ; and though in the 
 pursuit of grandeur, he swerves from absolute 
 rectitude, we still respect his splendid qualities, 
 and admit the force of the allurements which 
 have led him astray. It is but faintly that we 
 condemn his sentiments, when, after a night spent 
 in struggles between a rigid and a more accommo- 
 dating patriotism, he looks out of his chamber, 
 as the sun is rising in its calm beauty, and gilding 
 the waves and mountains, and all. the innumerable 
 palaces, and domes, and spires of Genoa, and ex- 
 claims with rapture: 'This majestic city — mine! 
 To flame over it like the kingly Day ; to brood 
 over it with a monarch's power ; all these sleep- 
 less longings, all these never satiated wishes to be 
 drowned in that unfathomable ocean !' We ad- 
 mire Fiesco, we disapprove of him, and sympa- 
 thize with him : he is crushed in the ponderous 
 machinery which himself put in motion and 
 thought to control : we lament his fate but con- 
 fess that it was not undeserved. He is a fit 
 ' offering of individual free-will to the force of 
 social conventions.' 
 
 Fiesco is not the only striking character in the 
 play which bears his name. The narrow fanatical
 
 FIESCO. 53 
 
 republican virtue of Verrina, the mild and vene- 
 rable wisdom ot the old Doria, the unbridled 
 profligacy of his nephew, even the cold contented 
 irreclaimable perversity ot the cut-throat Moor, 
 all dwell in our recollections: but what, next to 
 Fiesco, elderly attracts us, is the character ot Leo- 
 nora his wife. Leonora is of kindred to Amelia in 
 the KobberS) but involved in more complicated 
 relations, and brought nearer to the actual condi- 
 tion of humanity. She is such a heroine as 
 Schiller most delights to draw. Meek and retir- 
 ing by the softness of her nature, yet glowing 
 with an etherial ardour for all that is illustrious 
 and lovely, she clings about her husband, as it* her 
 being were one with his. She dreams of remote 
 and peaceful scenes, where Fiesco should be all to 
 her, she all to Fiesco : her idea of love is, that 
 • hi /• name should lie in secret behind every one 
 of his thoughts, should speak to him from every 
 object ot Nature; that for him, this bright majes- 
 tic universe itself were but as the shining jewel, 
 on which her image, only hers, stood engraved.' 
 Her character seems a reflection of Fiesco's, but 
 refined from his grosser strength, and transfigured 
 into a celestial form of purity and tenderness, 
 and touching grace. Jealousy cannot move her 
 
 into anger; she- languishes in concealed Borrow, 
 when --be thinks herself forgotten. It is affection 
 
 Ellone that can rOUSG her into passion; but uialei
 
 54 schiller's life. 
 
 the influence of this, she forgets all weakness and 
 fear. She cannot stay in her palace, on the night 
 when Fiesco' s destiny is deciding; she rushes 
 forth, as if inspired, to share in her hushand's 
 dangers and sublime deeds, and perishes at last in 
 the tumult. 
 
 The death of Leonora, so brought about, and 
 at such a time, is reckoned among the blemishes 
 of the work : that of Fiesco, in which Schiller 
 has ventured to depart from history, is to be 
 more favourably judged of. Fiesco is not here 
 accidentally drowned ; but plunged into the waves 
 by the indignant Verona, who forgets or stifles 
 the feelings of friendship, in his rage at political 
 apostacy. £ The nature of the Drama,' we are justly 
 told, * will not suffer the operation of Chance, or of 
 an immediate Providence. Higher spirits can dis- 
 cern the minute fibres of an event stretching 
 through the whole expanse of the system of the 
 world, and hanging, it may be, on the remotest 
 limits of the future and the past, where man 
 discerns nothing save the action itself, hovering 
 unconnected in space. But the artist has to paint 
 for the short view of man, whom he wishes to 
 instruct ; not for the piercing eye of superior 
 powers, from whom he learns/ 
 
 In the composition of Fiesco, Schiller derived 
 the main part of his original materials from his-
 
 KABALE UND LIEBE. .).) 
 
 lory; be could increase the effect by gorgeous 
 
 representations, and ideas pre-existing in the mind 
 of his reader. Enormity of incident and strange- 
 ness of situation lent him a similar assistance in 
 the Robbers. Kubale und L'tebe is destitute of 
 these advantages ; it is a tragedy of domestic life ; 
 its means of interesting are comprised within itself, 
 and rest on very simple feelings, dignified by no 
 \ ery singular action. The name, Court-intriguing 
 and Lore, correctly designates its nature ; it aims 
 at exhibiting the conflict, the victorious conflict, of 
 political manoeuvring, of cold, worldly wisdom, 
 \n ith tin- pure impassioned movements of the young 
 heart, as yet unsullied by the tarnish of every-day 
 life, inexperienced in its calculations, sick of its 
 empty formalities, and indignantly determined to 
 cast oil the mean restrictions it imposes, which 
 bind so firmly by their number, though singly so con- 
 temptible. The idea is far from original: this is 
 a conflict, which most men have figured to them- 
 selves, which many men of ardent mind are in 
 some degree constantly waging. To make it, in 
 this simple form, the subject of a drama, seems to 
 be a thought of Schiller's own ; but the praise, 
 though not the merit of his undertaking, consider- 
 able rather as performed than projected, has been 
 
 lessened by a multitude of worthless or noxious 
 
 imitations. The same primary conception has been 
 
 tortured into a thousand shapes and tricked out
 
 56 schiller's life. 
 
 with a thousand tawdry devices and meretricious 
 ornaments, by the Kotzebues, and other ' intel- 
 lectual Jacobins/ whose productions have brought 
 what we falsely call the 'German Theatre' into 
 such deserved contempt in England. Some portion 
 of the gall, due only to these inflated, flimsy, and 
 fantastic persons, appears to have acted on certain 
 critics in estimating this play of Schiller's. August 
 Wilhelm Schlegel speaks slightingly of the work : 
 he says, ' it will hardly move us by its tone of 
 overstrained sensibility, but may well afflict us by 
 the painful impressions which it leaves.' Our own 
 experience has been different from that of Schlegel. 
 In the characters of Louisa and Ferdinand Walter 
 we discovered little overstraining : their sensibility 
 we did not reckon very criminal ; seeing it united 
 with a clearness of judgment, chastened by a purity 
 of heart, and controlled by a force of virtuous re- 
 solution, in full proportion with itself. We rather 
 admired the genius of the poet, which could elc- 
 A^ate a poor music-master's daughter to the dignity 
 of a heroine ; could represent, without wounding 
 our sense of propriety, the affection of two noble 
 beings, created for each other by nature, and 
 divided by rank : we sympathized in their senti- 
 ments enough to feel a proper interest in their fate, 
 and see in them, what the author meant we should 
 see, two pure and lofty minds, involved in the 
 meshes of vulgar cunning, and borne to cjestruc-
 
 KABALE UND LIEBE. .)/ 
 
 tion by the excess of their own good qualities and 
 
 the crimes of others. 
 
 Ferdinand is a nobleman, but not convinced 
 that ' liis patent of nobility is more ancient or of 
 more authority than the primeval scheme of the 
 universe :' he speaks and acts like a young man 
 entertaining such persuasions ; disposed to yield 
 every thing to reason and true honour, but scarcely 
 any thing to mere use and wont. His passion for 
 Louisa is the sign and the nourishment rather than 
 the cause of such a temper: he loves her without 
 limit, as the only creature he has ever met with of 
 a like mind with himself; and this feeling exalts 
 into inspiration what was already the dictate of his 
 nature. We accompany him on his straight and 
 plain path ; we rejoice to see him fling aside with 
 a Strong arm the artifices and allurements with 
 which a worthless father and more worthless asso- 
 ciates assail him at first in vain : there is some- 
 thing attractive in the spectacle of native integrity, 
 fearless though inexperienced, at war with seltish- 
 ness and craft; something mournful; because the 
 victory will seldom go as we would have it. 
 
 Louisa is a meet partner for the generous 
 Ferdinand : the poet has done justice to her cha- 
 racter. She is timid and humble: a feeling and 
 richl) gifted soul is hid in her by the nnkindness 
 • if Ik t earthly lot : she is without counsellors 
 
 except tin innate holiness of her In art, and the
 
 58 schiller's life. 
 
 dictates of her keen, though untutored under- 
 standing; yet when the hour of trial comes, 
 she can ohcy the commands of hoth, and draw 
 from herself a genuine nobleness of conduct, which 
 second-hand prudence, and wealth, and titles, 
 would but render less touching. Her filial affec- 
 tion, her angelic attachment to her lover, her 
 sublime and artless piety, are beautifully contrasted 
 with the bleakness of her external circumstances : 
 she appears before us like the ' one rose of the 
 wilderness left on its stalk,' and we grieve to see 
 it crushed and trodden down so rudely. 
 
 The innocence, the enthusiasm, the exalted life 
 and stern fate of Louisa and Ferdinand, give a 
 powerful charm to this tragedy: it- is everywhere 
 interspersed with pieces of fine eloquence, and 
 scenes which move us by their dignity or pathos. 
 We recollect few passages of a more overpowering 
 nature than the conclusion, where Ferdinand, 
 beguiled by the most diabolical machinations to 
 disbelieve the virtue of his mistress, puts himself 
 and her to death by poison. There is a gloomy 
 and solemn might in his despair ; though over- 
 whelmed, he seems invincible : his enemies have 
 blinded and imprisoned him in their deceptions ; 
 but only, that like Sampson, he may overturn his 
 prison-house, and bury himself, and all that have 
 wronged him, in its ruins. 
 
 The other characters of the play, though in
 
 KABALE I'M) LIEBE. oO 
 
 general properly sustained, are not sufficiently re- 
 markable to claim much of our attention. Wurm, 
 the chief counsellor and agent of the unprinci- 
 pled calculating Father, is wicked enough ; but 
 there is no great singularity in his wickedness. He 
 is little more than the dry, cool, and now somewhat 
 vulgar miscreant, the villainous Attorney of modern 
 novels. Kail) also is but a worthless subject, and 
 what Lb worse, but indifferently handled. He is 
 meant for the feather-brained thing of tags and 
 laces, which frequently inhabits courts ; but he 
 wants the grace and agility proper to the species ; 
 he is less a fool than a blockhead, less perverted 
 than totally inane. Schiller's strength lay not in 
 comedy, but in something far higher. The great 
 merit of the present work consists in the charac- 
 ters of the hero and heroine; and in this respect, 
 it ranks at the very head of its class. As a tra- 
 gedy of common life, we know of few rivals to 
 it, certainly of no superior. 
 
 The production of three such pieces as the 
 Robbers, Fiesco, and Kabale und lAebe, already 
 announced to the world that another great and 
 original mind had appeared, from whose maturity, 
 
 when such Was the promise of its vouth. the high 
 
 est expectations might be formed. These three 
 
 plays Stand related to each other in regard to 
 their n;itiu' and form, ae well as date : ibex
 
 60 schiller's life. 
 
 exhibit the progressive state of Schiller's educa- 
 tion : show us the fiery enthusiasm of youth, 
 exasperated into wildness, astonishing in its 
 movements rather than sublime ; and the same 
 enthusiasm gradually yielding to the sway of 
 reason, gradually using itself to the constraints 
 prescribed by sound judgment and more exten- 
 sive knowledge. Of the three, the Robbers is 
 doubtless the most singular, and likely, perhaps, 
 to be the most widely popular : but the latter two 
 are of more real worth in the eye of taste, and 
 will better bear a careful and rigorous study. 
 
 With the appearance of Fiesco and its com- 
 panion, the first period of Schiller's literary his- 
 tory may conclude. The stormy confusions of 
 his youth were now subsiding ; after all his 
 aberrations, repulses, and perplexed wanderings, 
 he was at length about to reach his true destina- 
 tion, and times of more serenity began to open 
 for him. Two such tragedies as he had lately 
 offered to the world, made it easier for his friend 
 Dalberg to second his pretensions. Schiller was 
 at last gratified by the fulfilment of his favourite 
 scheme ; in September, 1 783, he went to Man- 
 heim, as poet to the theatre, a post of respectabi- 
 lity and reasonable profit, to the duties of which 
 he forthwith addressed himself with all his heart 
 He was not long afterwards elected a member of
 
 GOES 1*0 MANHEIM. (il 
 
 ihc German Society established for literary objects 
 in Manheim ; and lie valued the honour, not only 
 as .1 testimony of respect from a highly estimable 
 quarter, hut also as the means of uniting him 
 more closely with men of kindred pursuits and 
 tempers ; and what was more than all, of quieting 
 tor ever his apprehensions from the government 
 at Stutteard. Since his arrival at Manheim, one 
 or two suspicions incidents had again alarmed him 
 on this head; hut being now acknowledged as a 
 subject of the Elector Palatine ; naturalized by 
 law in his new country, he had nothing more to 
 fear from the Duke of Wiirteinbcrg. 
 
 Satisfied with his moderate income, safe, free, 
 and surrounded by friends that loved and honoured 
 him, Schiller now looked confidently forward to 
 what all his efforts had been a search and hitherto 
 .i fruitless search for, an undisturbed life of intel- 
 lectual labour. What effect this happy aspect of 
 his circumstances must have produced upon him 
 may be easily conjectured. Through many years 
 he had been inured to agitation and distress ; now 
 peace and liberty, and hope, sweet in themselves, 
 were Bweeter lor their novelty. For the first time 
 in his life, he saw himself allowed to obey without 
 reluctance the ruling bias of his nature; for the 
 first time inclination and duty went hand in hand. 
 His activity awoke with renovated force in this 
 
 favourable scene; long-thwarted, half-forgotten
 
 G2 schiller's life. 
 
 projects again kindled into brightness, as the possi- 
 bility of their accomplishment became apparent: 
 Schiller glowed with a generous pride, when he 
 felt his faculties at his own disposal, and thought 
 of the use he meant to make of them. c All my 
 connections,' he said, l are now dissolved. The 
 public is now all to me, my study, my sovereign, 
 my confident. To the public alone I henceforth 
 belong ; before this and no other tribunal will I 
 place myself; this alone do I reverence and fear. 
 Something majestic hovers before me, as I deter- 
 mine now to wear no other fetters but the sentence 
 of the world, to appeal to no other throne but the 
 soul of man/ 
 
 These expressions are extracted from the pre- 
 face to his Thalia, a periodical work which he 
 undertook in 1784, devoted to subjects connected 
 with poetry, and chiefly with the drama. In such 
 sentiments we leave him, commencing the arduous 
 and perilous, but also glorious and sublime duties 
 of a life consecrated to the discovery of truth, and 
 the creation of intellectual beauty. He was now 
 exclusively what is called a Man of Letters, for 
 the rest of his days.
 
 SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 PART II
 
 SCHILLER'S LITE. 
 
 PART II. 
 
 PROM HIS SI I Ml \ll\l' VTMANHEIM TO HIS SETTLEMENT 
 
 \ i ,ii:\ \. 
 
 (178.S—1790) 
 
 Ik to know wisdom were to practise it ; if fame 
 brought true dignity and peace of mind : or hap- 
 piness consisted in nourishing the intellect with 
 its appropriate food, and surrounding the imagi- 
 nation with ideal beauty, a literary life would he 
 the most enviable which the lot of this world 
 aflbrds. But the truth is far otherwise. The Man 
 of Letters has no immutable, all-conquering vo- 
 lition, more than other men ; to understand and 
 to perform are two very different things with him 
 U with every one. His fame rarely exerts a 
 favourable influence on his dignity of character, 
 and never on his peace of mind : its glitter is 
 external, lor the eves of others ; within, it is hut 
 the aliment of unrest, the oil cast upon the ever- 
 growing fire of am hit ion, quickening into fresh ve- 
 hemence the blaze which it stills For a moment. 
 
 i
 
 ()6 SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 Moreover, this Man of Letters is not wholly made 
 of spirit, hut of clay and spirit mixed : bis 
 thinking faculties may be nobly trained and exer- 
 cised, but he must have affections as well as 
 thoughts to make him happy, and food and 
 raiment must be given him or he dies. Far from 
 being the most enviable, his way of life is, per- 
 haps, among the many modes by which an ardent 
 mind endeavours to express its activity, the most 
 thickly beset with suffering and degradation. 
 Look at the biography of authors ! Except the 
 Newgate Calendar, it is the most sickening chap- 
 ter in the history of man. The calamities of 
 these people are a fertile topic ; and too often 
 their faults and vices have kept pace with their 
 calamities. Nor is it difficult to see how this has 
 happened. Talent of any sort is generally ac- 
 companied with a peculiar fineness of sensibility ; 
 of <renins this is the most essential constituent ; 
 and life in any shape has sorrows enough for 
 hearts so formed. The employments of literature 
 sharpen this natural tendency ; the vexations that 
 accompany them frequently exasperate it into 
 morbid soreness. The cares and toils of literature 
 are the business of life ; its delights are too ethe- 
 real and too transient to furnish that perennial 
 flow of satisfaction, coarse, but plenteous and sub- 
 stantial, of which happiness in this world of ours 
 is made. The most finished efforts of the mind
 
 HARDSHIPS OF LITERATURE. (">7 
 
 give it little pleasure, frequently they give it pain ; 
 tor men's aims are ever far beyond their strength, 
 
 And tlic outward recompense of these underta- 
 kings the distinction they confer, is of still smaller 
 value: the desire for it is insatiable even when 
 successful ; and when baffled, it issues in jealousy 
 and euw, and every pitiful and painful feeling. So 
 keen a temperament with so little to restrain or 
 
 tisfy, 80 much to distress or tempt it, produces 
 contradictions which lew are adequate to reconcile. 
 Hence the nnhappiness of literary men, hence 
 their faults and follies. 
 
 Thus literature is apt to form a dangerous and 
 discontenting occupation even for the amateur. 
 But for him whose rank and worldly comforts 
 depend on it, who docs not live to write, hut 
 Writes to live, its difficulties and perils are fear- 
 folly increased. Few spectacles arc more afflicting 
 than that of such a man, so gifted and so fatcd ? 
 SO jostled and tossed to and fro in the rude hustle 
 of life, the bufferings of which he is so little fitted 
 to endure. Cherishing, it may he, the loftiest 
 thoughts, and clogged with the meanest wants ; 
 of pure and holy purposes, vet ever driven from 
 
 the Btraighf path by the pressure of necessity, or 
 the impulse of passion ; thirsting for glory, and 
 frequently in want of daily bread; hovering he- 
 tween the empyrean ol his fancy and the Bqualu) 
 desarl of reality; cramped and foiled in his inosl 
 
 . 2
 
 68 schiller's life. 
 
 strenuous exertions ; dissatisfied with his best 
 performances, disgusted with his fortune, this Man 
 of Letters too often spends his weary days in con- 
 flicts with obscure misery ; harassed, chagrined, 
 debased or maddened ; the victim at once of tra- 
 gedy and farce ; the last forlorn outpost in the 
 war of Mind against Matter. Many are the no- 
 ble souls that have perished bitterly, with their 
 tasks unfinished, under these corroding woes ! 
 Some in utter famine, like Otway ; some in dark 
 insanity, like Cowper and Collins ; some like 
 Chatterton have sought out a more stern quietus, 
 and turning their indignant steps away from a 
 world which refused them welcome, have taken 
 refuge in that strong Fortress, where poverty and 
 cold neglect, and the thousand natural shocks 
 which flesh is heir to could not reach them any 
 more. 
 
 Yet among these men are to be found the bright- 
 est specimens and the chief benefactors of man- 
 kind ! It is they that keep awake the finer parts 
 of our souls ; that give us better aims than 
 power or pleasure, and withstand the total so- 
 vereignty of Mammon in this earth. They are 
 the vanguard in the march of mind ; the intellec- 
 tual Backwoodsmen, reclaiming from the idle 
 wilderness new territories for the thought and 
 the activity of their happier brethren. Pity that 
 from all their conquests, so rich in benefit to others,
 
 HARDSHIPS OF LITERATURE. 69 
 
 themselves should reap so little ! But it is vaiu to 
 murmur. They arc volunteers in this cause j 
 
 they weighed the charms of it against the perils : 
 and they must abide the results of their decision, 
 as all must. The hardships of the course they 
 follow arc formidable, hut not all inevitable ; 
 and to such as pursue it rightly, it is not without 
 its grea1 rewards. If an author's life is more agi- 
 tated and more painful than that of others, it may 
 also be made more spirit-stirring and exalted : 
 fortune may render him unhappy; it is only 
 himself that can make him despicable. The 
 history of genius has, in fact, its bright side as 
 well as its dark. And if it is distressing to survey 
 the misery, and what is worse, the debasement of 
 so many girted men, it is doubly cheering on the 
 other hand to reflect on the icw, who, amid the 
 temptations and sorrows to which life in all its 
 provinces and most in theirs is liable, have 
 travelled through it in calm and virtuous majesty, 
 and are now hallowed in our memories, not less 
 for their conduct than their writings. Such men 
 are the flower of this lower world : to such alone 
 can the epithet of great be applied with its true 
 emphasis. There is a congruity in their proceed- 
 ings which one loves to contemplate: ' he who 
 would write heroic poems, should make his whole 
 lile a heroic poem. 1
 
 70 schiller's life. 
 
 So thought our Milton, and what was more 
 difficult, he acted so. To Milton, the moral king 
 of authors, an heroic multitude out of many ages 
 and countries might be joined ; a ' cloud ot 
 witnesses,' that encompass the true literary man 
 throughout his pilgrimage, inspiring him to lofty 
 emulation,cheering his solitary thoughts with hope, 
 teaching him to struggle, to endure, to conquer 
 difficulties, or, in failure and heavy sufferings, to 
 
 ' arm th' obdured breast 
 
 With stubborn patience as with triple steel.' 
 
 To this august series, in his own degree, tlte 
 
 name of Schiller mav be added. 
 
 j 
 
 Schiller lived in more peaceful times than Mil- 
 ton ; his history is less distinguished by obstacles 
 surmounted, or sacrifices made to principle ; yet 
 he had his share of trials to encounter ; and the 
 admirers of his writings need not feel ashamed of 
 the way in which he bore it. One virtue, the 
 parent of many others, and the most essential of 
 any, in his circumstances, he possessed in a su- 
 preme degree ; he was devoted with entire and 
 unchanging ardour to the cause he had em- 
 barked in. The extent of his natural endowments 
 might have served, with a less eager character, as 
 an excuse for long periods of indolence, broken 
 only by fits of casual exertion : with him it was
 
 LITERARY DILIGENCE. 71 
 
 Inn i new incitement to improve and develope 
 
 them, The Ideal Man that lay within him, the 
 image ol himself as he should be, was formed 
 upon a Strict and curious standard; and to reach 
 this constantly approached and constantly recediug 
 emblem oi perfection, was the unwearied effort ol 
 his lite. This crowning principle of conduct, 
 never ceasing to inspire his energetic mind, intro- 
 duced a consistency into his actions, a firm cohe- 
 rence into his character, which the changeful 
 condition of his history rendered of peculiar im- 
 portance. His resources, his place of residence, 
 his associates, his worldly prospects, might vary 
 as they pleased ; this purpose did not vary ; it 
 was ever present with him to nerve every better 
 faculty of his head and heart, to invest the che- 
 quered vicissitudes of his fortune with a diguity 
 derived from himself. The zeal of his nature 
 overcame the temptations to that loitering and 
 indecision, that fluctuation between sloth and con- 
 suming toil, that infirmity of resolution, with all 
 its tormenting and enfeebling consequences, to 
 which a literary man, working - as he does at a so- 
 litary task, uncalled for by any pressing tangible 
 demand, and to be recompensed by distant and 
 
 dubious advantage, is especially exposed. Ihiily 
 ol aim, aided by ordinary vigour of character, 
 
 will generally ensure perseverance; a quality not 
 ranked anions the cardinal virtues, but as essen
 
 72 
 
 SCHILLER S LIFE. 
 
 tial as any of them to tli£ proper conduct of life. 
 Nine-tenths of the miseries and vices of mankind 
 proceed from idleness : with men of quick minds, 
 to whom it is especially pernicious, this habit is 
 commonly the fruit of many disappointments and 
 schemes oft baffled ; and men fail in their schemes 
 not so much from the want of strength as from 
 the ill-direction of it. The weakest living creature, 
 by concentrating his powers on a single object, 
 can accomplish something : the strongest, by dis- 
 persing his over many, may fail to accomplish any 
 thing. The drop, by continual falling, bores its 
 passage through the hardest rock ; the hasty tor- 
 rent rushes over it with hideous uproar, and leaves 
 no trace behind. Few men have -applied more 
 steadfastly to the business of their life, or been 
 more resolutely diligent than Schiller. 
 
 The profession of theatrical poet was, in his pre- 
 sent circumstances, particularly favorable to the 
 maintenance of this wholesome state of mind. In 
 the fulfilment of its duties, while he gratified his 
 own dearest predilections, he was likewise warmly 
 seconded by the prevailing taste of the public. 
 The interest excited by the stage, and the import- 
 ance attached to every thing connected with it, are 
 greater in Germany than in any other part of 
 Europe, not excepting France, or even Paris. Nor, 
 as in Paris, is the stage in German towns consi- 
 dered merely as a mental recreation, an elegant
 
 THEATRE IN GERMANY. 73 
 
 .uid pleasant mode ot filling up the vacancy of 
 tedious evenings: in Germany, it has the advan- 
 tage of being comparatively new ; and its exhibi- 
 tions are directed to a class of minds attuned to a 
 far higher pitch of feeling. The Germans arc 
 accused of a proneness to amplify and systematize, 
 to admire with excess, and to find in whatever 
 calls forth their applause an epitome of a thou- 
 sand excellencies, which no one else can discover 
 in it. Their discussions on the theatre do certainly 
 give colour to this charge. Nothing, at least to 
 an English reader, can appear more dispropor- 
 tionate than the influence they impute to the stage, 
 and the quantity of anxious investigation thev 
 devote to its concerns. With us, the question 
 about the moral tendency of theatrical amuse- 
 ments is now very generally consigned to the 
 meditation ot debating clubs, and speculative soci- 
 eties of young men under age ; with our neigh- 
 bours it is a weighty subject of inquiry for minds 
 of almost the highest order. With us, the stage 
 is considered as a harmless pastime, wholesome 
 because it occupies the man by occupying his men- 
 tal not his sensual faculties; one of the many 
 departments of fictitious representation; perhaps 
 the most exciting, but also the most transitory; 
 
 sometimes hurtful, generally beneficial, just as the 
 
 rest are ; entitled to no peculiar regard, and far 
 
 inferior in its effect to many others which have no
 
 74 schiller's life. 
 
 special apparatus for their application. The Ger- 
 mans, on the contrary, talk of it as of some new 
 organ for refining the hearts and minds of men ; 
 a sort of lay pulpit, the worthy ally of the sacred 
 one, and perhaps even hetter fitted to exalt some 
 of our nohler feelings ; hecause its objects are much 
 more varied, and because it speaks to us through 
 many avenues, addressing the eye by its pomp and 
 decorations, the ear by its harmonies, and the 
 heart and the imagination by its poetical embel- 
 lishments, and heroic acts and sentiments. Influ- 
 ences still more mysterious are hinted at, if not 
 directly announced. An idea seems to lurk 
 obscurely at the bottom of certain of their abstruse 
 and elaborate speculations, as if the stage were 
 destined to replace some of those sublime illusions 
 which the progress of reason is fast driving from 
 the earth ; as if its pageantry, and allegories, and 
 figurative shadowing forth of things, might sup- 
 ply men's nature with much of that quickening 
 nourishment which we once derived from the 
 superstitions and mythologies of darker ages. 
 Viewing the matter in this light, they proceed in 
 the management of it with all due earnestness. 
 Hence their minute and painful investigations of 
 the origin of dramatic emotion, of its various kinds 
 and degrees ; their subdivisions of romantic and 
 heroic and romantico-heroic, and the other endless 
 jargon that encumbers their critical writings. The
 
 EMPLOYMENTS. 7.) 
 
 Seal of the people corresponds with that of their 
 
 instructors. The want of more important public 
 interests naturally contributes still farther to the 
 prominence of this, the discussion of which is not 
 forbidden, or sine to he without effect. Literature 
 attracts nearly nil the powerful thought that circu- 
 lates in Germany ; and the theatre is the great 
 nucleus of German literature. 
 
 It was to be expected that Schiller would par- 
 ticipate in a feeling so universal, and so accordant 
 with his own wishes and prospects. The theatre 
 of Manheim was, at that period, one of the hest 
 in Germany ; he felt proud of the share which he 
 had in conducting it, and exerted himself with his 
 usual alacrity in promoting its various objects. 
 Connected with tin; duties of his office, was the 
 more personal duty of improving his own facul- 
 ties, and extending his knowledge of the art which 
 he had engaged to cultivate. Me read much, ami 
 studied more. The perusal of Corneille, Racine, 
 Voltaire, and the other French classics, could not 
 be without advantage to one whose exuberance 
 of power, and defect of taste, were the only 
 faults he had ever been reproached with ; and 
 the -(Minder ideas thus acquired, lie was con- 
 stantly bu>y in exemplifying by attempts of his 
 own. His projected translations from Shakes- 
 peare, and the French, wen; postponed lor the 
 present : indeed, except in the instance <»1 Mac-
 
 76 schillers life. 
 
 beth, they were never finished : his Conradin von 
 Schwaben, and a second part of the Robbers, were 
 likewise abandoned : but a number of minor 
 undertakings sufficiently evinced his diligence ; 
 and Don Carlos, which he had now seriously 
 commenced, was occupying all his poetical faculties. 
 Another matter he had much at heart was the 
 setting forth of a periodical work, devoted to the 
 concerns of the stage. In this enterprise, Schiller 
 had expected the patronage and co-operation of 
 the German Society, of which he was a member. 
 It did not strike him that any other motive than 
 a genuine love of art, and zeal for its advance- 
 ment, could have induced men to join such a body. 
 But the zeal of the German Society was more 
 according to knowledge than of their new asso- 
 ciate : they listened with approving ear to his vivid 
 representations, and wide-spreading projects, but 
 declined taking any part in the execution of them. 
 Dalberg alone seemed willing to support him. 
 Mortified, but not disheartened by their coldness, 
 Schiller reckoned up his means of succeeding 
 without them. The plan of his work was con- 
 tracted within narrower limits; he determined to 
 commence it on his own resources. After much 
 delay, the first number of the Rhelnische Thalia, 
 enriched by three acts of Don Carlos, appeared in 
 1785. It was continued, with one short interrup- 
 tion, till 1704. The main purpose of the work
 
 RHBINISCHE THALIA. 77 
 
 being the furtherance of dramatic art, ami tlio ox- 
 tension and improvement of the public taste for 
 Midi entertainments, its chief contents are easy to 
 be guessed at ; theatrical criticisms, essays on the 
 nature of the stage, its history in various coun- 
 tries, its moral and intellectual effects, and the 
 Ix 'st methods of producing them. A part of the 
 publication was open to poetry and miscellaneous 
 discussion. 
 
 Meditating so many subjects so assiduously, 
 Schiller knew not what it was to be unemployed. 
 Yet the task of composing dramatic varieties, of 
 training players, and deliberating in the theatrical 
 senate, or even of expressing philosophically his 
 opinions on these points, could not wholly occupy 
 Mich a mind as his. There were times when, not- 
 withstanding his own prior habits, and all the 
 vaunting of dramaturgists, he felt that their scenic 
 glories were but an emptv show, a lying refuge, 
 where there was no abiding rest for the soul. His 
 eager spirit turned away from their paltry world 
 of pasteboard, to dwell among the dee]) and serious 
 interests of the living world of men. The Thalia, 
 besides its dramatic speculations and performances, 
 contains several of his poems, which indicate that 
 bis attention, though officially directed elsewhere, 
 
 was alive to all the common concerns of humanity ; 
 
 that be looked on life not more as a writer than 
 as a man. The Lmirn, whom he celebrates, was
 
 78 schiller's life. 
 
 not a vision of the mind ; but a living fair one, 
 whom he saw daily, and loved in the secresy of 
 his heart. His Gruppe aits dem Tartar as (Group 
 from Tartarus), his Kindesmorderinn (Infanticide) 
 are products of a mind brooding over dark and 
 mysterious things. While improving in the art of 
 poetry, in the capability of uttering his thoughts 
 in the form best adapted to express them, he was 
 likewise improving in the more valuable art of 
 thought itself; and applying it not only to the 
 business of the imagination, but also to those pro- 
 found and solemn inquiries, which every reason- 
 able mortal is called to engage with. 
 
 In particular, the Philosophische Brief e, writ- 
 ten about this period, exhibits Schiller in a new, 
 and to us more interesting point of view. Julius 
 and Raphael are the emblems of his own fears and 
 his own hopes ; their Philosophic Letters unfold 
 to us many a gloomy conflict that had passed in 
 the secret chambers of their author's soul. Scep- 
 tical doubts on the most important of all subjects 
 were natural to such an understanding as Schil- 
 ler's ; but his heart was not of a temper to rest 
 satisfied with doubts ; or to draw a sorry compen- 
 sation for them from the pride of superior acute- 
 ness, or the vulgar pleasure of producing an effect 
 on others by assailing their dearest and holiest 
 persuasions. With him, the question about the 
 essence of our being was not a subject for shallow
 
 PHILOSOPHIC LETTERS. 7!» 
 
 speculation, charitably named scientific; still loss 
 for vain jangling and polemical victories: it was a 
 fearful mystery, which it concerned all the deepest 
 sympathies and most sublime anticipations of his 
 mind to have explained. It is no idle curiosity, 
 hut the shuddering voice of nature that asks : ' If 
 OUT happiness depend on the harmonious play ot 
 the sensorium ; if our conviction may waver with 
 the beating of the pulse r'What Schiller s ultimate 
 opinions on these points were we are nowhere 
 specially informed. That his heart was orthodox, 
 that the whole universe was for him a temple, in 
 which ho offered up the continual sacrifice of de- 
 vout adoration, his works and life bear noble testi- 
 iiiiniv : vet, here and there, his fairest visions seem 
 M it suddenly sicklied over with a pale cast of 
 doubt ; a withering shadow seems to flit across his 
 soul, and chill it in his loftiest moods. The dark 
 condition of the man who longs to believe and 
 longs in vain, he can represent with a verisimilitude 
 and touching beauty, which shews it to have been 
 familiar to himself. Apart from their ingenuity, 
 there is a certain severe pathos in some of these 
 passages, which affects OS with a peculiar emotion. 
 The hero ol another work is made to express, 
 himself in these terms : 
 
 ' Whal went before ;uid what will follow me, 
 
 • I regard as two black impenetrable curtains
 
 80 schiller's life. 
 
 £ which hang down at the two extremities of 
 human life, and which no living man has yet 
 drawn aside. Many hundreds of generations have 
 already stood before them with their torches, 
 guessing anxiously what lies behind. On the 
 curtain of Futurity, many see their own sha- 
 dows, the forms of their passions enlarged and 
 put in motion : they shrink in terror at this 
 image of themselves. Poets, philosophers, and 
 founders of states, have painted this curtain with 
 their dreams, more smUing or more dark, as the 
 sky above them was cheerful or gloomy ; and 
 their pictures deceive the eye when viewed from a 
 distance. Many jugglers too make profit of this 
 our universal curiosity : by their strange mum- 
 meries, they have set the outstretched fancy in 
 amazement. A deep silence reigns behind this 
 curtain ; no one once within it will answer those 
 he has left without ; all you can hear is a hollow 
 echo of your question, as if you shouted into a 
 chasm. To the other side of this curtain we 
 are all bound : men grasp hold of it as they pass, 
 trembling, uncertain who may stand within it to 
 receive them, quid sit id, quod tantum morituri 
 vident. Some unbelieving people there have 
 been, who have asserted that this curtain did but 
 make a mockery of men, and that nothing could 
 be seen because nothing was behind it : but to
 
 PHILOSOPHIC LETTERS. 81 
 
 c convince these people, the rest have seized them, 
 1 and hastily pushed them in.'* 
 
 The Philosophic Letters paint the struggles of 
 an ardent, enthusiastic, inquisitive spirit to deli- 
 ver itself from the harassing uncertainties, to 
 penetrate the dread obscurity, which overhangs 
 the lot of man. The first faint scruples of the 
 Doubter are settled by the maxim : i Believe no- 
 thing but thy own reason ; there is nothing holier 
 than truth.' But Reason, employed in such an 
 iiKjnirv, can do but half the work: she is like the 
 Conjuror that has pronounced the spell of invoca- 
 tion, but has forgot the counter word ; spectres 
 and shadowy forms come crowding at his sum- 
 mons ; in endless multitudes they press and 
 hover round his magic circle, and the terror-struck 
 Black-artist cannot lay them. Julius finds that on 
 rejecting the primary dictates of feeling, the sys- 
 tem of dogmatical belief, he is driven to the 
 system of materialism. Recoiling in horror from 
 this dead and cheerless creed, he toils and wanders 
 in the labyrinths of pantheism, seeking comfort 
 and rest, but finding none; till baffled and tired, 
 and Bick at heart, he seems inclined, as far as we 
 can judge, to renounce the dreary problem alto- 
 
 iber, to shut tin ( y< ta of his too keen undcr- 
 itanding, and take refuge under the shade of 
 
 Dei Qi i " i i tu r. Schiller*! Werke, B, iv, S. .;."<". 
 
 i.
 
 82 schiller's life. 
 
 Revelation. The anxieties and errors of Julius 
 are described in glowing terms ; his intellectual 
 subtleties are mingled with the eloquence of in- 
 tense feeling. The answers of his friend are in 
 a similar style ; intended not more to convince 
 than to persuade. The whole work is full of 
 passion as well as acuteness ; the impress of a 
 philosophic and poetic mind striving with all its 
 vast energies to make its poetry and its philoso- 
 phy agree. Considered as exhibiting the state of 
 Schiller's thoughts at this period, it possesses a 
 peculiar interest. In other respects there is little 
 in it to allure us. It is short and incomplete ; 
 there is little originality in tbe opinions it expres- 
 ses, and none in the form of its composition. 
 As an argument on either side, it is too rhetorical 
 to be of much weight ; it abandons the inquiry 
 when its difficulties and its value are becoming 
 greatest, and breaks off abruptly without arriving 
 at any conclusion. Schiller has surveyed the dark 
 Serbonian bog of Infidelity ; but he has made no 
 causeway through it : the Philosophic Letters 
 are a fragment. 
 
 Amid employments so varied, with health, and 
 freedom from the coarser hardships of life, Schil- 
 ler's feelings might be earnest, but could scarcely 
 be unhappy. His mild and amiable manners, 
 united to such goodness of heart, and such height 
 of accomplishment, endeared hirn to all classes of
 
 SITUATION AT MANHEIM. 83 
 
 society in Manhcim ; Dalberg was still his warm 
 friend ; Schwann and Laura he conversed with 
 daily. His genius was fast enlarging its empire, 
 and fast acquiring more complete command of it; 
 lie was loved and admired, rich in the enjoyment 
 of present activity and fame, and richer in the 
 hope of what was coining. Yet in proportion as 
 his faculties and his prospects expanded, he began 
 to view his actual situation with less and less con- 
 tentment. For a season after his arrival, it was 
 natural that Manheim should appear to him as 
 land does to the shipwrecked mariner, full of 
 gladness and beauty, merely because it is land. 
 It was equally natural that, after a time, this sen- 
 timent should abate and pass away ; that his place 
 ot refuge should appear but as other places, only 
 with its difficulties and discomforts aggravated by 
 their nearness. His revenue was inconsiderable 
 here, and dependant upon accidents for its conti- 
 nuance ; a share in directing the concerns of a 
 provincial theatre, a task not without its irritations, 
 was little adequate to satisfy the wishes of a 
 mind like his. Schiller longed for a wider sphere 
 of action: the world was all before him ; he la- 
 mented that he should still be lingering on the 
 mere outskirts of its business; that he should 
 Watte m> much time and effort in contending with 
 tin- irascible vanity of players, or watching the 
 ebbs and flows <>l public taste; in resisting small
 
 84 schiller's life. 
 
 grievances, and realizing a small result. He de- 
 termined upon leaving Manheim. If destitute of 
 other holds, his prudence might still have taught 
 him to smother this unrest, the never-failing inmate 
 of every human breast, and patiently continue 
 where he was : but various resources remained to 
 him, and various hopes invited him from other 
 quarters. The produce of his works, or even the 
 exercise of his profession, would ensure him a 
 competence any where ; the former had already 
 gained him distinction and good-will in every part 
 of Germany. The first number of his Thalia 
 had arrived at the court of Hesse-Darmstadt, 
 while the Duke of Sachsen- Weimar happened to 
 be there : the perusal of the first acts of Don 
 Carlos had introduced the author to that enlight- 
 ened prince, who expressed his satisfaction and 
 respect by transmitting him the title of a counsel- 
 lor. A less splendid but not less truthful or 
 pleasing testimonial had lately reached him from 
 Leipzig. 
 
 • Some days ago,' he writes, ' I met with a 
 ' very flattering and agreeable surprise. There 
 ' came to me, out of Leipzig, from unknown 
 ' hands, four parcels, and as many letters, written 
 ith the highest enthusiasm towards me, and 
 r erflowing with poetical devotion. They were 
 ' accompanied by four miniature portraits, two of 
 ' which are of very beautiful young ladies, and by
 
 LETTER TO III BE K. 85 
 
 ■ a pocket-book sewed in the finest taste. Such a 
 ' present, from people who ean have no interest 
 ' in it, but to let nie know that they wish niewcll, 
 ' and thank me for some cheerful hours, I prize 
 1 extremely ; the loudest applause of the world 
 1 could scarcely have flattered me so agreeably. 1 
 
 Perhaps this incident, trifling as it was, might 
 not be without effect in deciding the choice of his 
 future residence. Leipzig had the more substantial 
 charm of being a centre of activity and commerce 
 of all sorts, that of literature not excepted ; and it 
 contained sonic more effectual friends of Schiller 
 than these his unseen admirers. lie resolved on 
 going thither. His wishes and intentions are 
 minutely detailed to Ilnber, his chief intimate at 
 Leipzig, in a letter written shortly before his 
 removal. We translate it for the hints it gives us 
 of Schiller's tastes and habits at that period of his 
 history. 
 
 ' This then is probably the last letter I shall 
 
 ■ write to you from Manhehn. The time from 
 ' the fifteenth of March has hung upon my hands, 
 
 • like a trial for life; and, thank Heaven! 1 am 
 
 • now ten whole days nearer you. And now, my 
 1 good friend, as you have already consented to 
 
 ' take m\ entire confidence upon your shoulders, 
 
 ■ allow me the pleasure of leading von into the 
 
 ■ interior oi m\ domestic wishes. 
 
 In my new establishment al Leipzig, I purpi
 
 86 schiller's life. 
 
 to avoid one error, which has plagued me a great 
 deal here inManheim. It is this : No longer to 
 conduct my own housekeeping, and also no longer 
 to live alone. The former is not by any means 
 a business I excel in. It costs me less to execute 
 a whole conspiracy, in five acts, than to settle my 
 domestic arrangements for a week ; and poetry, 
 you know yourself, is but a dangerous assistant 
 in calculations of economy. My mind is drawn 
 different ways ; I fall headlong out of my ideal 
 world, if a holed stocking remind me of the 
 real world. 
 
 ' As to the other point, I require for my private 
 happiness to have a true warm friend that would 
 be ever at my hand, like my better angel ; to 
 whom I could communicate my nascent ideas in 
 the very act of conceiving them, not needing to 
 transmit them, as at present, by letters or long 
 visits. Nay, w T hen this friend of mine lives with- 
 out the four corners of my house, the trifling 
 circumstance that, in order to reach him I must 
 cross the street, dress myself, and so forth, will 
 of itself destroy the enjoyment of the moment, 
 and the train of my thoughts is torn in pieces 
 before I see him. 
 
 ' Observe you, my good fellow, these are petty 
 matters ; but petty matters often bear the weigh- 
 tiest result in the management of life. I know 
 myself better than perhaps a thousand mothers'
 
 LETTER TO HL'BER. 87 
 
 sons know themselves ; I understand how orach, 
 and frequently how little, I require, to be com- 
 pletely happy. The question therefore is : Can 
 I get this wish of my heart fulfilled in Leipzig ? 
 
 ' If it were possible that I could make a lodg- 
 ment with you, all my cares on that head would 
 be removed. I am no bad neighbour, as per- 
 haps you imagine; I have pliancy enough to suit 
 myself to another, and here and there withal a 
 certain knack, as Yorick Bays, at helping to make 
 him merrier and better. Failing this, if you could 
 find me any other person that would undertake 
 my small economy, every thing would still be 
 well. 
 
 ' I want nothing but a bed-room, which might 
 also be my working room ; and another chamber 
 for receiving visits. The house-gear necessary 
 for me are a good chest of drawers, a desk, a bed 
 and sofa, a table, and a few chairs. With these 
 conveniences, my accommodation were suffici- 
 ently provided for. 
 
 ' I cannot live on the ground floor, nor close 
 by the ridge-tile; also my windows positively 
 must not look into the church-yard. I love men, 
 and therefore like to see them crowding past 
 me. If I cannot so arrange it that we (mean- 
 ing the quintuple alliance*) shall mess together, 
 
 * Who the other three were is nowhere particularly men- 
 tioned.
 
 88 schiller's life. 
 
 ( I would engage at the table dlidte of the inn ; 
 1 for I had rather fast than eat without company, 
 ' large, or else particularly good. 
 
 c I write all this to you, my dearest friend, to 
 'forewarn you of ray silly tastes; and, at all 
 ' events, that I may put it in your pow r er to take 
 c some preparatory steps, in one place or another, 
 1 for my settlement. My demands are, in truth, 
 c prosaic enough, but your goodness has spoiled me. 
 
 ' The first part of the Thalia must already be 
 ' in your possession ; the doom of Carlos will ere 
 e now be pronounced. Yet I will take it from 
 ' you orally. Had we five not been acquainted, 
 ' w T ho knows but we might have become so on 
 ' occasion of this very Carlos' 
 
 Schiller went accordingly to Leipzig, though 
 whether Huber received him, or he found his hum- 
 ble necessaries elsewhere, we have not learned. 
 He arrived in the end of March, 17S5, after eigh- 
 teen months' residence at Manheim. The reception 
 he met with, his amusements, occupations, and 
 prospects, are described, in a letter to the Kam- 
 merrath Schwann, a bookseller at Manheim, 
 alluded to above. Except Dalbcrg, Schwann had 
 been his earliest friend ; he was now endeared to 
 him by subsequent familiarity, not of letters and 
 writings, but of daily intercourse ; and what was 
 more than all, by the circumstance that Laura 
 was his daughter. The letter, it will be seen, was
 
 LEIPZIG. 89 
 
 written with a weightier object than the pleasun 
 
 of describing Leipzig : it is dated '2 tth April, 1785. 
 
 • You have an indubitable right to be angry at 
 
 • my long silence; yet I know your goodness too 
 
 1 well to be in doubt that you will pardon me. 
 
 1 When a man, unskilled as I am in the busy 
 
 world, visits Leipzig for the first time, during the 
 
 Fair, it is, if not cxcuseable, at least intelligible, 
 
 that among the multitude of strange things running 
 
 through his head, he should for a few days lose 
 
 recollection of himself. Such, my dearest friend, 
 
 has till to day been nearly my case; and even 
 
 now I have to steal from many avocations the 
 
 pleasing moments, which, in idea, I mean to 
 
 spend with you at Manheim. 
 
 c Our journey hither, of which Hcrr Gotz will 
 give you a circumstantial description, was the 
 most dismal you can well imagine, Bog, Snow, 
 and Main, were the three wicked foes that by 
 turns assailed us; and though we used an addi- 
 tional pair of horses, all the way from Bach, yd 
 our travelling, which should have ended on Fri- 
 day, was spun out till Sunday. It is universally 
 maintained that the Fair has visibly Buffered by 
 the shocking state of the roads ; in my eyes, at 
 all events, the crowd of sellers and buyers is far 
 beneath the description I used to gel of it in the 
 Empire.
 
 90 schiller's life. 
 
 1 In the very first week of my residence here, I 
 made innumerable new acquaintances ; among 
 whom, Weisse, Oeser, Hiller, Zollikofer, Pro- 
 fessor Huber, Jimger, the famous actor Reinike, 
 a few merchants' families of the place, and some 
 Berlin people, are the most interesting. During 
 Fair-time, as you know well, a person cannot get 
 the full enjoyment of any one; our attention to 
 the individual is dissipated in the noisy multitude. 
 
 ' My most pleasant recreation hitherto has been 
 to visit Richter's coffee-house, where I constantly 
 find half the world of Leipzig assembled, and 
 extend my acquaintance with foreigners and 
 natives. 
 
 ' From various quarters, I have had some allur- 
 ing invitations to Berlin and Dresden ; which it 
 will be difficult for me to withstand. It is quite 
 a peculiar case, my friend, to have a literary 
 name. The few men of worth and consideration 
 who offer you their intimacy on that score, and 
 whose regard is really worth coveting, are too 
 disagreeably counterweighed by the baleful swarm 
 of creatures, who keep humming round you like 
 as many flesh-flies, gape at you as if you were a 
 monster, and condescend, moreover, on the 
 strength of one or two blotted sheets, to present 
 themselves as colleagues. Many people cannot 
 understand how a man that wrote the Robbers 
 should look like another son of Adam. Close-
 
 LETTER TO SCHWANN. 91 
 
 cut hair, at the very least, and postillion's boots, 
 and a hunter's whip were expected. 
 
 c Many families are in the habit here of spend- 
 ing the summer in some of the adjacent villages, 
 and so enjoying the pleasures of the country. I 
 mean to pass a few months in Gohlis, which lies 
 only a quarter of a league from Leipzig, with a 
 very pleasant walk leading to it, through the 
 Rosenthal. Here I purpose being very diligent, 
 working at Carlos and the Thalia ; that so, 
 which perhaps will please you more than any 
 thing, I may gradually and silently return to my 
 medical profession. I long impatiently for that 
 epoch of my life, when my prospects may be settled 
 and determined, when I may follow my darling 
 pursuits merely for my own pleasure. At one time 
 I studied medicine con a mare ; could I not do it 
 now with still greater keenness ? 
 
 ' This, my hest friend, might of itself con- 
 vince yon of the truth and firmness of my par- 
 pose; but what should offer you the most com- 
 plete security on that point, what must banish 
 all your doubts about my steadfastness, I have 
 \i t kept secret. Now or never I must speak it 
 out. Distance alone gives me courage to express 
 the wMi of my heart. Frequently enough, when 
 I used to have the happiness <>f being near you, 
 has ibis confession hovered on my tongue; but 
 
 niv confidence always forsook me, when 1 tried
 
 92 
 
 SCHILLER S LIFE. 
 
 to utter it. My best friend ! Your goodness, youv 
 affection, your generosity of heart, have encou- 
 raged me in a hope, which I can justify by 
 nothing but the friendship and respect you have 
 always shown me. My free, unconstrained ac- 
 cess to your house afforded me the opportunity 
 of intimate acquaintance with your amiable 
 daughter; and the 'frank, kind treatment with 
 which both you and she honoured me, tempted 
 my heart to entertain the bold wish of becoming 
 your son. My prospects have hitherto been dim 
 and vague ; they now begin to alter in my 
 favour. I will strive with more continuous 
 vigour when the goal is clear ; do you decide 
 whether I can reach it, when the dearest wish of 
 my heart supports my zeal. 
 
 c Yet two short years and my whole fortune will 
 be determined. I feel how much I ask, how 
 boldly, and with how little right I ask it. A year 
 is past since this thought took possession of my 
 soul, but my esteem for you and your excellent 
 daughter was too high to allow room for a wish, 
 which at that time I could found on no solid 
 basis. - 1 made it a duty with myself to visit 
 your houseless frequently, and to dissipate such 
 feelings by absence : but this poor artifice did 
 not avail me. 
 ' The Duke of Weimar was the first person 
 i to whom I disclosed myself. His anticipating
 
 LETTER TO SCHWANN. }).'> 
 
 ' goodness, and the declaration that he took an 
 1 interest in my happiness, induced me to confess 
 
 • that this happiness depended on a union with 
 
 • \ our noble daughter ; and he expressed his 
 
 • satisfaction at my choice. I have reason to 
 
 • hope that he will do more, should it come to 
 k the point of fulfilling my wishes in this matter. 
 
 ' I shall add nothing farther: 1 know well that 
 hundreds of others might afford your daughter 
 ' a more splendid fate, than I at this moment can 
 'promise her; but that any other heart can be 
 ' more worthy of her, I venture to deny. Your 
 1 decision, which I look for with impatience and 
 ' fearful expectation, will determine whether I 
 ' may venture to write in person to your daughr 
 ' ter. Fare you well, for ever loved by — Your — 
 
 ' Friedricii Schiller.' 
 
 Concerning this proposal, we have no further 
 information to communicate ; except that the 
 parties did not marry, and did not cease being 
 friend That Schiller obtained the permission 
 he concludes with requesting, appears from other 
 sources. Three years afterwards, in writing to 
 tin- Bame person, he alludes emphatically t<> his 
 eldest daughter; and what is more ominous, apo- 
 logizes lor his silence to her. Schiller's situation 
 at this period was such ; ( s to preclude the idea ol 
 
 present marriage; perhaps, in the prospect of ii
 
 94 schiller's life. 
 
 Laura and he commenced corresponding; and 
 before the wished-for change of fortune had 
 arrived, both of them, attracted to other objects, 
 had lost one another in the vortex of life, and 
 ceased to regard their finding one another as 
 desirable. 
 
 Schiller's medical project like many which he 
 formed, never came to any issue. In moments of 
 anxiety, amid the fluctuations of his lot, the 
 thought of this profession floated through his 
 mind, as of a distant stronghold, to which, in 
 time of need, he might retire. But literature 
 was too intimately interwoven with his disposi- 
 tions and his habits to be seriously interfered 
 with ; it was only at brief intervals that the 
 pleasure of pursuing it exclusively seemed over- 
 balanced by its inconveniences. He needed a 
 more certain income than poetry could yield him ; 
 but he wished to derive it from some pursuit less 
 alien to his darling study. Medicine he never 
 practised after leaving Stuttgard. 
 
 In the mean time, whatever he might after- 
 wards resolve on, he determined to complete 
 his Carlos, the half of which, composed a con- 
 siderable time before, had lately been running the 
 gauntlet of criticism in the Thalia.* With this 
 
 * Wieland's rather harsh and not too judicious sentence on 
 it may be seen at large in Gruber's Wieland Gcschildert, 
 B. ii. S. 571.
 
 GOES TO DRESDEN. !».*> 
 
 for his chief occupation, Gohlis or Leipzig' for his 
 
 residence, and a circle of chosen friends for his 
 entertainment, Schiller's days went happily along. 
 His Lied au die Freude (Song to Joy) one of his 
 most spirited and beautiful lyrical productions, 
 was composed here: it bespeaks a mind impe- 
 tuous even in its gladness, and overflowing with 
 warm and earnest emotions. 
 
 But the love of change is grounded on the dif- 
 ference between anticipation and reality, and dwells 
 with man till the age when habit becomes stronger 
 than desire, or anticipation ceases to be hope. 
 Schiller did not find that his establishment at 
 Leipzig, though pleasant while it lasted, would 
 realize his ulterior views : he yielded to some of 
 his ' alluring invitations,' and went to Dresden 
 in the end of summer. Dresden contained many 
 persons who admired him, more who admired 
 his fame, and a few who loved himself. Among 
 the latter, the Appcllationsrath Korner deserves 
 especial mention :* Schiller found a true friend 
 in Korner, and made his house a home. He 
 parted his time between Dresden and Loschwitz, 
 
 near it, where that gentleman resided : it was here 
 
 that Don CarloSf the printing of which was mean- 
 while proceeding at Leipzig, received its eoniple- 
 
 TIh- w< II written life, prefixed t<> the Stuttgard and Tu- 
 bingen edition "t Schilli r'a works, i^ by this Komi r.
 
 96 schiller's life. 
 
 tion, and last corrections.* It was published in 
 1786. 
 The story of Don Carlos seems peculiarly 
 
 * In vol. 10. of the Vienna edition of Schiller, are some lu- 
 dicrous verses, almost his sole attempt in the way of drollery, 
 bearing a title equivalent to this : ' To the Right Honourable 
 the Board of Washers, the most humble Memorial of a 
 downcast Tragic Poet, at Loschwitz ;' of which Doering gives 
 the following account. ' The first part of Don Carlos being 
 already printed, by Goschen, in Leipzig, the poet, pressed for 
 the remainder, felt himself obliged to stay behind from an 
 excursion, which the Korner family were making, in a fine 
 autumn day. Unluckily, the lady of the house, thinking 
 Schiller was to go along with them, had locked all her cup- 
 boards and the cellar. Schiller found himself without meat 
 or drink, or even wood for fuel ; still farther exasperated by 
 the dabbling of some washer-maids beneath his window, he 
 produced these lines.' The poem is of the kind which cannot 
 be translated ; the first three stanzas are as follows : 
 
 Die Wasche klatscht vor meiner Thur, 
 
 Es plarrt die Kuchenzofe, 
 Und mich, mich fiihrt das Flugelthier 
 
 Zu Konig Philips Hofe. 
 
 Ich eile durch die Gallerie 
 
 Mit sehnellem Schritt, belausche 
 Dort die Prinzessin Eboli 
 
 Im siissen Liebesrausche. 
 
 Schon ruft das schone Weib : Triumpf! 
 
 Schon hor 'ich — Tod und Holle ! 
 Was hor 'ich — einen nassen Strumpf 
 
 Geworfen in die Welle.
 
 DON CARLOS. l .i7 
 
 adapted for dramatists. The spectacle of a royal 
 
 youth condemned to death hy his father, of which 
 happily our European annals furnish hut another 
 example, is among the most tragical that can be 
 figured ; the character of that youth, the inter- 
 mixture of bigotry and jealousy, and love, with 
 the other strong passions, which brought on his 
 fate, alford a combination of circumstances, affect- 
 ing in themselves, and well calculated for the 
 basis of deeply interesting fiction. Accordingly, 
 they have not been neglected : Carlos has often 
 been the theme of poets ; particularly since the 
 time when his history, recorded by the Abbe' 1 
 St. Real, was exposed in more brilliant colours to 
 the inspection of every writer, and almost of 
 every reader. 
 
 The Abbe St. Real was a dextrous artist in 
 that half-illicit species of composition, the his- 
 toric novel : in the course of his operations, he 
 lighted on these incidents ; and, by filling up 
 according to his fancy, what historians had only 
 sketched to him, by amplifying, beautifying, 
 suppressing and arranging, he worked the whole 
 into a sinking little narrative, distinguished by all 
 the symmetry, the sparkling graces, the vigorous 
 
 description and keen thought, which characterize 
 
 his Other writings, 'ibis French Sallust, as bis 
 countrymen have named him, has been <>l use to 
 many dramatists. His (Jonjuraisoncontrel dnise
 
 98 schiller's life. 
 
 furnished Otway with the outline of his best tra- 
 gedy ; Epicaris has more than once appeared 
 upon the stage ; and Don Carlos has been drama- 
 tized in almost all the languages of Europe. 
 Besides Otway's Carlos, so famous at its first ap- 
 pearance, many tragedies on this subject have 
 been written : most of them are gathered to their 
 final rest ; some are fast going thither ; two bid 
 fair to last for ages. Sehiller and Alfieri have 
 both drawn their plot from St. Real ; the former 
 has expanded and added ; the latter has compressed 
 and abbreviated. 
 
 Schiller's Carlos is the first of his plays that bears 
 the stamp of any thing like full maturity. The 
 opportunities he had enjoyed for extending his 
 knowledge of men and things, the sedulous prac- 
 tice of the art of composition, the study of purer 
 morals, had not been without their full effect. 
 Increase of years had done something for him ; 
 diligence had done much more. The ebullience 
 of youth is now chastened into the steadfast 
 energy of manhood ; the wild enthusiast, that 
 spurned at the errors of the world, has now 
 become the enlightened moralist, that laments 
 their necessity, or endeavours to find out their 
 remedy. A corresponding alteration is visible in 
 the external form of the work, in its plot and 
 diction. The plot is contrived with great inge- 
 nuity, embodying the result of much study, both
 
 JH>S CARLOS. iM) 
 
 dramatic and historical. The language is blank 
 verse, not prose, as in the former works ; it is 
 more careful and regular, less ambitious in its 
 object, but more certain of attaining it. Schiller's 
 mind had now reached its full stature: he felt and 
 thought more justly; he could better express 
 what he felt and thought. 
 
 The merit we noticed in Fiesco, the fidelity 
 with which the scene of action is brought before 
 us, is observable to a still greater degree in Don 
 Carlos. The Spanish court, in the end of the 
 sixteenth century ; its rigid, cold formalities : its 
 cruel, bigoted, but proud-spirited grandees; its 
 inquisitors and priests ; and Philip, its head, the 
 epitome at once of its good and its bad qualities, 
 in all his complex interests, are exhibited with 
 wonderful distinctness and address. Nor is it at 
 the surface or the outward movements alone that 
 we look ; we are taught the mechanism of their 
 characters, as well as shown it in action. The 
 stony-hearted Despot himself must have been an 
 objeel of peculiar study to the author. Narrow 
 in his understanding, dead in his affections, from 
 bi^ birth the lord of Europe, Philip has existed 
 all 1 1 > -s days above men, not among them. Locked 
 up within himself, a stranger to every generous 
 and kindly emotion, his gloomy spirit lia-> bad no 
 
 i mployment but to strengthen or increase its own 
 « levation, no pleasure but to gratify its own sell 
 
 H 2
 
 ■M wavafHi 
 
 100 schiller's life. 
 
 will. Superstition, harmonizing witli these native 
 tendencies, has added to their force, hut scarcely 
 to their hatefulness : it lends them a sort of 
 sacredness in his own eyes, and even a sort of 
 horrid dignity in ours. Philip is not without a 
 certain greatness, the greatness of unlimited exter- 
 nal power, and of a will relentless in its dictates, 
 guided hy principles, false, but consistent and 
 unalterable. The scene of his existence is haggard, 
 stern, and desolate ; but it is all his own, and he 
 seems fitted for it. We hate him and fear him ; 
 but the poet has taken care to secure him from 
 contempt. 
 
 The contrast both of his father's fortune and 
 character are those of Carlos. Few situations of 
 a more affecting kind can be imagined, than the 
 situation of this young, generous, and ill-fated 
 prince. From boyhood his heart had been bent 
 on mighty things ; he had looked upon the royal 
 grandeur that awaited his maturer years, only as 
 the means of realizing those projects for the good 
 of men, which his beneficent soul was ever busied 
 with. His father's dispositions, and the temper 
 of the court, which admitted no developement of 
 such ideas, had given the charm of concealment 
 to his feelings ; his life had been in prospect ; and 
 we are the more attached to him, that deserving 
 to be glorious and happy, he had but expected to 
 be either. Bright days, however, seemed approach-
 
 no\ ( vki.os. 101 
 
 iog ; shut out from the communion of the Albas 
 and Domingos, among whom he lived a stranger, 
 the communion of another and far dearer object 
 was to be granted him ; Elizabeth's love seemed 
 to make him independent even of the future, 
 which it painted with still richer hues. But in a 
 moment, she is taken from him by the most terri- 
 ble of all visitations ; his bride becomes his mo- 
 ther; and the stroke that deprives him of her, 
 while it ruins him forever, is more deadly, because 
 it cannot be complained of without sacrilege, and 
 cannot be altered by the power of Fate itself 
 Carlos, as the poet represents him, calls forth our 
 tenderest sympathies. His soul seems once to have 
 been rich and glorious, like the garden of Eden ; 
 but the desert-wind has passed over it, and smit- 
 ten it with perpetual blight. Despair has over 
 shadowed all the fair visions of his youth ; or if 
 he hopes, it is but the gleam of delirium, which 
 something sterner than even duty extinguishes in 
 the cold darkness of death. His energy survives 
 but to vent itself in wild gusts of reckless passion, 
 or aimless indignation. There is a touching poig- 
 nanev in his expression of the bitter melancholy 
 that oppresses him, in the fixedness of misery 
 with which lie looks upon the faded dreams ot 
 former years, or the fierce ebullitions and dreary 
 pauses of resolution, which now prompts him to 
 retrieve what he has lost, now withers into pow
 
 102 schiller's life. 
 
 erlessness, as nature and reason tell him that it 
 cannot, must not be retrieved. 
 
 Elizabeth, no less moving and attractive, is also 
 depicted with masterly skill. If she returns the pas- 
 sion of her amiable and once betrothed lover, we 
 but guess at the fact ; for so horrible a thought has 
 never once been whispered to her own gentle and 
 spotless mind. Yet her heart bleeds for Carlos ; 
 and we see that did not the most sacred feelings 
 of humanity forbid her, there is no sacrifice she 
 would not make to restore his peace of mind. By 
 her soothing influence she strives to calm the 
 agony of his spirit ; by her mild winning eloquence 
 she would persuade him, that for Don Carlos other 
 objects must remain, when his hopes of personal 
 felicity have been cut off ; she would change his 
 love for her into love for the millions of human 
 beings whose destiny depends on his. A meek 
 vestal, yet with the prudence of a queen, and the 
 courage of a matron, with every graceful and 
 generous quality of womanhood harmoniously 
 blended in her nature, she lives in a scene that is 
 foreign to her ; the happiness she should have had 
 is beside her, the misery she must endure is around 
 her ; yet she utters no regret, gives way to no com- 
 plaint, but seeks to draw from duty itself a com- 
 pensation for the cureless evil which duty has 
 inflicted. Many tragic queens are more imposing 
 and majestic than this Elizabeth of Schiller ; but
 
 IM)N ( AKLOS. 103 
 
 there is none who rules over ns with a sway so 
 -oft and feminine, none whom we feel so much 
 disposed to love as well as reverence. 
 
 The virtues of Elizaheth are heightened by com- 
 parison with the principles and actions of her 
 attendant, the Princess Eboli. The character ol 
 Eboli is full of pomp and profession; magnani- 
 mity and devotedness are on her tongue, some 
 shadow of them even floats in her imagination; 
 but they are not rooted in her heart ; pride, sel- 
 fishness, unlawful passion are the only inmates 
 there. Her lofty boastings of generosity are soon 
 forgotten when the success of her attachment to 
 ( arlos becomes hopeless : the fervour of a selfish 
 love once extinguished in her bosom, she regards the 
 object of it with none but vulgar feelings. Virtue 
 no longer according with interest, she ceases to be 
 virtuous ; from a rejected mistress, the transition 
 to a jealous spy is with her natural and easy. Yet 
 we do not hate the Princess ; there is a seductive 
 warmth and grace about her character, which 
 makes us lament her vices rather than condemn 
 them. The poet has drawn her at once false and 
 fair. 
 
 In delineating Eboli and Philip, Schiller seems 
 as if Struggling against the current of his nature: 
 our feelings towards them are hardly so severe as 
 
 he intended ; their words and deeds, at least those 
 <>| the latter, are wicked and repulsive enough ;
 
 104 SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 but we still have a kind of latent persuasion that 
 they meant better than they spoke or acted. With 
 the Marquis of Posa, he had a more genial task. 
 ThisPosa, we can easily perceive, is the represen- 
 tative of Schiller himself. The ardent love of men, 
 which forms his ruling passion, was likewise the 
 constant feeling of his author ; the glowing elo- 
 quence with which he advocates the cause of truth, 
 and justice, and humanity, was such as Schiller too 
 would have employed in similar circumstances. In 
 some respects, Posa is the chief character of the 
 piece ; there is a pre-eminent magnificence in his 
 object, and in the faculties and feelings with which 
 he follows it. Of a splendid intellect, and a daring 
 devoted heart, his powers are all combined upon a 
 single purpose. Even his friendship for Carlos, 
 grounded on the likeness of their minds, and faith- 
 ful as it is, yet seems to merge in this paramount 
 emotion, zeal for the universal interests of man. 
 Aiming with all his force of thought and action, 
 to advance the happiness and best rights of his 
 fellow creatures; pursuing this noble aim with the 
 skill and dignity which it deserves, his mind is at 
 once unwearied, earnest, and serene. He is ano- 
 ther Carlos, but somewhat older, more experienced, 
 and never crossed in hopeless love. There is a 
 calm strength in Posa, which no accident of for- 
 tune can shake. Whether cheering the forlorn 
 Carlos into new activity ; whether lifting up
 
 nn\ ( IRLOS. 
 
 10.5 
 
 his voice in the ear of tyrants and inquisitors ; 
 or taking leave of life amid his vast unexecuted 
 schemes, there is the same sedate magnanimity, 
 the same fearless composure: when the fatal bill- 
 let strikes him, he dies with the concerns of others, 
 not his own, upon his lips. He is a reformer, the 
 perfection of reformers ; not a revolutionist, but 
 a prudent though determined improver. His enthu- 
 siasm does not burst forth in violence, but in manly 
 and enlightened cnergv ; his eloquence is not more 
 moving to the heart, than his lofty philosophy is 
 convincing to the head. There is a majestic vast- 
 ness of thought in his precepts, which recommends 
 them to the mind independently of the beauty of 
 their dress. Few passages of poetry are more spirit- 
 stirring than his last message to Carlos, through 
 the Queen. The certainty of death seems to 
 surround his spirit with a kind of martyr glory ; 
 lie is kindled into transport, and speaks with a 
 commanding power. The pathetic wisdom of the 
 line, ' Tell him, that when he is a man, he must 
 reverence the dreams of his youth,' has often been 
 admired : that scene has many such. 
 
 The interview with Philip is not less excellent. 
 There is something so striking in the idea of con- 
 fronting the cold solitary tyrant with ' the only 
 man in all hi- Btatefl that does not need him*; ot 
 raising the voice of true manhood for once within 
 the gloomy chambers of thraldom and priestcraft, 
 thai we can forgive the Btretch ol poetic licence
 
 lOo* schiller's life. 
 
 by which it is effected. Philip and Posa are anti- 
 podes in all respects. Philip thinks his new 
 instructor is ' a Protestant ;' a charge which Posa 
 rebuts with calm dignity, his object not being sepa- 
 ration and contention, but union and peaceful 
 gradual improvement. Posa seems to understand 
 the character of Philip better ; not attempting to 
 awaken in his sterile heart any feeling for real glory, 
 or the interests of his fellow-men, he attacks his 
 selfishness and pride, represents to him the intrinsic 
 meanness and misery of a throne, however decked 
 with adventitious pomp, if built on servitude, and 
 isolated from the sympathies and interests of others. 
 We translate the entire scene : though not by 
 any means the best, it is among the fittest for 
 extraction of any in the piece. Posa has been sent 
 for by the King, and is waiting in a chamber of 
 the palace to know what is required of him : the 
 King enters, unperceived by Posa, whose atten- 
 tion is directed to a picture on the wall. 
 
 ACT III. SCENE X. 
 
 The King and Marquis de Posa. 
 
 (The latter, on noticing the King, advances towards him, and 
 kneels, then rises, and waits without any sympton of embar- 
 rassment.) 
 
 Kino. {Looks at him with surprise.) 
 
 We have met before, then ? 
 Mar. No. 
 
 King. You did my crown
 
 DON ( ARLOS. 107 
 
 Some service: wherefore have you shunn'd my thanks' 
 ( KlZ memory is besieged by crowds of suitors ; 
 Omniscient is none but He in Heaven. 
 "» Mi should have sought my looks : why did you not '. 
 
 Mar. Tis scarcely yet two days, your Majesty, 
 Since I returned to Spain. 
 
 King. I am not used 
 
 To be my servants' dehtor ; ask of me 
 Some favor. 
 
 Mar. I enjoy the laws. 
 
 King. That righl 
 
 The very murdrer has. 
 
 \I \r. And how much more 
 
 The honest burgher! — Sire, my lot contents me. 
 
 King. (A side) Here is no want of pride, however, Marquis! 
 Hut this was to be look'd for : I would have 
 My Spaniards haughty ; better that the cup 
 Should overflow than not be full. — I hear 
 You left my service, Marquis. 
 
 M \k. Making way 
 
 For mi n more worthy, I withdrew. 
 
 King. Tis wrong: 
 
 Win n spirits such as your's play truant, 
 My -tate must Buffer. You conceive, perhaps, 
 Some post unworthy of your merits 
 Might be ofier'd you \ 
 
 \I \u. No, Sire, I cannot doubt 
 
 But that a judge so skilful, and experienced 
 In the gift* of men, has at a glance discovcr'd 
 Wherein I might do him service, wherein not. 
 I lid with humble gratitude the favor, 
 With which your Majesty is loading me 
 Hy thoughtl so lofty : yet I e.m (//< ttops.) 
 Kiv You pan
 
 108 schiller's life. 
 
 Mar. Sire, at the moment I am scarce prepar'd 
 To speak in phrases of a Spanish subject 
 What as a citizen o' th' world I've thought. 
 Truth is, in parting from the Court for ever, 
 I held myself discharged from all necessity 
 Of troubling it with reasons for my absence. 
 
 King. Are your reasons bad then ? Dare you not risk 
 Disclosing them 1 
 
 Mar. My life, and joyfully, 
 
 Were scope allow'd me to disclose them all. 
 'Tis not myself but Truth that I endanger, 
 Should the King refuse me a full hearing. 
 Your anger or contempt I fain would shun ; 
 But forced to choose between them, I had rather 
 Seem to you a man deserving punishment 
 Than pity. 
 
 King. (With a look of expectation.) 
 Well ? 
 
 Mar. The servant of a prince 
 
 I cannot be. 
 
 (The King looks at him with astonishment.) 
 I will not cheat my merchant : 
 If you deign to take me as your servant, 
 You expect, you wish, my actions only ; 
 You wish my arm in fight, my thought in counsel ; 
 Nothing more you will accept of: not my actions, 
 Th' approval they might find at Court, becomes 
 The object of my acting. Now for me 
 Right conduct has a value of its own : 
 The happiness my king might cause me plant 
 I would myself produce, and conscious joy, 
 And free selection, not the force of duty, 
 Should impel me. Is it thus your Majesty 
 Requires it? Could you suffer new creators
 
 DON ( AKLOS. I(W 
 
 In your own creation '. Or could 1 
 Consent with patience to become the chisel, 
 When I hoped to be the statuary ? 
 I love mankind ; and in a monarchy, 
 Myself were all that I could love. 
 
 Kim.. Tin's fin- 
 
 Is laudable. You might do good to others ; 
 How you do it, patriots, wise men think 
 ( >t little moment, so it be but done. 
 Seek for yourself the ofHce in my kingdoms, 
 That will give you leave to gratify 
 This noble zeal. 
 
 Mar. There is not such an ollicc. 
 
 King. How? 
 
 Mail What the King desires to speak abroad 
 
 Through these weak hands — is it the good of men? 
 That good which my unfetter'd love would wish them J 
 I'ale majesty would tremble to behold it ! 
 No! Policy has fashioned in her courts 
 A novel sort of happiness ; a sort 
 Which she is rich enough to give away, 
 Awakening with it in the hearts of men 
 New impulses for it to satisfy. 
 Truth she keeps coining in her mhvts, such truth 
 As she can tolerate; and every die 
 Except her own, she breaks and casts away. 
 But is the royal bounty wide enough 
 Pot DM to wish and work in? Must the love 
 I bear my brother pledge itself to be 
 \1\ brother's jailor? Can I call him happy 
 When he dan.- not think '. Sire, choose some other 
 To dispense the blessings you have stamped for u .. 
 Pot me, I must decline distributing
 
 ! 10 schiller's lifl. 
 
 That sort of coin ; the servant of a prince 
 I cannot be. 
 
 King. {Rather quickly) 
 
 You are a Protestant. 
 Mar. {After some reflexion) 
 Sire, your creed is also mine. 
 
 {After a pause.) 
 I find 
 I am misunderstood : 'tis as I fear'd. 
 You see me draw the veil from majesty 
 And view its mysteries with steadfast eye : 
 How should you know if I regard as holy, 
 Things which I no more regard as terrible ? 
 Dangerous I seem, for bearing thoughts too high : 
 My King, I am not dangerous : my wishes 
 Lie dormant here. {Laying his hand on his breast.) 
 
 The poor and purblind rage 
 Of innovation, that but aggravates 
 The weight o' th' fetters which it cannot break, 
 Will never heat my blood. The century 
 Admits not my ideas : I live a citizen 
 Of those that are to come. Sire, can a picture 
 Break your rest ? Your breath obliterates it. 
 
 King. No other knows you have such sentiments '. 
 Mar. Such, no one. 
 
 King. {Rises, rvallcs a few steps, then stops opposite the 
 Marqnis. — Aside.) 
 
 New, at least this dialect ! 
 Flattery exhausts itself: a man of parts 
 Disdains to imitate. For once let's have 
 A trial of the opposite ! Why not? 
 The strange is oft the lucky. — If so be 
 This is your principle, why let it pass ! 
 I will conform ; the crown shall have a servant
 
 DON CARLOS. I 1 I 
 
 \e\\ id Spain — a liberal ! 
 
 M vu. Sire, I see 
 
 How very meanly you conceive of men; 
 Now, in the language of the frank true spirit, 
 You find nothing but another artifice 
 Of a more practis'd coz'ner: I can also 
 Partly see what causes this. Tis men ; 
 lis men that force you to it : they themselves 
 Have east away their own nobility, 
 III. m.M hi s have crouch'd to this degraded posture. 
 Man's innate greatness like a spectre frights them; 
 Their poverty seems safety ; with base skill 
 They ornament their chains, and call it virtue 
 To wear them with an air of grace. 'Twas thus 
 You found the world ; thus from your royal father 
 Came it to you : how in this distorted 
 Mutilated image, could you honour man ? 
 
 Kim.. Some truth there is in this. 
 
 M \u. Pity, however, 
 
 That in taking man from the Creator, 
 And changing him into your handiwork, 
 And setting up yourself to be the god 
 ( )f this new-moulded creature, you should have 
 Forgotten one essential : you yourself 
 Remained a man, a very child of Adam ! 
 You are still a suffering, longing mortal, 
 You call for sympathy, and to a god 
 W i can but sacrifice, and pray, and tremble! 
 O unwise exchange ! Unbless'd perversion ! 
 When you have sunk your brothers to be pla\'<! 
 
 As harp-strings, who will join in harmony 
 
 With you the play< r ' 
 
 K i By Heaven he touches me ' ) 
 
 M ti I or \ou. however, this is unimportant i
 
 112 schiller's life. 
 
 It but makes you separate, peculiar; 
 Tis the price you pay for being a god. 
 And frightful were it if you failed in this! 
 If for the desolated good of millions, 
 You the Desolator should gain — nothing ! 
 If the very freedom you had blighted 
 And kill'd were that alone which could exalt 
 Yourself! — Sire, pardon me, I must not stay : 
 The matter makes me rash : my heart is full, 
 Too strong the charm of looking on the one 
 Of living men to whom I might unfold it, 
 
 (The Count De Lerma enters, and whispers a few words 
 to the King. The latter beckons to him to withdraw, 
 and continues sitting in his former posture.} 
 
 King, (to the Marquis, after Lerma is gone) 
 Speak on ! 
 
 Mar. (after a pause) 
 
 I feel, Sire, all the worth — 
 
 King. Speak on! 
 
 Y' had something more to say. 
 
 MaRj Not long since, Sire, 
 
 I chanced to pass thro' Flanders and Brabant. 
 So many rich and flourishing provinces; 
 A great, a mighty people, and still more, 
 An honest people ! — And this people's Father ! 
 That, thought I, must be divine : so thinking, 
 I stumbled on a heap of human bones. 
 
 (He pauses ; his eyes rest on the King, who endeavours 
 to return this glance, but with an air of embarrassment 
 is forced to look upon the ground.) 
 You are in the right, you must proceed so. 
 That you could do, what you saw you must do, 
 Fills me with a shudd'ring admiration. 
 Pity that the victim welt'ring in its blood 
 Should speak so feeble an eulogium
 
 DON I \IU.us. 
 
 m 
 
 On the spirit of the priest ! That mere men, 
 
 Not beings of a calmer essence, write 
 
 l'he annals of the world ! Serener ages 
 
 Will displace the age of Philip ; these will bring 
 
 A miluYr w isdom ; the subject's good will then 
 
 Be reconcil'd to th' prince's greatness ; 
 
 The thrifty State will learn to prize its children, 
 
 And necessity no more will he inhuman. 
 
 Kim;. Ami when, think you, would those blessed ages 
 Have come round, had I recoil'd before 
 The curse of this ? Behold my Spain ! Here blooms 
 The subject's good, in never, clouded peace : 
 Sim h peace will I bestow on Flanders. 
 
 Mar. Peace of a church-yard ! And you hope to end 
 What you have cnter'd on ? Hope to withstand 
 The timeful change of Christendom ; to stop 
 The universal Spring that shall make young 
 The countenance o'th' Earth? You purpose, single 
 In all Europe, alone, to fling yourself 
 Against the wheel of Destiny that rolls 
 For ever it^ appointed course ; to clutch 
 Its spokes v, ith mortal arm ? Von may not, Sire! 
 Already thousands have forsook your kingdoms, 
 Escaping glad tho' poor: the citizen 
 Yon lost for conscience' sake, he was your noblest. 
 With mother's arms Elizabeth receives 
 The fugitives, and rich by foreign skill, 
 In frightful itrength, her England blooms. Forsaken 
 ( >f ii i toilsome people, lies ( hrenada 
 Desolate; and Europe sees with glad surprise 
 Its enemj faint with self-inflicted wounds. 
 The King set m moved: the Marquis observes it, and adva\ 
 
 some tti pt in an r.) 
 Plant for Eternity . and Death the seed '
 
 114 schiller's life. 
 
 Your harvest will be nothingness. The work 
 
 Will not survive the spirit of its former ; 
 
 It will be in vain that you have labour'd ; 
 
 That you have fought the fight with Nature ; 
 
 And to plans of Ruin consecrated 
 
 A high and royal life-time. Man is greater 
 
 Than you thought. The bondage of long slumber 
 
 He will break ; his sacred rights he will reclaim. 
 
 With Nero and Busiris will he rank 
 
 The name of Philip, and — that grieves me, for 
 
 You once were good. 
 
 King. How know you that ? 
 
 Mar. ( With warm energy) You were ! 
 
 Yes, by th' All-Merciful ! And you can be so 
 Still more ! Restore us what you took from us. 
 Generous as strong, let human happiness 
 Stream from your horn of plenty, let souls ripen 
 Round you. Restore us what you took from us. 
 Amid a thousand kings become a king. 
 
 {He approaches him boldly, fixing on him firm and 
 glowing looks.) 
 O could the eloquence of all the millions, 
 Who participate in this great moment, 
 Hover on my lips, and raise into a flame 
 That gleam that kindles in your eyes ! 
 Give up this false idolatry of self, 
 Which makes your brothers nothing ! Be to us 
 A pattern of the Everlasting and the True ! 
 Never, never, did a mortal hold so much, 
 To use it so divinely. All the kings 
 Of Europe reverence the name of Spain : 
 Go on in front of all the kings of Europe ! 
 One movement of your pen, and new-created
 
 DON CARLOS. 1 15 
 
 h thr Earth. Say but let there be Freedom! 
 
 (Throwing himself at his feet J) 
 
 King. (Surprised, turning his face a nay, then again 
 
 towards Posa) 
 Singular enthusiast! Yet — rise — I — 
 
 Mar. Look round and view God's lordly universe : 
 On Freedom it is founded, and how rich 
 is it with Freedom! Me, the great Creator, 
 Has giv'n the very worm its sev'ral dew-drop ; 
 Fv'n in the mouldering spaces of Decay. 
 lie leaves Free-will the pleasures of a choice. 
 This world of yours ! How narrow and how poor ! 
 The rustling of a leaf alarms the lord 
 Of Christendom. You quake at every virtue; 
 
 I le, not to mar the glorious form of Freedom, 
 Suffers that the hideous hosts of Evil 
 Should run riot in his fair Creation. 
 
 Him, the Maker, we behold not; calm 
 
 He Mils himself in everlasting laws, 
 
 Which and not Him the sceptic seeing exclaims, 
 
 ' Wherefore a God ? The World itself is Go. I. 
 
 And never did Christian's adoration 
 
 So praise him as this sceptic's blasphemy. 
 
 Kim;. And such a model you would undertake 
 On Earth, in my domains to imitate ? 
 
 Mak. You, you can: who else ? To th' people's good 
 Devote the kingly power, which far too long 
 Has struggled for the greatness of the throne. 
 Et tore the lost nobility of man. 
 Once more make of the subject what he was, 
 The purpose of the Crown ; let no tie bind him, 
 Except lus brethren's rights, as sacred as 
 
 II own. And when given back to self-dependence, 
 Man awakens to the feeling of hi i worth, 
 
 i 2
 
 116 schiller's life. 
 
 And freedom's proud and lofty virtues blossom, 
 Then, Sire, having made your realms the happiest 
 In the Earth, it may become your duty 
 To subdue the realms of others. 
 
 King. {After a long pause) I have heard 
 You to an end. Not as in common heads, 
 I easily perceive the world is painted 
 In that head of yours : nor will I mete you 
 By the common standard. I am the first 
 To whom your heart has been disclosed: 
 I know this, so believe it. For the sake 
 Of such forbearance ; for your having kept 
 Ideas, embraced with such devotion, secret 
 Up to this present moment, for the sake 
 Of that reserve, young man, I will forget 
 That I have learned them, and how I learned them. 
 Arise. The headlong youth I will restrain 
 Not as his sovereign, but as his senior. 
 I will, because I will. So ! bane itself, 
 I find, in generous natures may become 
 Ennobled into something better. But 
 Beware my Inquisition! It would grieve me 
 If you — 
 
 Mar. Would it? Would it ? 
 
 King. (Gazing at him, and lost in surprise.) 
 
 Such a mortal 
 Till this hour I never saw. No, Marquis ! 
 No ! You do me wrong. To you I will not 
 Be a Nero, not to you. All happiness 
 Shall not be blighted by me : you yourself 
 Shall be permitted to remain a man 
 Beside me. 
 
 Mak. (Quick) 
 
 And my fellow-subjects, Sire ?
 
 DON CARLOS. 1 17 
 
 i 
 Oli ! not for vie, not my cause was I pleading. 
 
 And your subjects, Sire \ 
 
 Kim.. You see so clearly 
 
 lion posterity will judge of me: yourself 
 Shall teach it how I treated men, so soon 
 As I had found one. 
 
 Mar. O Sim ! in being 
 
 The most just of kings, at the same instant 
 Be not the most unjust ! In your Flanders 
 Are many thousands worthier than I. 
 I - but yourself, shall I confess it, Sire, 
 That under this mild form first truly sec 
 What freedom is. 
 
 King. (With softened earnestness.) 
 
 Young man, no more of this. 
 Far differently will you think of men, 
 When you have seen and studied them as I have. 
 Yet our first meeting must not be our last ; 
 How shall I try to make you mine? 
 
 M \u. Sire, let me 
 
 Continue as I am. What good were it 
 To you, if I like others were corrupted ? 
 
 King. This pride I will not Buffer. From this moment 
 You are in my service. No remonstrance! 
 I will have it so. * * * * * 
 
 Had the character of Posa heen drawn ten years 
 later, it would have heen imputed, as all things 
 are, to the ' French Revolution ;' and Schiller him- 
 Belf perhaps might have been called a .Jacobin. 
 Happily, as matters stand, there is room for no 
 Bach imputation. It is pleasing to behold in Posa 
 the deliberate expression of a great and good
 
 IIS 
 
 SCHILLER S LIFE. 
 
 man's sentiments on these ever agitated subjects : 
 a noble monument, embodying the liberal ideas of 
 his age, in a form beautified by his own genius, 
 and lasting as its other products. 
 
 Connected with the superior excellence of Posa, 
 critics have remarked a dramatic error, which the 
 author himself was the first to acknowledge and 
 account for. The magnitude of Posa throws 
 Carlos into the shade; the hero of the first three 
 acts is no longer the hero of the other two. The 
 cause of this, we are informed, was that Schiller 
 kept the work too long upon his own hands : 
 
 ' In composing the piece,' he observes, ' many 
 ' interruptions occurred ; so that a considerable 
 1 time elapsed between beginning and concluding 
 1 it ; and, in the meanwhile, much within myself 
 6 had changed. The various alterations, which 
 ' during this period, my way of thinking and feel- 
 1 ing underwent, naturally told upon the work I 
 ' was engaged with. What parts of it had at first 
 ' attracted me, began to produce this effect in a 
 ' weaker degree, and, in the end, scarcely at all. 
 ' New ideas, springing up in the interim, displaced 
 ' the former ones ; Carlos himself had lost my 
 c favour, perhaps for no other reason, than because 
 ' I had become his senior ; and, from the opposite 
 ' cause, Posa had occupied his place. Thus I 
 ' commenced the fourth and fifth acts with quite 
 1 an altered heart. But the first three were already
 
 DON ( kftLOS. 1 1!) 
 
 • in the bands of the public ; the plan of the whole 
 ' could not now be reformed ; nothing therefore 
 
 • remained but to suppress the piece entirely, or to 
 ' fit the second half to the first, the best wav 
 ' I could/ 
 
 The imperfection alluded to is one of which the 
 general reader will make no great account ; the 
 second halt* is fitted to the first with address enough 
 for his purposes. Intent not upon applying the 
 dramatic gauge, but on being moved and exalted, 
 we may peruse the tragedy without noticing that 
 any such defect exists in it. The pity and love we 
 are at first taught to feel for Carlos abide with us 
 to die last ; and though Posa rises in importance 
 as the piece proceeds, our admiration of his tran- 
 scendent virtues does not obstruct the gentler 
 feelings with which we look upon the fate of his 
 friend. A certain confusion, and crowding toge- 
 ther of events, about the end of the play, is the 
 only fault in its plan that strikes us with any 
 force. Even this is scarcely prominent enough 
 to be offensive. 
 
 An intrinsic and weightier defect is the want of 
 case and lightness iu the general composition ol 
 i lie piece; a defect which all its other excellencies 
 will not prevent us from Observing. There is 
 action enough in the plot, energy enough in the 
 
 dialogue, and abundance <>1 individual beauties in 
 
 both i but there is throughout a certain air ol
 
 120 schiller's life. 
 
 stiffness and effort, which abstracts from the thea- 
 trical illusion. The language, in general impressive 
 and magnificent, is now and then inflated into 
 bombast. The characters do not, as it were, 
 verify their human nature, by those thousand little 
 touches and nameless turns, which distinguish the 
 genius essentially dramatic from the genius merely 
 poetical ; the Proteus of the stage from the philo- 
 sophic observer and trained imitator of life. We 
 have not those careless felicities, those varyings 
 from high to low, that air of living freedom which 
 Shakspeare has accustomed us, like spoiled chil- 
 dren, to look for in every perfect work of this 
 species. Schiller is too elevated, too regular and 
 sustained in his elevation, to be altogether natural. 
 Yet with all this, Carlos is a noble tragedy. 
 There is a stately massiveness about the structure 
 of it ; the incidents are grand and affecting ; the 
 characters powerful, vividly conceived, and impres- 
 sively if not completely delineated. Of wit and its 
 kindred graces Schiller has but a slender share : 
 nor among great poets is he much distinguished 
 for depth or fineness of pathos. But what gives 
 him a place of his own, and the loftiest of its 
 kind, is the vastness and intense vigour of his 
 mind ; the splendour of his thoughts and imagery, 
 and the bold vehemence of his passion for the true 
 and the sublime, under all their various forms. 
 He does not thrill, but he exalts us. His genius
 
 ALFIERl's FILIPFO. 121 
 
 is impetuous, exuberant, majestic; and a heavenly 
 fire gleams through all its creations. He trans- 
 ports us into a holier and higher world than our 
 own : everything around us breathes ot force and 
 solemn beauty. The looks of his heroes may be 
 more staid than those of men, the movements of 
 their minds may he slower and more calculated ; 
 but we yield to the potency of their endowments, 
 and the loveliness of the scene which they animate. 
 The enchantments of the poet are strong enough 
 to silence our scepticism j we forbear to inquire 
 whether it is true or false. 
 
 The celebrity of Alfieri generally invites the 
 reader of Don Carlos to compare it w T ith Filippo. 
 I loth writers treat the same subject ; both borrow 
 their materials from the same source, the nouvelle 
 historique of St. Real : but it is impossible that 
 two powerful minds could have handled one given 
 idea in more diverse manners. Their excellencies 
 are, in fact, so opposite, that they scarcely come 
 in competition. Alfieri's play is short, and the 
 characters are few. He describes no scene: his 
 personages are not the King of Spain and his 
 courtiers, hut merely men ; their place of action 
 is not the Bscurial or Madrid, but a vacant, object- 
 less platform any where in Bpace. In all this, 
 Schiller has a manifest advantage. He paints 
 manners and opinions, lie -ets before us a striking 
 pageant, which interest- u <>f itself and gives ;i
 
 122 SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 new interest to whatever is combined with it. The 
 principles of the antique, or perhaps rather of the 
 French drama, upon which Alfieri worked, per- 
 mitted no such delineation. In the style there is 
 the same diversity. A severe simplicity uniformly 
 marks Alfieri's style; in his whole tragedy there 
 is not a single figure. A hard emphatic brevity 
 is all that distinguishes his language from that of 
 prose. Schiller, we have seen, abounds with noble 
 metaphors, and all the warm exciting eloquence 
 of poetry. It is only in expressing the character 
 of Philip that Alfieri has a clear superiority. 
 Without the aid of superstition, which his rival, 
 especially in the catastrophe employs to such ad- 
 vantage, Alfieri has exhibited in his Filippo a 
 picture of unequalled power. Obscurity is justly 
 said to be essential to terror and sublimity ; and 
 Schiller has enfeebled the effect of his Tyrant, by 
 letting us behold the most secret recesses of his 
 spirit : we understand him better, but we fear him 
 less. Alfieri does not show us the internal com- 
 bination of Filippo : it is from its workings alone, 
 that we judge of his nature. Mystery, and the 
 shadow of horrid cruelty, brood over his Filippo ; 
 it is only a transient word or act, that gives us 
 here and there a glimpse of his fierce, implacable, 
 tremendous soul; a short and dubious glimmer that 
 reveals to us the abysses of his being, dark, lurid, 
 and terrific, ' as the throat of the infernal Pool.'
 
 alfieri s filifto. 129 
 
 Alneri's Filippo is perhaps the most wicked 
 man that human imagination has conceived. 
 
 Al fieri and Schiller were again unconscious com- 
 petitors, in the history of Mary Stuart. But the 
 works before us give a truer specimen of their 
 comparative merits. Schiller seems to have the 
 greater genius ; Alfieri the more commanding 
 character. A 1 fieri 's greatness rests on the stern 
 com filtration of fiery passion, under the dominion 
 of an adamantine will: this was his own make 
 of mind ; and he represents it, with strokes in 
 themselves devoid of charm, but in their union, 
 terrible as a prophetic scroll. Schiller's moral 
 force is commensurate with his intellectual gifts, 
 and nothing more. The mind of the one is like 
 the ocean, beautiful in its strength, smiling in the 
 radiance of summer, and washing luxuriant and 
 romantic shores: that of the other is like some 
 black unfathomable lake placed far amid the 
 melancholy mountains; bleak, solitary, desolate ; 
 but girdled with grim sky-piercing cliffs, oversha- 
 dowed with storms, and illuminated only by the 
 red glare ofthe lightning. Schiller is magnificent in 
 his expansion, Alfieri is overpowering in his con- 
 densed energy ; the first inspires as with greater 
 
 admiration, the last wit 1 i greater awe. 
 
 I bis tragedy of Carlos was received with imme- 
 diate and universal approbation. In the close!
 
 124 schiller's life. 
 
 and on the stage, it excited the warmest applauses 
 equally among the learned and unlearned. Schil- 
 ler's expectations had not been so high : he knew 
 both the excellencies and the faults of his work ; 
 but he had not anticipated that the former would 
 be recognized so instantaneously. The pleasure 
 of this new celebrity came upon him, therefore, 
 heightened by surprise. Had dramatic eminence 
 been his sole object, he might now have slackened 
 his exertions ; the public had already ranked him 
 as the first of their writers in that favourite de- 
 partment. But this limited ambition was not 
 his moving principle ; nor was his mind of that 
 sort for which rest is provided in this world. 
 The primary disposition of his nature urged him 
 to perpetual toil : the great aim of his life, the 
 unfolding of his mental powers, was one of those 
 which admit but a relative not an absolute pro- 
 gress. New ideas of perfection arise as the former 
 have been reached ; the student is always attain- 
 ing, never has attained. 
 
 Schiller's worldly circumstances, too, were of a 
 kind well calculated to prevent excess of quietism. 
 He was still drifting at large on the tide of life ; 
 he was crowned with laurels, but without a home. 
 His heart, warm and affectionate, fitted to enjoy 
 the domestic blessings which it longed for, was 
 allowed to form no permanent attachment : he 
 felt that he was unconnected, solitary in the
 
 FORSAKES THE DRAMA. 1 '2o 
 
 world ; cut off from the exercise of his kindlier 
 sympathies; or if tasting such pleasures, it was 
 * snatching them rather than partaking of them 
 calmly.' The vulgar desire of wealth and station 
 never entered his mind for an instant : but as 
 years were added to his age, the delights of peace 
 and continuous comfort were fast becoming more 
 acceptable than any other; and he looked with 
 anxiety to have a resting-place amid his wander- 
 ings, to be a man among his fellow men. 
 
 For all these wishes, Schiller saw that the only 
 chance of fulfilment depended on unwearied per- 
 severance in his literary occupations. Yet though 
 his activity was unabated, and the calls on it 
 were increasing rather than diminished, its direc- 
 tion was gradually changing. The Drama had 
 long been stationary, and of late been falling, in 
 his estimation : the ditHculties of the art, as he 
 viewed it at present, had been overcome, and new 
 conquests invited him in other quarters. The 
 latter part of Carlos he had written as a task 
 rather than a pleasure ; he contemplated no farther 
 undertaking connected with the Stage. For a 
 time, indeed, he seems to have wavered among a 
 multiplicity of cnterprizes ; now solicited to this, 
 and now to that, without being able to li\ 
 decidedly on any. The restless ardour of his mind 
 is evinced by the number and variety oi his 
 attempts; its fluctuation by the circumstance thai
 
 126 schiller's life. 
 
 all of them are either short in extent, or left in 
 the state of fragments. Of the former kind arc 
 his lyrical productions, many of which were com- 
 posed about this period, during intervals from 
 more serious labours. The character of these 
 performances is such as his former writings gave 
 us reason to expect. With a deep insight into 
 life, and a keen and comprehensive sympathy 
 with its sorrows and enjoyments, there is combined 
 that impetuosity of feeling, that pomp of thought 
 and imagery which belong peculiarly to Schiller. 
 If he had now left the Drama, it was clear that 
 his mind was still overflowing with the elements 
 of poetry ; dwelling among the grandest concep- 
 tions, and the boldest or finest emotions ; thinking 
 intensely and profoundly, but decorating its 
 thoughts with those graces, which other faculties 
 than the understanding are required to afford them. 
 With these smaller pieces, Schiller occupied him- 
 self at intervals of leisure throughout the remain- 
 der of his life. Some of them are to be classed 
 among the most finished efforts of his genius. 
 The W a Ik, the Song of the Bell, contain exqui- 
 site delineations of the fortunes and history of 
 man ; his Ritter Toggenburg, his Cranes of 
 lbycus, his Hero and Leander, are among the 
 most poetical and moving ballads to be found 
 in any language. 
 
 Of these poems, the most noted written about
 
 SMALLER POEMS. 1'27 
 
 this time, the Freethmkhtg of Passion, (Prey 
 mshtrey d& Leidemckqft) is said to have 
 originated in a real attachment. The lady, whom 
 some biographers of Schiller introduce to us, by 
 the mysterious designation of the ' Franlein 
 A * * *, one of the first beauties in Dresden,' 
 teems to have made a deep impression on the 
 heart of the poet. They tell us that she sat for 
 the picture of the princess Eboli, in his Don Car- 
 los : that he paid his court to her with the most 
 impassioned fervour, and the extreme of genero- 
 sity. They add one or two anecdotes of dubious 
 authenticity ; which, as they illustrate nothing, 
 but show us only that love could make Schiller 
 crazv, as it is said to make all gods and men, we 
 shall use the freedom to omit. 
 
 This enchanting and not inexorable spinster 
 perhaps displaced the Manheim Laura from her 
 throne; but the gallant assiduities, which she 
 required or allowed, seem not to have abated the 
 zeal of her admirer in his more profitable under- 
 takings. Her reign, we suppose, was brief, and 
 without abiding influence. Schiller never wrote 
 or thought with greater diligence than while at 
 Dresden. Partially occupied with conducting his 
 Thalia, or with those more Blight poetical per- 
 formances, bis iuiud was hovering among a mul- 
 titude ol weightier plans, and seizing with avidity 
 any hint that might assist iii directing its attempts.
 
 128 schiller's life. 
 
 To this state of feeling, we are probably indebted 
 for the Geisterseher, a novel, naturalized in our 
 circulating libraries, by the title of the Ghost- 
 seer, two volumes of which were published about 
 this time. The king of quacks, the renowned 
 Cagliostro, was now playing his dextrous game 
 at Paris : harrowing up the souls of the curious 
 and gullible of all ranks in that capital, by various 
 thaumaturgic feats ; raising the dead from their 
 graves ; and, what was more to the purpose, 
 raising himself from the station of a poor Sicilian 
 lacquey to that of a sumptuous and extravagant 
 count. The noise of his exploits appears to have 
 given rise to this work of Schiller's. It is an 
 attempt to exemplify the process of hood-winking 
 an acute but too sensitive man ; of working on 
 the latent germ of superstition, which exists be- 
 neath his outward scepticism ; harassing his 
 mind by the terrors of magic — the magic of che- 
 mistry and natural philosophy, and natural cun- 
 ning ; till, racked by doubts and agonizing fears, 
 and plunging from one depth of dark uncertainty 
 into another, he is driven at length to still his 
 scruples in the bosom of the Infallible Church. 
 The incidents are contrived with considerable 
 address, displaying a familiar acquaintance, not 
 only with several branches of science, but also 
 with some curious forms of life and human 
 nature. One or two characters are forcibly drawn ;
 
 DER 6E1STERSEHER. 129 
 
 particularly that of the amiable but feeble Count, 
 tin* victim ot the operation. The strange Foreigner, 
 with the visage of stone, who conducts the busi- 
 ness of mystification, strik< s us also, though we 
 see hut little of him. The work contains some 
 vivid description, some passages of deep tragical 
 effeel : it has a vein of keen observation ; in 
 general, a certain ragged power, which might ex- 
 cite remit that it was never finished. But Schiller 
 found that his views had been mistaken : it was 
 thought that he meant only to electrify his readers, 
 hy an accumulation of surprising horrors, in a 
 novel of the Mi's. Radcliffe fashion, lie felt, in 
 consequence, discouraged to proceed ; and finally 
 abandoned it. 
 
 Schiller was, in fact, growing tired of fictitious 
 writing. Imagination was with him a strong, not 
 an exclusive, perhaps not even a predominating 
 faculty: in the sublimest flights of his genius, 
 intellect is a quality as conspicuous as any other; 
 we are frequently not more delighted with the 
 grandeur of the drapery in which he clothes his 
 thoughts, than with the grandeur of the thoughts 
 themselves. I O a mind so restless, the cultiva- 
 tion (d all it-, powers was a peremptory want ; 
 in one so earnest, the love of truth was suit to 
 
 be among its strongest passions. Even while 
 revelling:, with unworn ardour, in the dream\ 
 scenes o( the Imagination, he had often cast 
 
 K
 
 1.30 schiller's life. 
 
 longing look, and sometimes made a hmried 
 inroad, into the calmer provinces of reason : but 
 the first effervescence of youth was past, and now 
 more than ever, the love of contemplating or 
 painting things as they should be, began to yield 
 to the love of knowing things as they are. The 
 tendency of his mind was gradually changing ; 
 he was about to enter on a new field of enter- 
 prize, where new triumphs awaited him. 
 
 For a time he had hesitated what to choose ; at 
 
 length he began to think of Historv. As a lead- 
 CD O w 
 
 ing object of pursuit, this promised him peculiar 
 advantages. It was new to him ; and fitted to 
 employ some of his most valuable gifts. It was 
 grounded on reality, for which, as we have said, 
 his taste was now becoming stronger ; its mighty 
 revolutions and events, and the commanding cha- 
 racters that figure in it, would likewise present him 
 with things great and moving, for which his taste 
 had always been strong. As recording the past 
 transactions, and indicating the prospects of 
 nations, it could not fail to be delightful to one, 
 for whom not only human nature was a matter of 
 most fascinating speculation, but who looked on 
 all mankind with the sentiments of a brother, 
 feeling truly what he often said, that ' he had no 
 dearer wish than to see every living mortal happy 
 and contented with his lot.' To all these advan- 
 tages another of an humbler sort was added, but
 
 HISTORY. 131 
 
 one which the nature of his situation forbade him 
 to lose sight of. The study of History, while it 
 afforded him a subject of continuous and regular 
 exertion, would also afford him, what was even more 
 i ssential, the necessary competence of income for 
 which lie felt reluctant any longer to depend on 
 the resources of poetry, but which the produce 
 of his pen was now the only means he had of 
 realizing. 
 
 For these reasons, he decided on commencing 
 the business of historian. The composition of 
 Don Carlos hud already led him to investigate the 
 state of Spain under Philip II.; and, being little 
 satisfied with Watson's clear but shallow Work on 
 that reign, he had turned to the original sources 
 of information, the writings of Grotius, Strada, 
 l)e Thou, and many others. Investigating these 
 ffith his usual fidelity and eagerness, the Revolt 
 of the Netherlands had, by degrees, become fami- 
 liar to his thoughts ; dictinct in many parts where 
 it was previously obscure; and attractive, as it 
 naturally must be to a temper such as his. He now 
 determined that liis first historical performance 
 should be a narrative of that event. He resolved 
 to explore the minutest circumstances of its rise 
 and progress | to arrange the materials he might 
 collect, in a more philosophical order; to inter- 
 weave with them the general opinions he had 
 
 formed, or was forming on many points of polity, 
 
 K 2
 
 132 schiller's life. 
 
 and national or individual character; and, if pos- 
 sible, to animate the whole with that warm 
 sympathy, which, in a lover of Freedom, this most 
 glorious of her triumphs naturally called forth. 
 
 In the filling' up of such an outline, there was 
 scope enough for diligence. But it was not in 
 Schiller's nature to content himself with ordinary 
 efforts : no sooner did a project take hold of his 
 mind, than rallying round it all his accomplish- 
 ments and capabilities, he stretched it out into 
 something so magnificent and comprehensive, 
 that little less than a lifetime would have been 
 sufficient to effect it. This history of the Revolt 
 of the Netherlands, which formed his chief study, 
 he looked upon but as one branch -of the great 
 subject he was yet destined to engage with. His- 
 tory at large, in all its bearings, was now his final 
 aim ; and his mind was continually occupied with 
 plans for acquiring, improving, and diffusing, the 
 knowledge of it. 
 
 Of these plans many never reached a describable 
 shape ; very few reached even partial execution. 
 One of the latter sort was an intended History of 
 the most remarkable Conspiracies and Revolu- 
 tions, in the middle and later ages. A first 
 volume of the work was published in 1787. Schil- 
 ler's part in it was trifling ; scarcely more than 
 that of a translator and editor. St. Real's Con- 
 spiracy of Bedmar against Venice, here furnished
 
 1 1 1 S T< > K Y . 1 33 
 
 with an extended introduction, is the best piece in 
 
 the book. Indeed, -St. Heal seems first to have 
 M-t him on this task: the Abbe had already signi- 
 fied liis predilection for plots and revolutions, and 
 given a fine sample of his powers in treating sneh 
 matters. What Schiller did was to expand this 
 idea, and communicate a systematic form to it. 
 His work might have been curious and valuable, 
 had it been completed: but the pressure of other 
 engagements, the necessity of limiting his views 
 
 *. v JO 
 
 to the Netherlands, prevented this for the present ; 
 
 it was afterwards forgotten, and never carried 
 farther. 
 
 Sneh were Schiller's occupations while at Dres- 
 den : their extent and variety are proof enough 
 that idleness was not among his vices. It was, in 
 truth, the opposite extreme, in whieh he erred. 
 He wrote and thought with an impetuosity beyond 
 what nature always could endure. His intolerance 
 ot interruptions first put him on the plan of 
 Btadying by night; an alluring but pernicious 
 practice, which began at Dresden, and was never 
 afterwards forsaken. His recreations breathed a 
 similar spirit: he loved to be much alone, and 
 
 strongly moved. The banks of the Elbe were 
 the favourite resorl oi hi-, mornings : here wan- 
 dering in solitude amid groves and lawns, and 
 green and beautiful places, he abandoned hi^ mind 
 to <li Ik Km-, mnsiiigs ; watched the hilul current
 
 134 schiller's life. 
 
 of his thoughts, as they came sweeping through 
 his soul in their vague, fantastic, gorgeous forms; 
 pleased himself with the transient images of me- 
 mory and hope ; or meditated on the cares and 
 studies which had lately been employing, and were 
 again soon to employ him. At times, he might 
 be seen floating on the river in a gondola, feasting 
 himself with the loveliness of earth and sky. He 
 delighted most to be there, when tempests were 
 abroad : his unquiet spirit found a solace in the 
 expression of his own unrest on the face of Nature ; 
 danger lent a charm to his situation ; he felt in 
 harmony with the scene, when the rack was 
 sweeping stormfully across the heavens, and the 
 forests were sounding in the breeze, and the river 
 was rolling its chafed waters into wild eddying 
 heaps. 
 
 Yet before the darkness summoned him exclu- 
 sively to his tasks, Schiller commonly devoted a 
 portion of his day to the pleasures of society. 
 Could he have found eniovment in the flatteries 
 of admiring hospitality, his present fame would 
 have procured them for him in abundance. But 
 these things were not to Schiller's taste. His opi- 
 nion of the ' flesh-flies' of Leipzig we have already 
 seen : he retained the same sentiments throughout 
 all his life. The idea of being what we call a lion 
 is offensive enough to any man, of not more than 
 common vanity, or less than common understand- 
 ing ; it was doubly offensive to him. His pride
 
 II Mil is AT DRESDEN. 135 
 
 and his modesty alike forbade it. The delicacy of 
 liis nature, aggravated into shyness by Ins educa- 
 tion and his habits, rendered situations of display 
 more than usually painfnl to him ; the digito 
 prcetereuntium was a sort of celebration he was 
 far from coveting. In the circles of fashion, he 
 appeared unwillingly, and seldom to advantage: 
 their glitter and parade were foreign to his dispo- 
 sition ; their strict ceremonial cramped the play 
 oi his mind. Hemmed in, as by invisible fences, 
 among the intricate barriers of etiquette, so feeble, 
 -i) inviolable, he felt constrained and helpless; 
 alternately chagrined and indignant. It was the 
 giant among pigmies ; Gulliver, in Lilliput, tied 
 down by a thousand packthreads. But there were 
 more congenial minds, with whom he could asso- 
 ciate; more familiar scenes, in which he found the 
 pleasures he was seeking. Here Schiller was him- 
 self; frank, unembarrassed, pliant to the humour 
 of the hour. His conversation was delightful, 
 abounding at once in rare and simple charms. 
 Besides the intellectual riches which it carried 
 
 with it, there was that flow of kindliness and unaf- 
 fected good humour, which can render dolness 
 itself agreeable. Schiller had many friends in 
 Dresden, who loved him as a man, while the] 
 admired him as a writer. Their intercourse Was 
 of the kind he liked. sober, as well as free and 
 mirthful. It was th< careless, calm, honest ellu-
 
 136 schiller's life. 
 
 sion of his feelings that he wanted, not the noisy 
 tumults and coarse delirium of dissipation. For 
 this, under any of its forms, he at no time shewed 
 the smallest relish. 
 
 A visit to Weimar had long heen one of Schil- 
 ler's projects : he now first accomplished it in 
 1787. Saxony had heen, for ages, the Attica of 
 Germany ; and Weimar had, of late, become its 
 Athens. In this literary city, Schiller found what 
 he expected, sympathy and brotherhood with men 
 of kindred minds. To Goethe he was not intro- 
 duced ;* but Herder and Wieland received him 
 with a cordial welcome ; with the latter he soon 
 formed a most friendly intimacy. Wieland, the 
 Nestor of German letters, was grown gray in the 
 service : Schiller reverenced him as a father, and 
 he treated by him as a son. ' We shall have 
 bright hours,' he said ; ' Wieland is still young, 
 when he loves.' Wieland had long edited the 
 Deutsche Mercur : in consequence of their con- 
 nexion, Schiller now took part in contributing to 
 that work. Some of his smaller poems, one or 
 two fragments of the History of the Netherlands, 
 and the Letters on Don Carlos first appeared here. 
 His own Thalia still continued to come out at 
 Leipzig. With these for his incidental employ- 
 ments, with the Belgian Revolt for his chief 
 
 * Doering says ' Goethe was at this time absent in Italy'; 
 an error, as will by and by appear.
 
 VISITS WEIMAR \N1> BAUERBACH. 13/ 
 
 Btudy, and the best society in Germany for his 
 leisure, Schiller felt no wish to leave Weimar. 
 The place and what it held, contented him so 
 much, that he thought of selecting it for his per- 
 manent abode. ' Von know the men, 1 he writes, 
 1 of whom Germany is proud; a Herder, a Wie- 
 land, with their brethren ; and one wall now 
 encloses me and them. What excellencies are in 
 Weimar! In this city, at hast in this territory, I 
 mean to settle for life, and at length once more 
 to get a country.' 
 
 ISo occupied and so intcntioned, he conti- 
 nued to reside at Weimar. Some months after 
 his arrival, he received an invitation from his 
 early patroness and kind protectress, Madam 
 von Wollzogen, to come and visit her at Bauer- 
 bach. Schiller went accordingly to this his 
 ancient city of refuge ; he again found all the warm 
 hospitality, which he had of old experienced 
 when its character could less he mistaken ; hut bis 
 excursion thither produced more lasting effects 
 than lliis. At Uudolstadt, where he staid for a 
 time on occasion of this journey, he met with a 
 mw friend. It was here that he first saw the 
 Frauleiu Lengefeld, a lady whose attractions made; 
 him loth to have Rudolstadt, and eager to return. 
 
 \< \t year he did return; he lived from May 
 till November, there or in tin neighbourhood. 
 lie was busy as usual, ami he visited the Lenge
 
 138 schiller's life. 
 
 feld family almost every day. Schiller's views 
 on marriage, his longing for ' a civic and do- 
 mestic existence/ we already know. ' To he 
 united with a person,' he had said, ' that shares 
 our sorrows and our joys, that responds to our 
 feelings, that moulds herself so pliantly, so 
 closely to our humours ; reposing on her calm 
 and warm affection, to relax our spirit from a 
 thousand distractions, a thousand wild wishes 
 and tumultuous passions ; to dream away all 
 the bitterness of fortune, in the bosom of do- 
 mestic enjoyment ; this is the true delight of 
 life.' Some years had elapsed since he expressed 
 these sentiments, which time had confirmed, not 
 weakened : the presence of the Fraiilein Lenge- 
 ' feld awoke them into fresh activity. He loved 
 this lady ; the return of love, with which she 
 honoured him, diffused a sunshine over all his 
 troubled world ; and, if the wish of being her's 
 excited more impatient thoughts about the settle- 
 ment of his condition, it also gave him fresh 
 strength to attain it. He was full of occupation, 
 while in Rudolstadt ; ardent, serious, but not 
 unhappy. His literary projects were proceeding 
 as before ; and, besides the enjoyment of virtuous 
 love, he had that of intercourse with many worthy 
 and some kindred minds. 
 
 Among these, the chief in all respects was 
 Goethe. It was during his present visit, that
 
 INTERVIEW WITH GOETHE. 139 
 
 Schiller first met with this illustrious person; 
 concerning whom, both by reading and report, 
 Ins expectations had been raised so high. No 
 
 two men, both of exalted genius, could be pos- 
 sessed of more different sorts of excellence, than 
 the two that were now brought together, in a 
 large company of their mutual friends. The 
 English reader may form some approximate con- 
 ceptioD of the contrast, by figuring an interview 
 between Shakspeare and Milton. How gilted, 
 bow diverse, in their gifts! The mind of the one 
 plavs calmly, in its capricious and inimitable 
 graces, over all the provinces of human interest; 
 the other concentrates powers as vast, but far 
 less various on a few objects ; the one is catholic, 
 the other is sectarian. The first is endowed with 
 an all-comprehending spirit ; skilled, as if by 
 personal experience, in all the modes of human 
 passion and opinion; therefore, tolerant of all ; 
 peaceful, collected ; fighting for no class of men 
 or principles ; rather looking on the world, and 
 the various battles waging in it, with the quiet 
 eye of one already reconciled to the futility of 
 their issues ; but pouring over all the lorms o( 
 many-coloured life, the light of a deep and subtle 
 intellect, and the decorations of an overflowing 
 fancy ; and allowing men and things ol every 
 shape and hue to have their own live seope in 
 his conception, as they have it in the world where
 
 140 schiller's life. 
 
 # 
 
 Providence has placed them. The other is 
 earnest, devoted ; struggling with a thousand 
 mighty projects of improvement ; feeling more 
 intensely as he feels more narrowly ; rejecting 
 vehemently, choosing vehemently ; at war with 
 the one half of things, in love with the other half; 
 hence dissatisfied, impetuous, without internal 
 rest, and scarcely conceiving the possibility of 
 such a state. Apart from the difference of their 
 opinions and mental culture, Shakspeare and 
 Milton seem to have stood in some such relation 
 as this to each other, in regard to the primary 
 structure of their minds. So likewise, in many 
 points, was it with Goethe and Schiller. The 
 external circumstances of the two' were, more- 
 over, such as to augment their several peculiari- 
 ties. Goethe was in his thirty-ninth year ; and 
 had long since found his proper rank and settle- 
 ment in life. Schiller was ten years younger, 
 and still without a fixed destiny ; on both of 
 which accounts, his fundamental scheme of 
 thought, the principles by which he judged and 
 acted, and maintained his individuality, although 
 they might be settled, were less likely to be 
 sobered and matured. In these circumstances, 
 we can hardly wonder that on Schiller's part the 
 first impression was not very pleasant. Goethe 
 sat talking of Italy, and art, and travelling, and 
 a thousand other subjects, with that flow of
 
 ISTI RVIEW WITH GOETHE. 1 ! I 
 
 brilliant and deep sense, sarcastic humour, know- 
 ledge, fancy, and good nature, which is said to 
 
 render liini the best talker now alive. Schiller 
 looked at liini in quite a different mood ; he felt 
 his natural constraint increased under the influ- 
 ence of a man so opposite in character; so potent 
 in resources, so singular and so expert in using 
 them : a man whom he could not agree with, 
 and knew not how to contradict. Soon after 
 their interview, he thus writes: 
 
 ' On the whole, this personal meeting has not 
 ' at all diminished the idea, great as it was, which 
 ' I had previously formed of Goethe; hut I doubt 
 ' whether we shall ever come into any close cotn- 
 ' munication with each other. Much that still 
 ' interests me has already had its epoch with him. 
 ' I lis whole nature is, from its very origin, other- 
 ' wise constructed than mine; his world is not 
 
 • my world ; our modes ol conceiving things 
 ' appear to he essentially different. From such a 
 
 • combination, no secure, substantia] intimacy can 
 1 result. Time will try- 
 
 The aid of Time was not, in fact, unnecessary. 
 On the part of ( roethe, there existed prepossessions 
 no less hostile; and derived from sources older 
 
 and deeper than the present transitory meeting, 
 to the discontents of which they probably con- 
 tributed, lie himself has lately stated them with 
 his accustomed frankness and u<»«»d humour, in a
 
 142 SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 paper, parts of which some readers may peruse 
 with an interest more than merely biographical. 
 £ On my return from Italy,' he says, * where I 
 4 had been endeavouring to train myself to greater 
 c purity and precision in all departments of art, 
 c not heeding what meanwhile was going on in 
 i Germany, I found here some older and some 
 i more recent works of poetry, enjoying high es- 
 1 teem and wide circulation, while unhappily their 
 i character to me was utterly offensive. I shall 
 c only mention Heinse's Ardinghello, and Schiller's 
 1 Robbers. The first I hated for its having nn- 
 1 dertaken to exhibit sensuality and mystical ab- 
 6 struseness, ennobled and supported by creative 
 ' art : the last, because in it, the very paradoxes 
 • moral and dramatic, from which I was struggling 
 1 to get liberated, had been laid hold of by a 
 1 powerful though an immature genius, and poured 
 c in a boundless rushing flood over all our country. 
 e Neither of these gifted individuals did I blame 
 ' for what he had performed or purposed : it is 
 e the nature and the privilege of every mortal to 
 e attempt working in his own peculiar way ; he 
 c attempts it first without culture, scarcely with 
 c the consciousness of what he is about ; and con- 
 i tinues it with consciousness increasing as his 
 ' culture increases ; whereby it happens that so 
 ' many exquisite and so many paltry things are to
 
 MUTUAL FEELINGS. I 13 
 
 ' be found circulating in the world, and one per- 
 
 • plexitv is seen to rise from the ashes of another. 
 1 But the rumour which these strange produc- 
 tions bad exeited over Germany, the approbation 
 paid to them by every class of persons, from the 
 wild student to the polished court-lady, frightened 
 me : for I now thought all my labour was to 
 prove in vain : the objects and the way of hand- 
 ling them, to which I had been exercising all 
 my powers, appeared as if defaced and set aside. 
 And what grieved me still more, was that all 
 the friends connected with me, Heinrich Meyer 
 and Moritz, as well as their fellow artists Tisch- 
 bein and Bury, seemed in danger of the like 
 contagion. I was much hurt. Had it heen 
 possible, I would have abandoned the study of 
 enative art, and the practice of poetry entirely; 
 for where was the prospect of surpassing those 
 performances of genial worth and wild form, 
 in the qualities which recommended them ? 
 Conceive my situation. It had been my object 
 and my task to cherish and impart the purest 
 exhibitions of poetic art; and here was 1 hemmed 
 in between Ardinghello and Franz von Moor! 
 1 It happened also about this time that Moritz 
 returned from Italy, and staid with me a while ; 
 dining which, he violently confirmed himself and 
 me in these persuasions. I avoided Schiller, 
 who was now at Weimar, in my neighbourhood.
 
 
 144 schiller's life. 
 
 ' The appearance of Don Carlos was not calculated 
 ' to approximate us ; the attempts of* our com- 
 ' mon friends I resisted ; and thus we still con- 
 ( tinned to go on onr way apart.' 
 
 By degrees, however, both parties found that 
 they had been mistaken. The course of accidents 
 brought many things to light, which had been hid- 
 den ; the true character of each became unfolded 
 more and more completely to the other ; and the 
 cold measured tribute of respect was on both sides 
 animated and exalted bv feelings of kindness, and 
 ultimately of affection. Ere Ion*?, Schiller had bv 
 gratifying proofs discovered that ' this Goethe was 
 a very worthy man' ; and Goethe, in his love of* 
 genius, and zeal for the interests of literature, was 
 performing for Schiller the essential duties of a 
 friend, even while his personal repugnance con- 
 tinued unabated. 
 
 A strict similarity of characters is not neces- 
 sary, or perhaps very favourable, to friendship. 
 To render it complete, each party must no doubt 
 be competent to understand the other ; both must 
 be possessed of dispositions kindred in their great 
 lineaments : but the pleasure of comparing our 
 ideas and emotions is heightened, when there is 
 ' likeness in unlikeness.' The same sentiments, 
 different opinions, Rousseau conceives to be the 
 best material of friendship : reciprocity of kind 
 words and actions is more effectual than all.
 
 FRIENDSHIP WITH GOETHE. 145 
 
 Luther loved Melancthon ; Johnson was not 
 more the friend of Edmund Bnrke than of poor 
 
 old Doctor Levitt. Goethe and Schiller met 
 again : as they ultimately came to live together 
 and to sec each other oftcner, they liked each 
 other better; they became associates, friends; 
 and the harmony of their intercourse, strength- 
 ened by many subsequent communities of object, 
 was never interrupted, till death put an end to it. 
 (ioethe, in his time, has done many glorious 
 things ; hut few on which he should look hack 
 with greater pleasure than his treatment of 
 Schiller. Literary friendships are said to be pre- 
 carious, and of rare occurrence : the rivalry of 
 interest disturbs their continuance; a rivalry 
 greater, where the subject of competition is one 
 SO vague, impalpable, and fluctuating, as the 
 favour of the public; where the feeling to be gra- 
 tified is one so nearly allied to vanity, the most 
 irritable, arid, and selfish feeling of the human 
 heart. Had Goethe's prime motive been the love 
 cjf fame, be must have viewed with repugnance, 
 not the misdirection, but the talents of the rising 
 oius, advancing with such rapid strides to dis- 
 pute with him the palm of intellectual primacy, 
 nay as the million thought, already in possession 
 
 ol it : and if a sense uf his own dignity had with- 
 held him from offerine obstructions, or uttering 
 any whisper of discontent, there is none hut a 
 
 L
 
 14(5 schiller's life. 
 
 truly patrician spirit that would cordially have 
 offered aid. To being secretly hostile and openly 
 indifferent, the next resource was to enact the 
 patron ; to solace vanity, by helping the rival 
 whom he could not hinder, and who could do 
 without his help. Goethe adopted neither of these 
 plans. It reflects much credit on him that he 
 acted as he did. Eager to forward Schiller's views 
 by exerting all the influence within his power, he 
 succeeded in effecting this ; and what was still more 
 difficult, in suffering' the character of benefactor 
 to merge in that of equal. They became not 
 friends only, but fellow-labourers : a connexion 
 productive of important consequences in the his- 
 tory of both, particularly of the younger and 
 more undirected of the two. 
 
 Meanwhile, the History of the Revolt of the 
 United Netherlands was in part before the world ; 
 the first volume came out in 1788. Schiller's for- 
 mer writings had given proofs of powers so great 
 and various, such an extent of general intellectual 
 strength, and so deep an acquaintance, both prac- 
 tical and scientific, with the art of composition, 
 that in a subject like history, no ordinary work 
 was to be looked for from his hands. With dili- 
 gence in accumulating materials, and patient care 
 in elaborating them, he could scarcely fail to 
 attain distinguished excellence. The present volume 
 was well calculated to fulfil such expectations.
 
 REVOLT OF THE NETHERLANDS. 147 
 
 The Revolt of the Netherlands possesses all the 
 common requisites of a good history, and many 
 which are in some degree peculiar to itself. The 
 information it conveys is minute and copious ; we 
 have all the circumstances of the case, remote and 
 near, set distinctly before ns. Yet, such is the 
 drill of the arrangement, these are at once hriefly 
 and impressively presented. The work is not 
 
 Stretched oat into a continuous narrative; but 
 gathered up into masses, which arc successively 
 exhibited to view, the minor facts being grouped 
 around some leading one, to which, as to the cen- 
 tral object, our attention is chiefly directed. This 
 method of combining the details of events, ofpro- 
 ceeding, as it were, per saltum, from eminence to 
 eminence, and thence surveying the surrounding 
 scene, is undoubtedly the most philosophical of 
 any ; but few men are equal to the task of effect- 
 ing it lightly. It must be executed by a mind 
 able to look at all its facts at once ; to disentangle 
 their perplexities, referring each to its proper head; 
 and to choose, often with extreme address, the 
 station liom which the reader is to view them. 
 Without this, or with this Inadequately done, a 
 
 v.ork on SUcll a plan WOnld be intolerable. Schil- 
 ler has accomplished it in great perfection : the 
 whole scene of affairs was evidently clear before 
 
 bifl own eve, and he did not want ezpeitness to 
 
 discriminate an-1 leiae its distinctive features. The 
 
 L 2
 
 148 schiller's life. 
 
 bond of cause and consequence he never loses 
 sight of; and over each successive portion of his 
 narrative he pours that flood of intellectual and 
 imaginative brilliancy, which all his prior writings 
 had displayed. His reflections, expressed or im- 
 plied, are the fruit of strong, comprehensive, pene- 
 trating thought. His descriptions are vivid : his 
 characters are studied with a keen sagacity, and 
 set before us in their most striking points of 
 view ; those of Egmont and Orange occur to 
 every reader as a rare union of perspicacity and 
 eloquence. The work has a look of order ; of 
 beauty joined to calm reposing force. Had it been 
 completed, it might have ranked as the very best 
 of Schiller's prose compositions. But no second 
 volume ever came to light ; and the first concludes 
 at the entrance of Alba into Brussels. Two frag- 
 ments alone, the Siege of Antwerp, and the Pas- 
 sage of Alba's army, both living pictures, show 
 us still farther what he might have done had lie 
 proceeded. The surprising and often highly pic- 
 turesque movements of this War, the devotedness 
 of the Dutch, their heroic achievement of liberty, 
 were not destined to be painted by the glowing 
 pen of Schiller, whose heart and mind were alike 
 so qualified to do them justice.* 
 
 * If we mistake not, Madame de Stael, in her Revolution 
 Franca'isc, had this performance of Schiller's in her eye. Her 
 work is constructed on a similar though a rather looser plan
 
 PRO! I 50RSHIP VI UNA. I 10 
 
 The accession of reputation, which this work 
 procured its author, was not the only or the prin- 
 cipal advantage he derived from it. Eichhorn, 
 
 Professor of* History, was at this time about to 
 leave the university of Jena : (iocthc had already 
 introduced his new acquaintance Schiller to the 
 special notice of Amelia, the accomplished Regent 
 • il Sachsen- Weimar ; he now joined with Voigt, 
 the head Chaplain of the Court, in soliciting the 
 vacant chair lor him. Seconded by the general 
 \<>iee, and the persuasion of the Princess herself, 
 he succeeeded : Schiller was appointed Professor 
 at Jena; he went thither in 1789. 
 
 With Schiller's removal to Jena, begins a new 
 epoch in his public and private life. His con- 
 nection with (iocthc here first ripened into friend- 
 lii|). and became secured and cemented by fre- 
 quency of intercourse.* Jena is but a few miles 
 distant from Weimar; and the two friends, both 
 
 of arrangement : the execution of it bears the same relation to 
 that of Schiller ; it i^ It - irregular ; more ambitious in itsrhc- 
 toric ; interior in precision, though often not in force of thought 
 and imagery. 
 
 The obstacles 10 their union have already been described 
 in the word of Goethe; tin steps by which these were sur- 
 mounted, cribed bj him in tin same papei with equal 
 minuter* d i Hi < i. It is interesting, but cannoi be inserted 
 i.< re. ■-'.< .\| I'uxii... Note C.
 
 150 schiller's life. 
 
 settled in public offices belonging to the same 
 Government, had daily opportunities of inter- 
 changing visits. Schiller's wanderings were now 
 concluded : with a heart tired of so fluctuating an 
 existence, but not despoiled of its capacity for 
 relishing a calmer one ; with a mind experienced 
 by much and varied intercourse with men ; full ol 
 knowledge and of plans to turn it to account, he 
 could now repose himself in the haven of domestic 
 comforts, and look forward to days of more un- 
 broken exertion, and more wholesome and perma- 
 nent enjoyment than hitherto had fallen to his 
 lot. In the February following his settlement at 
 Jena, he received the hand of the Fraiilein Lenge- 
 feld ; a happiness, with the prospect of which he 
 had long associated all the pleasures which he 
 hoped for from the future. A few months after 
 this event, he thus expressed himself, in writing 
 to a friend : 
 
 c Life is quite a different thing by the side of a 
 c beloved wife, than so forsaken and alone ; even 
 ' in summer. Beautiful Nature! I now for the 
 e first time fully enjoy it, live in it. The w r orld again 
 c clothes itself around me in poetic forms ; old feel- 
 e ings are again awakening in my breast. What a 
 ' life I am leading here ! I look with a glad mind 
 i around me ; my heart finds a perennial content- 
 ' ment without it ; my spirit so fine, so refreshing 
 * a nourishment. My existence is settled in bar-
 
 M kRRIAG 151 
 
 •' moniooa composure ; not Btrained and impas- 
 
 ' sioned, but peaceful and clear. I look to my 
 
 * future destiny with a cheerful heart; now when 
 ' standing at the wished-for goal, I wonder with 
 ' myself how it all has happened, so far beyond 
 i my expectations. Fate has conquered the difii- 
 
 * culties for me ; it has, I may say, forced me to 
 ' the mark. From the future I expect every 
 ' thing. A few years, and I shall live in the full 
 ' enjoyment of my spirit ; nay, I think my very 
 
 * youth will be renewed ; an inward poetic life will 
 1 give it me again.' 
 
 To what extent these smiling hopes were real- 
 ized will be seen in the next and concluding Part 
 of this Biography.
 
 SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 PART III.
 
 SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 PART 111. 
 
 FROM HI- SI I I I .I'.MI'.NT AT JENA TO HIS DEA1 II 
 
 (1790—180.-).) 
 
 The duties of his new office naturally called 
 upon Schiller to devote himself with double zeal 
 to History: a subject, which from choice he had 
 already entered on with so much eagerness. In 
 the study of it, we have seen above how his 
 strongest faculties and tastes were exercised and 
 itified : and now opportunities were now com- 
 bined with new motives for persisting in his 
 efforts. Concerning the plan or the success of his 
 academical prelections, we have scarcely any 
 notice : in his class, it is laid, he used most fre- 
 quently to speak extempore ; and his delivery 
 was not distinguished by fluency or grace, a cir- 
 cumstance to be imputed to the agitation of a 
 public appearance; for as Woltmann assures nij 
 
 • the beauty, tin- ele-anee, ease and true histrne- 
 
 tirenefi with which he could continuously expr< 
 himself in private, were acknowledged and
 
 156 schiller's life. 
 
 admired by all his friends.' His matter, we sup- 
 pose, would make amends for these deficiencies ot* 
 maimer : to judge from his introductory lecture, 
 preserved in his works, with the title, W)iat is 
 Universal History, and with ivhat views should 
 it be studied, there perhaps has never been in 
 Europe another course of history sketched out on 
 principles so magnificent and philosophical.* But 
 college exercises were far from being his ultimate 
 object : nor did he rest satisfied with mere visions 
 of perfection : the compass of the outline he had 
 traced, for a proper Historian, was scarcely greater 
 than the assiduity with which he strove to fill it 
 up. His letters breathe a spirit not only of dili- 
 gence but of ardour; he seems intent with all his 
 strength upon this fresh pursuit ; and delighted 
 with the vast prospects of untouched and attrac- 
 tive speculation, which were opening around him 
 on every side. He professed himself to be 
 
 * The paper entitled, Hints on the Origin of Human Society, 
 as indicated in the Mosaic Records, the Mission of Moses, the 
 Laws of Solon and Lycurgus, are pieces of the very highest 
 order ; full of strength and beauty ; delicious to the lovers of 
 that plastic philosophy, which employs itself in giving form and 
 life to the ' dry bones' of those antique events, that lie before 
 us so inexplicable in the brief and enigmatic pages of their 
 chroniclers. The Glance over Europe at the period of the 
 first Crusade; the Times of the Emperor Frederick I. ; the 
 Troubles in France, are alao masterly sketches, in a simpler 
 and more common style.
 
 HISTORY. 157 
 
 :eedingly c contented with his business ;' hi 
 
 ideas on the nature of it wore acquiring both 
 extension and distinctness; and every moment of 
 his leisure was employed in reducing them to 
 practice. He was now busied with the History 
 of the Thirty Years War. 
 
 This work, which appeared in L791, is con^i 
 dered by the German critics as his chief perform- 
 ance in this department of literature : The Revolt 
 of the Netherlands, the only one which could 
 have vied with it, never was completed ; other- 
 wise, in our opinion, it might have been superior. 
 Either of the two would have sufficed to secure 
 lor Schiller a distinguished rank among histo- 
 rians, of the class denominated philosophical ; 
 though even both together, they afford hut a feeble 
 exemplification of the ideas which he entertained 
 on the manner of composing history. In his view, 
 the business of history is not merely to record, 
 but to interpret; it involves not only a clear con- 
 ception and a lively exposition of events and 
 characters, but a sound, enlightened theory of in- 
 dividual and national morality, a general philoso- 
 phy ot human life, whereby to judge of them. 
 and measure their effects. The historian now 
 
 Stands <>n higher ground, takes in a wider ran 
 than those that went before him ; lie can now 
 
 rarvey vasl tracts of human action, and deduce 
 its laws from an experience extending over many
 
 158 schiller's life. 
 
 climes and ages. With his ideas, moreover, his 
 feelings ought to he enlarged : he should regard 
 the interests not of any sect or state, hut of man- 
 kind ; the progress not of any class of arts or 
 opinions, but of universal happiness and refine- 
 ment. His narrative, in short, should he moulded 
 according to the science, and impregnated with the 
 liberal spirit of his time. 
 
 Voltaire is generally conceived to have invented 
 and introduced a new method of composing his- 
 tory ; the chief historians that have followed him 
 have been by way of eminence denominated 
 philosophical. This is hardly correct. Voltaire 
 wrote . history with greater talent, but scarcely 
 with a new species of talent : he applied the ideas 
 of the eighteenth century to the subject; but in 
 this there was nothing radically new. In the 
 hands of a thinking writer history has always 
 been c philosophy teaching by experience ;' that 
 is, such philosophy as the age of the historian 
 has afforded. For a Greek or Roman, it was na- 
 tural to look upon events with an eye to their 
 effect on his own city or country ; and to try them 
 by a code of principles, in which the prosperity 
 or extension of this formed a leading object. For 
 a monkish chronicler, it was natural to estimate 
 the progress of affairs by the number of abbeys 
 founded ; the virtue of men, by the sum total of 
 donations to the clergy. And for a thinker of the
 
 HISTORY. lf>9 
 
 present day, it is equally natural to measure the 
 occurrences of history by quite a different stan- 
 dard : by their influence upon the general destiny 
 of man, their tendency to obstruct or to forward 
 him in his advancement towards liberty, know- 
 ledge, true religion, and dignity of mind. Each 
 of these narrators simply measures by the scale, 
 which is considered for the time as expressing the 
 great concerns and duties of humanity. 
 
 Schiller's views on this matter were, as might 
 1 have been expected, of the most enlarged kind. 
 1 It seems to me,' said he in one of his letters, 
 ' that in writing history for the moderns, we 
 1 should try to communicate to it such an interest 
 ' as the History of the Peloponncsian War had for 
 
 • the Greeks. Now this Is the problem : tochoose 
 
 • .md arrange your materials so that, to interest, 
 1 they shall not need the aid of decoration. We 
 1 moderns bave B source of interest at our disposal, 
 1 which no Greek or Roman was acquainted with, 
 
 and which the patriotic interest does not nearly 
 eqnal. This last, in general, is chiefly of im- 
 k portance for unripe nations, for the youth of the 
 world. Bui we iiiav excite a very different sort 
 
 • ol interest if we represent each remarkable 
 
 • occurrence tbai happened to men as ofimportance 
 ' to man. It is a poor and little aim to write for 
 
 ■ one nation : a philosophic spirit cannot tolerate 
 
 ' iuch limits, cannot bound its views to a form <»i
 
 160 ^chiller's life. 
 
 c human nature so arbitrary, fluctuating, accidental. 
 i The most powerful nation is but a fragment ; and 
 i thinking minds will not grow warm on its 
 c account, except in so far as this nation or its for- 
 c tunes have been influential on the progress of the 
 c species/ 
 
 That there is not some excess in this compre- 
 hensive cosmopolitan philosophy, may perhaps 
 he liable to question. Nature herself has, wisely 
 no doubt, partitioned us into c kindreds, and na- 
 tions, and tongues' : it is among our instincts to 
 grow warm in behalf of our country, simply for 
 its own sake ; and the business of Reason seems 
 to be to chasten and direct our instincts, never to 
 destroy them. We require individuality in our 
 attachments : the sympathy, which is expanded 
 over all men, will commonly be found so much 
 attenuated by the process that it cannot be effec- 
 tive on any. And as it is in nature, so it is in 
 art, which ought to be the image of it. Univer- 
 sal philanthropy forms but a precarious and very 
 powerless rule of conduct ; and the ' progress of 
 the species,' will turn out equally unfitted for 
 deeply exciting the imagination. It is not with 
 freedom that we can sympathise, but with free 
 men. There ought, indeed, to be in history a 
 spirit superior to petty distinctions and vulgar 
 partialities ; our particular affections ought to be 
 enlightened and purified ; but they should not be
 
 THIRTY YEARS* WAR. 161 
 
 abandoned, or, Bach is the condition of humanity, 
 our feelings most evaporate and fade away in that 
 extreme diffusion. Perhaps, in a certain sense, 
 the surest mode of pleasing and instructing all 
 nations is to write for one. 
 
 This too Schiller was aware of, and had in 
 part attended to. Besides, the Thirty Years' War 
 is a subject in which nationality of feeling maybe 
 even wholly spared, better than in almost any 
 other. It is not a German but a European sub- 
 ject ; it forms the concluding portion of the 
 Reformation, and this is an event belonging not 
 to any country in particular, but to the human 
 race. Yet, if we mistake not, this over-tendency 
 to generalization, both in thought and sentiment, 
 has rather hurt the present work. The philoso- 
 phy, with which it is embucd, now and then 
 grows vague from its abstractness, ineffectual 
 from its refinement : the enthusiasm which per- 
 vades it, elevated, strong, enlightened, would have 
 told better on our hearts, had it been confined 
 within a narrower space, and directed to a more 
 ipecific class of objects. In his extreme attention 
 to the philosophical aspects of the period, Schil- 
 ler has neglected to take advantage of many 
 interesting circumstances, which it offered under 
 other points of view. The Thirty Years 1 War 
 abounds with what may be called picturesqueness 
 in it-, events, and still more ill the condition of the 
 
 M
 
 162 SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 people who carried it on. Harte's History of 
 Gustavus, a wilderness which mere human patience 
 seems unable to explore, is yet enlivened here and 
 there with a cheerful spot, when he tells us of 
 some scalade or camisado, or speculates on 
 troopers rendered bullet-proof by art magic. His 
 chaotic records have, in fact, afforded to our 
 Novelist the raw materials of Dugald Dalgetty, 
 a cavalier of the most singular equipment, of 
 character and manners which, for many reasons, 
 merit study and description. To much of this, 
 though, as he afterwards proved, it w T as well known 
 to him, Schiller paid comparatively small attention; 
 his work has lost in liveliness by the omission, more 
 than it has gained in dignity or instructiveness. 
 
 Yet with all its imperfections, this is no ordinary 
 history. The speculation, it is true, is not always 
 of the kind we wish ; it excludes more moving or 
 enlivening topics, and sometimes savours of the in- 
 experienced theorist who had passed his days re- 
 mote from practical statesmen ; the subject has 
 not sufficient unity ; in spite of every effort, it 
 breaks into fragments towards the conclusion : but 
 still there is an energy, a vigorous beauty in the 
 work, which far more than redeems its failings. 
 Great thoughts at every turn arrest our attention, 
 and make us pause to confirm or contradict them ; 
 happy metaphors,* some vivid descriptions of 
 
 * Yet we scarcely meet with one so happy, as that in the
 
 THIRTY YEARS* WAR. 1G3 
 
 events and men, remind us of the author of F'tesco 
 and Dun Curios. The characters of Gustavus 
 and Wallenstein are finely developed in the course 
 of the narrative. Tillv's passage of the Lech, the 
 battles of Leipzig and Liitzen figure in our recol- 
 lection, as if our eves bad witnessed them: the 
 death of Gustavus is described in terms, which 
 might draw ' iron tears 1 from the cheeks of vete- 
 rans.* If Schiller had inclined to dwell upon the 
 mere visual or imaginative department of bis sub- 
 ject, no man could have painted it more graphi- 
 cally, or better called forth our emotions, sympa- 
 thetic or romantic. But this, we bave seen, was 
 not by any means bis leading aim. 
 
 On the whole, the present work is still the 
 best historical performance, which Germany can 
 boast of. Muller's histories are distinguished by 
 merit! of another sort; by condensing, in a 
 given space, and frequently in lucid order, a 
 quantity of information, copious and authentic 
 beyond example : but as intellectual productions, 
 
 // Dolt ofth Netherlands, where lie finishes his picture of the 
 gloomy silence and dismay that reigned in Brussels, on the first 
 entrance of Alba, by this itriking simile: ' Now that the City 
 had l''' ived tin- Spanish General within its walls, it had the 
 
 :iir M of a man that has drunk a cup of poison, aiul with 
 
 ■D o dd e ring tation watches, every moment, for its deadly 
 
 a '_'<i. 
 
 kppendix, Not* I' 
 
 m -2
 
 164 schiller's life. 
 
 they cannot rank with Schiller's. Woltmann of 
 Berlin has added to the Thirty Years' War, 
 another work of equal size, by way of continu- 
 ation, entitled History of the Peace of Minister; 
 Avith the first negociations of which treaty the 
 former concludes. Woltmann is a person of 
 ability ; but we dare not say of him, what 
 Wieland said of Schiller, that by his first histori- 
 cal attempt he c has discovered a decided capa- 
 bility of rising to a level with Hume, Robertson, 
 and Gibbon/ He will rather rise to a level with 
 Belsham or Smollett. 
 
 This first complete specimen of Schiller's art in 
 the historical department, though but a small 
 fraction of what he meant to do, and could have 
 done, proved in fact to be the last he ever under- 
 took. At present very different cares awaited him: 
 in 1791, a fit of sickness overtook him; he had 
 to exchange the inspiring labours of literature, for 
 the disgusts and disquietudes of physical disease. 
 His disorder, which had its seat in the chest, was 
 violent and threatening; and though nature over- 
 came it in the present instance, the blessing of 
 entire health never more returned to him. The 
 cause of this severe affliction seemed to be the un- 
 ceasing toil and anxiety of mind, in which his days 
 had hitherto been passed : his frame, which though 
 tall had never been robust, was too weak for the
 
 SICKNESS. 165 
 
 vehement and sleepless soul that dwelt within it : 
 
 ind the habit of nocturnal study had, no doubt, 
 aggravated all the other mischiefs. Ever since 
 his residence at Dresden, his constitution had been 
 weakened : but this rude shock at once shattered 
 its remaining- strength ; for a time, the strictest 
 precautions were required barely to preserve 
 existence. A total cessation from every intellec- 
 tual effort was one of the most peremptory laws 
 pre scr ibed to him. Schiller's habits and domestic 
 circumstances equally rebelled against this mea- 
 sure : with a beloved wife depending on him for 
 support, inaction itself could have procured him 
 little rest. His case seemed hard; his prospects 
 of innocent felicity had been too bancfully ob- 
 scured. Yet in this painful and difficult position, 
 he did not yield to despondency ; and at length, 
 ; BSlstance, and partial deliverance, reached him 
 from a very unexpected quarter. Schiller had not 
 long been sick, when the hereditary Prince, now 
 reigning Duke of Holstein-Augustenburg, jointly 
 with the Count Von Schimmclmann, conferred on 
 him a pension of a thousand crowns for three 
 yean. 4 No Stipulation was added, but merely that 
 he should be careful of his health, and use every 
 attention to reeover. This speedy and generous 
 
 aid. moveover, was presented with a delicate 
 
 • It v.is t<> Denmark likewise that Klopstock owed the 
 impleting In i M b las.
 
 166 schiller's life. 
 
 politeness, which, as Schiller said, touched him 
 more than even the gift itself. We should remem- 
 ber this Count and this Duke ; they deserve some 
 admiration and some envy. 
 
 This disorder introduced a melancholy change 
 into Schiller's circumstances : he had now another 
 enemy to strive with, a secret and fearful impedi- 
 ment to vanquish, in which much resolute effort 
 must be sunk without producing any positive 
 result. Pain is not entirely synonymous with Evil ; 
 but bodily pain seems less redeemed by good than 
 almost any other kind of it. From the loss of 
 fortune, of fame, or even of friends, Philosophy 
 pretends to draw a certain compensating benefit ; 
 but in general the permanent loss "of health will 
 bid defiance to her alchymy. It is a universal 
 diminution; the diminution equally of our resources 
 and of our capacity to guide them ; a penalty un- 
 mitigated, save by love of friends, which then 
 first becomes truly dear and precious to us ; or by 
 comforts brought from beyond this earthly sphere, 
 from that serene Fountain of peace and hope, to 
 which our weak Philosophy cannot raise her wine;. 
 For all men, in itself, disease is misery ; but chiefly 
 for men of finer feelings and endowments, to 
 whom, in return for such superiorities, it seems to 
 be sent most frequently and in its most distressing 
 forms. It is a cruel fate for the poet to have the 
 sunny land of his imagination, often the sole ter-
 
 IICKNESS. 167 
 
 ritory he is lord of, disfigured and darkened by 
 the shades of pain ; for one whose highest happi- 
 ness is the exertion of his mental faculties, to have 
 them chained and paralyzed in the imprisonment 
 of a distempered frame. With external activity, 
 with palpable pursuits, above all, with a suitable 
 placidity of nature, much even in certain states of 
 Sickness may be performed and enjoyed. But for 
 him, whose heart is already over keen, whose 
 world is of the mind, ideal, internal ; when the 
 mildew of Lingering disease lias struck that world, 
 and begun to blacken and consume its beauty, 
 nothing seems to remain but despondency and bit- 
 terness and desolate sorrow, felt and anticipated, 
 to the end. 
 
 Woe to him if his will likewise falter, if his 
 resolution fail, and his Bpirit bend its neck to 
 the soke of thi> new enemy! Idleness and a dis- 
 turbed imagination will gain the mastery of him, 
 and let loose their thousand fiends to harass him, 
 to torment him into madness. Alas ! The bondage 
 of Algiers is freedom compared with this of the 
 sick man of genius, whose heart has fainted and 
 sunk beneath its load. 1 1 i ^ clay dwelling is changed 
 into a gloomy prison; every nerve has become an 
 avenue <»i disgusl or anguish ; and the soul shs 
 within, in her melancholy loneliness, a prey to 
 
 the ipectres of despair, or stnpified with ei — of 
 
 . doomed as it irere to ;i ' lift in death,' In
 
 168 schiller's life. 
 
 a consciousness of agonized existence, without the 
 consciousness of power which should accompany 
 it. Happily, death, or entire fatuity, at length 
 puts an end to such scenes of ignoble misery ; 
 which, however, ignoble as they are, we ought to 
 view with pity rather than contempt. 
 
 Such are frequently the fruits of protracted 
 sickness, in men otherwise of estimable qualities 
 and gifts, but whose sensibility exceeds their 
 strength of mind. In Schiller, its w r orst effects 
 were resisted by the only availing antitode, a stre- 
 nuous determination to neglect them. His spirit 
 was too vigorous and ardent to yield even in this 
 emergency : he disdained to dwindle into a pining 
 valetudinarian ; in the midst of his infirmities, he 
 persevered with unabated zeal in the great busi- 
 ness of his life. As he partially recovered, he 
 returned as strenuously as ever to his intellectual 
 occupations ; and often in the glow of poetical 
 conception, he almost forgot his maladies. By such 
 resolute and manly conduct, he disarmed sickness 
 of its cruellest power to wound ; his frame might 
 be in pain, but his spirit retained its force, unex- 
 tinguished, almost unimpeded ; he did not lose his 
 relish for the beautiful, the grand, or the good, in 
 any of their shapes ; he loved his friends as for- 
 merly, and wrote his finest and sublimest works, 
 when his health was gone. Perhaps no period of his 
 life displayed more heroism than the present one.
 
 kant's philosophy. 161) 
 
 After this severe attack, and the kind provision 
 which he had received from Denmark, Schiller 
 seems to have relaxed his connexion with the uni- 
 versity of Jena: the weightiest duties of his class 
 appear to have heen discharged by proxy, and his 
 historical studies to have been forsaken. Yet this 
 was hut a change, not an abatement, in the acti- 
 vity of his mind. Once partially free from pain, 
 all 1 1 i - former diligence awoke; and being also 
 free from the more pressing calls of duty and 
 economy, he was now allowed to turn his atten- 
 tion to objects which attracted it more. Anion:: 
 these one of the most alluring was the Philosophy 
 of Kant. 
 
 The transcendental system of the Konigsberg 
 Professor had, for the last ten years, been spread- 
 ing over Germany, which it had now filled with 
 tin: most violent contentions. The powers and 
 accomplishments of Kant were universally acknow- 
 ledged ; the high pretensions of his system, pre- 
 tensions, it is true, such as had been a thousand 
 times put forth, a thousand times found wanting, 
 still excited notice, when so backed by ability and 
 reputation. The air of mysticism connected with 
 these doctrines, was attractive to the German 
 mind, with which the vague and the vast are 
 always pleasing qualities; the dreadful array of 
 first principles, the forest huge of terminology 
 
 and definitions, where the panting intellect of 
 

 
 170 SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 weaker men wanders as in pathless thickets, and 
 at length sinks powerless to the earth, oppressed 
 with fatigue, and suffocated with scholastic miasma, 
 seemed sublime rather than appalling to the Ger- 
 mans ; men who shrink not at toil, and to whom 
 a certain degree of darkness appears a native ele- 
 ment, essential for giving play to that deep medi- 
 tative enthusiasm which forms so important a fea- 
 ture in their character. Kant's philosophy, accord- 
 ingly, found numerous disciples, and possessed 
 them with a zeal unexampled since the days of 
 Pythagoras. This, in fact, resembled spiritual 
 fanaticism rather than a calm ardour in the cause 
 of science ; Kant's warmest admirers seemed to 
 regard him more in the light of a prophet than of 
 a mere earthly sage. Such admiration was of 
 course opposed by corresponding censure ; the 
 transcendental neophytes had to encounter scep- 
 tical gainsayers as determined as themselves. Of 
 this latter class the most remarkable were Herder 
 and Wieland. Herder, then a clergyman of Wei- 
 mar, seems never to have comprehended what he 
 fought against so keenly : he denounced and con- 
 demned the Kantean metaphysics, because he 
 found them heterodox. The young divines came 
 back from the university of Jena with their minds 
 well nigh delirious ; full of strange doctrines, 
 which they explained to the examinators of the 
 Weimar Consistorium, in phrases that excited no
 
 Kant's philosophy. 171 
 
 idea in the heade ot* tlicsc reverend persons, but 
 much horror in their hearts.* Hence reprimands, 
 and objurgations, and excessive bitterness between 
 the applicants For ordination, and those appointed 
 to confer it : one vounsr clergyman at Weimar 
 ■hot himself on this account ; heresy, and jarring, 
 and unprofitable logic, were universal. Hence 
 Herder's vehement attacks on this e pernicious 
 quackery :' ties delusive and destructive ' system 
 of \\ 01 d^."'{- Wieland strove against it for another 
 tson. He had, all his life, been labouring to 
 give currency among his countrymen to a species of 
 diluted epicurism ; to erect a certain smooth, and 
 elegant, and very slender scheme of taste and mo- 
 rals, borrowed from our Shaftesburv and the 
 French. All this feeble edifice the new doctrine 
 wmi sweeping before it to utter ruin, with the vio- 
 lence ( f a tornado. It grieved Wieland to see 
 the work of half a centurv destroyed ! he fondly 
 imagined that but for Kant's philosophy it might 
 
 * Schelling has a book on the 'Soul of the World 1 ; Fiehte'i 
 expression to his students : ' To-morrow, gentlemen, I shall 
 cr< ate ( Sod, 1 is known to most readers! 
 
 i Si, Herders Leben, by liis Widow. That Herder was 
 not usually troubled with any unphilosophicaJ scepticism, 01 
 aversion to novelty, may be inferred from liis patronising 
 Dr. Galls ij tern of Phrenology, or ' Scull-doctrine,' as they 
 call it in G< rmany. But Gall bad referred with acknowledg- 
 ment and admiration to the Philosophy der C ichichte der 
 Henscheit, Here lay a difference.
 
 172 schiller's life. 
 
 have been perennial. With scepticism quickened 
 into action by such motives, Herder and he went 
 forth as brother champions against the transcen- 
 dental metaphysics ; they were not long without a 
 multitude of hot assailants. The uproar produced 
 among thinking men by the conflict, has scarcely 
 been equalled in Germany since the days of Luther. 
 Fields were fought, and victories lost and won ; 
 nearly all the minds of the nation were, in secret 
 or openly, arrayed on this side or on that. Goethe 
 alone seemed altogether to retain his wonted com- 
 posure ; he was clear for allowing the Kantean 
 scheme to ' have its day, as all things have.' 
 Goethe has already lived to seethe wisdom of this 
 sentiment, so characteristic of his genius and turn 
 of thought. 
 
 In these controversies, soon pushed beyond the 
 bounds of temperate or wholesome discussion, 
 Schiller took no part: but the noise they made 
 afforded him a fresh inducement to investigate a 
 set of doctrines, so important in the general esti- 
 mation. A system which promised, even with a 
 very little plausibility, to accomplish all that Kant 
 asserted his complete performance of; to explain 
 the difference between Matter and Spirit, to unra- 
 vel the perplexities of Necessity and Free-will ; to 
 show us the true grounds of our belief in God, 
 and what hope nature gives us of the soul's im- 
 mortality ; and thus at length, after a thousand
 
 Kant's PHILOSOPHY. 173 
 
 failures, to interpret the enigma of our being — ■ 
 
 hardly needed that additional inducement to make 
 such a man as Schiller grasp at it with eager 
 curiosity. His progress also was facilitated by 
 his present circumstances ; Jena had now become 
 the chief well-spring of Kantean doctrine, a dis- 
 tinction or disgrace it has ever since continued to 
 deserve. Reinhold, one of Kant's ablest follow- 
 ers, was at this time Schiller's fellow-teacher and 
 daily companion : he did not fail to encourage and 
 assist his friend in a path of study, which, as he 
 believed, conducted to such glorious results. 
 Under this tuition, Schiller was not long in dis- 
 covering, that at least the ' new philosophy was 
 more poetical than that of Leibnitz, and had a 
 grander character ;' persuasions, which of course, 
 confirmed him in his resolution to examine it. 
 
 How far Schiller penetrated into the arcana of 
 transcendentalism it is impossible for us to say. 
 The metaphysical and logical branches of it seem 
 to have afforded him no solid satisfaction, or 
 taken no firm hold of his thoughts ; their influ- 
 ence is scarcely to be traced in any of his subse- 
 quent writings. The only department to which 
 he attached himself with his ordinary zeal was 
 that which relates to the principles of the imita- 
 tive arts, with their mora] influences, and which 
 in the Kantean nomenclature has been designated
 
 174 schiller's life. 
 
 by the term ^Esthetics* or the doctrine of sen- 
 timents and emotions. On these subjects he 
 already had amassed a multitude of thoughts ; to 
 see which expressed by new symbols, and arranged 
 in systematic form, and held together by some 
 common theory, would necessarily yield enjoy- 
 ment to his intellect, and inspire him with fresh 
 alacrity in prosecuting such researches. The new 
 light which dawned, or seemed to dawn, upon him, 
 in the course of these investigations, is reflected 
 in various treatises, evincing, at least, the honest 
 diligence with which he studied, and the fertility 
 with which he could produce. Of these the 
 largest and most elaborate are the essays on 
 Grace and Dignity ; on f Naive and Sentimental 
 Poetry ; and the Letters on theJEsthetic Culture 
 of Man : the other pieces are on Tragic Art ; 
 on the Pathetic ; on the Cause of our Delight in 
 Tragic Objects ; on Employing the Low and 
 Common in Arp. 
 
 Being cast in the mould of Kantism, or, at 
 least, clothed in its garments, these productions 
 to readers unacquainted with that system, are en- 
 cumbered here and there with difficulties greater 
 than belong intrinsically to the subject. In pe- 
 rusing them, the uninitiated student is mortified 
 at seeing so much powerful thought distorted, as 
 
 t From the verb aiadavofxat, to fee].
 
 kant's philosophy. 175 
 
 he thinks, into Bach fantastic forms : the prin- 
 ciples of reasoning, on which they rest, are appa- 
 rently not those of common logic ; a dimness 
 and doubt overhangs their conclusions ; scarcely 
 anv thing is proved in a convincing manner. But 
 this is no strange quality in such writings. To an 
 exoteric reader, the philosophy of Kant almost 
 always appears to invert the common maxim: 
 its end and aim seems not to he ' to make abstruse 
 things simple, but to make simple things abstruse.' 
 Often a proposition of inscrutable and dread 
 aspect, when resolutely grappled with, and torn 
 from its shadv den, and its bristling entrenchments 
 of uncouth terminology, and dragged forth into 
 the open light of day, to be seen by the natural 
 ( ve, and tried by merely human understanding, 
 proves to be a very harmless truth, familiar to us 
 from of old, sometimes so familiar as to be a 
 truism. Too frequently] the anxious novice is 
 reminded of Dryden in the Battle of the Books t 
 there is a helmet of rusty iron, dark, grim, gigan- 
 tic ; and within it, at the farthest corner, is a head 
 no bigger than a walnut. These arc the general 
 errors of Kantean criticism : in the present work-. 
 they are by do means of the worst or most per- 
 vading kind ; and there is a fundamental merit 
 which does more than counterbalance them. By 
 
 the aid of study, the doctrine Bel before Qfl cm, in 
 
 oeral, at length be comprehended ; and Schiller's
 
 176 Schiller's life. 
 
 fine intellect, recognizable even in its masquerade, 
 is ever and anon peering forth in its native form, 
 which all may understand, which all must relish, 
 and presenting us with passages, that show like 
 bright verdant islands in the misty sea of meta- 
 physics. 
 
 We have been compelled to offer these re- 
 marks on Kant's Philosophy ; but it is right 
 to add that they are the result of only very 
 limited acquaintance with the subject. We can- 
 not wish that any influence of ours should add 
 a note, however feeble, to the loud and not at 
 all melodious cry, which has been raised against 
 it in this country. When a class of doctrines so 
 involved in difficulties, yet so sanctioned by illus- 
 trious names, is set before us, curiosity must have 
 a theory respecting them, and indolence and other 
 humbler feelings are too ready to afford her one. 
 To call Kant's system a laborious dream, and its 
 adherents crazy mystics, is a brief method ; brief 
 but false. The critic, whose philosophy includes 
 the craziness of men like these, so easily and 
 smoothly in its formulas, should render thanks to 
 Heaven for having gifted him with science and 
 acumen, as few in any age or country have been 
 gifted. Meaner men, however, ought to recollect, 
 that where we do not understand, we should 
 postpone deciding, or, at least, keep our decision 
 for our own exclusive benefit. We of England
 
 rant's philosophy. 177 
 
 mav reject this Kantean system, perhaps with 
 reason ; hut it ought to he on other grounds than 
 are vet hcfore us. Philosophy is science, and 
 science, as Schiller has ohserved, cannot always he 
 explained in ' conversations hy the parlour lire,' 
 or in written treatises that resemble such. The 
 Cllt bono of these doctrines may not, it is true, he 
 expressible by arithmetical computations : the 
 subject also is perplexed with obscurities, and 
 probablv, with manifold delusions ; and too often 
 its interpreters with us have been like ' tenebrific 
 stars/ that ' did ray out darkness' on a matter itself 
 sufficiently dark. But what then ? Is the jewel al- 
 ways to be found among the common dust of the 
 highway, and always to be estimated by its value in 
 the common judgment ? It lies embosomed in the 
 depths of the mine; rocks must be rent before it 
 cm be reached ; skilful eyes and hands must sepa- 
 rate it from the rubbish where it lies concealed, 
 and kingly purchasers alone can prize it and buy 
 it. This law of ostracism is as dangerous in 
 science as it was of old in politics. Let us not 
 forget that many things are true which cannot be 
 demonstrated by the rules of Jl'aitS Logic; that 
 
 many troths are valuable, lor which no price is 
 given in Paternoster Row, and no preferment 
 
 offered at St. Stephen's! Whoever reads these 
 
 treatises of Sehiller with attention, will perceive 
 
 that they depend on principles of an immensely 
 
 N
 
 178 schiller's life. 
 
 higher and more complex character than our 
 'Essays on Taste/ and our 'Inquiries concerning 
 the Freedom of the Will.' The laws of criticism, 
 which it is their purpose to establish, are derived 
 from the inmost nature of man ; the scheme of 
 morality, which they inculcate, soars into a 
 brighter region, very far beyond the ken of our 
 ' Utilities' and e Reflex-senses/ They do not teach 
 us { to judge of poetry and art as we judge of 
 dinner,' merely by observing the impressions it 
 produced in us ; and they do derive the duties and 
 chief end of man from other grounds than the 
 philosophy of Profit and Loss. These Letters 
 on utEsthetic Culture, without the aid of any 
 thing which the most sceptical could designate as 
 superstition, trace out and attempt to sanction for 
 us a system of morality, in which the sublimest 
 feelings of the Stoic and the Christian are repre- 
 sented but as stages in our progress to the pinnacle 
 of true human grandeur ; and man, isolated on this 
 fragment of the universe, encompassed with the 
 boundless desolate Unknown, at war with Fate, 
 without help or the hope of help, is confidently 
 called upon to rise into a calm cloudless height of 
 internal activity and peace, and be, what he has 
 fondly named himself, the god of this lower world. 
 When such are the results, who would not make an 
 effort for the steps by which they are attained ? In 
 Schiller's treatises, it must be owned, the reader,
 
 REFINEMENT OF TASTE. 179 
 
 after all exertions, "will be fortunate if he can find 
 them. Yet a second perusal will satisfy him better 
 than the first; and among the shapeless immensities 
 which fill the Night of Kantism, and the meteoric 
 • ■diruscations, whieh perplex him rather than en- 
 lighten, he will fancy he descries some streaks of 
 a serener radiance, which he will pray devoutly 
 that time may purify and ripen into perfect day. 
 The Philosophy of Kant is probably combined 
 witli errors to its very core ; but perhaps also, 
 this ponderous unmanageable dross mav bear in 
 it the everlasting gold of Truth ! Mighty Spirit! 
 have already laboured in refining it : is it wise in 
 us.'to take up with the base peAvter of Utility, and 
 renounce such projects altogether ? We trust, not.* 
 
 Thai Schillci\ gemtiS profited by this laborious 
 and ardent study of iEsthetic Metaphysics, has 
 frequently been doubted, and sometimes denied. 
 That, after such investigations, the process of com- 
 position would become more difficult, might be 
 inferred from the nature of the case. That also 
 the principles of this critical theory were in pari 
 erroneous, in still greater part too far-fetched and 
 
 * Are our hopes from -Mr. Coleridge always to be fruit- 
 less I iphj of llie Scotch 
 of little u : it is a poor philosophy, perhaps; but ne4 i 
 . • all, which to be the state oi noati 
 
 nt. 
 
 2
 
 180 schiller's life. 
 
 fine-spun for application to the business of writing, 
 we may farther venture to assert. But excellence, 
 not ease of composition, is the thing to be desired ; 
 and in a mind like Schiller's, so full of energy, of 
 images and thoughts and creative power, the 
 more sedulous practice of selection was little 
 likely to be detrimental. And though considera- 
 ble errors might mingle with the rules by which 
 he judged himself, the habit of judging carelessly, 
 or not at all, is far worse than that of sometimes 
 judging wrong. Besides, once accustomed to at- 
 tend strictly to the operations of his genius, and 
 rigorously to try its products, such a man as Schil- 
 ler could not fail in time to discover what was 
 false in the principles by which he' tried them, 
 and consequently, in the end, to retain the bene- 
 fits of this procedure without its evils. There is 
 doubtless a purism in taste, a rigid fantastical 
 demand of perfection, a horror at approaching 
 the limits of impropriety, which obstructs the 
 free impulse of the faculties, and if excessive, 
 would altogether deaden them. But the excess 
 on the other side is much more frequent, and for 
 high endowments, infinitely more pernicious. 
 After the strongest efforts, there may be little real- 
 ized ; without strong efforts, there must be little. 
 That too much care does hurt in any of our tasks 
 is a doctrine so flattering to indolence, that we 
 ought to receive it with extreme caution. In
 
 REFINEMENT OF TASTE. 181 
 
 works impressed with the stamp of true genius, 
 their quality, not their extent, is what we value: 
 a dull man may spend his life-time writing little; 
 better so than writing much ; but a man of 
 powerful mind is liable to no such danger. Of 
 all our authors, Gray is, perhaps, the only one 
 that from fastidiousness of taste has written less 
 than he should have done : there are thousands 
 that have erred the other way. What would a 
 Spanish reader give had Lope de Vega composed 
 a hundred times as little, and that little a hundred 
 times as well ! 
 
 Schiller's own ideas on these points appear to 
 he sufficiently sound : they arc sketched in the 
 following extract of a letter, interesting also as a 
 record of his purposes and intellectual condition 
 at this period : 
 
 ' Criticism must now make good to me the 
 ' damage she herself has done. And damaged me 
 ' she baa most certainly; for the boldness, the 
 ' living glow which I felt before a rule was known 
 1 to mi', have for several years been wanting. 1 
 1 now sec myself create and form : I watch the 
 - play of inspiration, and my fancy, knowing she 
 1 fa not without witnesses of her movements, no 
 ' longer moves with equal freedom. I hope, 
 ' however, ultimately to advance so iar that art 
 1 shall become a second untitle, as polished man- 
 1 DOTfl are to well-bred men ; then Imagination w ill
 
 182 schiller's life. 
 
 c regain her former freedom, and submit to none 
 e but voluntary limitations/ 
 
 Schiller's subsequent writings are the best proof 
 that in these expectations he had not miscalculated. 
 
 The historical and critical studies, in which he 
 had been so extensively and seriously engaged, 
 could not remain without effect on Schiller's gene- 
 ral intellectual character. He had spent five 
 active years in studies directed almost solely to 
 the understanding, or the faculties connected with 
 it ; and such industry united to such ardour had 
 produced an immense accession of ideas. His- 
 tory had furnished him with pictures of manners 
 and events, of strange conjunctures and conditions 
 of existence ; it had given him more minute and 
 truer conceptions of human nature in its many 
 forms, new and more accurate opinions on the 
 character and end of man. The domain of his 
 mind was both enlarged and enlightened ; a mul- 
 titude of images and detached facts and percep- 
 tions had been laid up in his memory ; and his 
 intellect was at once enriched by acquired thoughts, 
 and strengthened by increased exercise on a wider 
 circle of knowledge. But to understand was not 
 enough for Schiller ; there were in him faculties 
 which this could not employ, and therefore could 
 not satisfy. The primary vocation of his nature 
 was poetry : the acquisitions of his other faculties
 
 LITERARY PROJECTS. 18.3 
 
 served but as the materials for his poetic faculty 
 to act upon, and seemed imperfect till they had 
 been sublimated into the pure and perfect forms of 
 beauty, which it is the business of this to elicit 
 from them. New thoughts gave birth to new 
 feelings : and both of these he was now called 
 upon to body forth, to represent by visible types, 
 to animate and adorn with the magic of creative 
 genius. The first youthful blaze of poetic ardour 
 had long since passed away ; but this large increase 
 of knowledge awakened it anew, refined by 
 years and experience into a steadier and clearer 
 flame. Vague shadows of unaccomplished excel- 
 lence, gleams of ideal beauty were now hovering 
 fitfully across his mind : he longed to turn them 
 into shape, and give them a local habitation and a 
 name. Criticism, likewise, had exalted his notions 
 of art : the modern writers on subjects of taste, 
 Aristotle, the ancient poets, he had lately studied; 
 he had carefully endeavoured to extract the truth 
 from each, and to amalgamate their principles 
 with his own; in choosing, he was now more 
 difficult to satisfy. Minor poems had all along 
 been partly occupying his attention ; but they 
 yielded no space for the intensity of his impulses, 
 and the magnificent ideas that were rising iii his 
 fancy. Conscious of his stimuli', be dreaded 
 
 not engaging with the highest species ol bis art : 
 
 the perusal of the Greek tragedians had given
 
 184 schiller's life. 
 
 rise to some late translations ;* the perusal of 
 Homer seems now to have suggested the idea of 
 an epic poem. The hero whom he first contem- 
 plated was Gnstavus Adolphus ; he afterwards 
 changed to Frederick the Great of Prussia. 
 
 Epic poems, since the time of the Epigoniad, 
 and Leonidas, and especially since that of some 
 more recent attempts, have with us become a 
 mighty dull affair. That Schiller aimed at some- 
 thing infinitely higher than these faint and su- 
 perannuated imitations, far higher than even Klop- 
 stock has attained, will appear by the following 
 extract from one of his letters : 
 
 ' An epic poem in the eighteenth century should 
 e be cpiite a different thing from such a poem in 
 ( the childhood of the world. And it is that very 
 e circumstance, which attracts me so much towards 
 this project. Our manners, the finest essence of 
 e our philosophies, our politics, economy, arts, in 
 ' short, of all we know and do, would require to 
 e be introduced without constraint, and interwoven 
 c in such a composition, to live there in beautiful 
 c harmonious freedom, as all the branches of Greek 
 i culture live and are made visible in Homer's 
 ' Iliad. Nor am I disinclined to invent a species 
 i of machinery for this purpose ; being anxious to 
 ( fulfil, with hairs-breadth accuracy, all the requisi- 
 
 * These were a fine version of Euripides' Iphigenia in Aulide, 
 and a few scenes of his Phoenissce.
 
 epic toem. 185 
 
 tions that are made of epic poets, even on the 
 side of form. Besides, this machinery, which, in 
 a subject so modern, an age so prosaic, appears 
 to present the greatest difficulty, might exalt 
 the interest in a high degree, were it suitably 
 adapted to this same modern spirit. Crowds of 
 confused ideas on this matter are rolling to and 
 fro within my head ; something distinct will conic 
 out of them at last. 
 
 * As for the sort of metre I would choose, this 
 I think you will hardly guess : no other than 
 of tare rime. All the rest, except iambic, arc 
 become insufferable to me. And how beauti- 
 fully might the earnest and the lofty be made to 
 play in these light fetters ! What attractions 
 might the epic substance gain by the soft yield- 
 ing form of this line rhyme ! For, the poem 
 must, not in name only, but in very deed, be 
 Capable of being sung ; as the Iliad was sung 
 by the peasants of Greece, as the stanzas of 
 Jerusalem Delivered are still sung by the Vene- 
 tian gondoliers. 
 
 ' The epoch of Frederick's life that would fit 
 me best, I have considered also. I should wish to 
 select -nine unhappy situation; it would allow 
 mi- to untold his mind far more poetically. 
 The chief action should if possible be very sim- 
 ple, perplexed with no complicated circum- 
 stances, that the whole might easily be coinpre-
 
 186 schiller's life. 
 
 c hended at a glance, though the episodes were 
 ( never so numerous. In this respect there is no 
 ' better model than the Iliad.' 
 
 Schiller did not execute, or even commence, the 
 project he has here so philosophically sketched : 
 the constraints of his present situation, the great- 
 ness of the enterprise compared with the uncer- 
 tainty of its success, were sufficient to deter him. 
 Besides, he felt that after all his wide excursions, 
 the true home of his genius was the Drama, the 
 department where its powers had first been tried, 
 and were now by habit or nature best qualified to 
 act. To the Drama he accordingly returned. 
 The History of the Thirty Years War had once 
 suggested the idea of Gustavus Adblphus as the 
 hero of an epic poem ; the same work afforded 
 him a subject for a tragedy : he now decided on 
 beginning Wallenstein. In this undertaking it 
 was no easy task that he contemplated ; a com- 
 mon play did not now comprise his aim ; he 
 required some magnificent and comprehensive 
 object, in which he could expend to advantage the 
 neAv poetical and intellectual treasures, which he 
 had for years been amassing ; something that 
 should at once exemplify his enlarged ideas of art, 
 and give room and shape to his fresh stores of 
 knowledge and sentiment. As he studied the his- 
 tory of Wallenstein, and viewed its capabilities on 
 every side, new ideas gathered round it : the sub-
 
 BEGINS WALLENSTEIW 187 
 
 ject grew in magnitude, and often changed id 
 form* His progress in actual composition was. of 
 eourse. irregular and small. Yet the difficulties of 
 the subject, increasing with his own wider, more 
 ambitious conceptions, did not abate his diligence: 
 Wallenstem, with many interruptions and many 
 alterations, sometimes stationary, sometimes retro- 
 grade, continued on the whole, though slowly, to 
 advance. 
 
 This was for several years his chosen occupa- 
 tion, the task to which he consecrated his bright^ 
 e-t hours, and the finest part of his faculties. For 
 humbler employments, demanding rather industry 
 than inspiration, there still remained abundant 
 leisure, of which it was inconsistent with his 
 habits to waste a single hour. His occasional 
 labours, accordingly, were numerous, varied, and 
 Sometimes of considerable extent. In the end of 
 1792, a new object seemed to call for his atten- 
 tion ; he once about this time seriously meditated 
 mingling in politics. The French Revolution 
 had from the first affected him with no ordinary 
 hopes ; which, however, the course of events, 
 particularly the imprisonment of Louis, were now 
 
 fast converting into fears. For the ill-fated 
 monarch, and the cause of freedom, which seemed 
 threatened with disgrace in the treatment he WBi 
 
 - 
 
 likely to receive, SchiHer fell s<> deeply interested, 
 
 that he had determined, in his case a determina
 
 188 schiller's life. 
 
 tion not without its risks, to address an appeal on 
 these subjects to the French people and the world 
 at large. The voice of reason advocating liberty 
 as well as order might still, he conceived, make a 
 salutary impression, in this period of terror and 
 delusion ; the voice of a distinguished man would 
 at first sound like the voice of the nation, which 
 he seemed to represent. Schiller was inquiring 
 for a proper French translator, and revolving in 
 his mind the various arguments that might be 
 used, and the comparative propriety of using or 
 forbearing to use them ; but the progress of things 
 superseded the necessity of such deliberation. In 
 a few months, Louis perished on the scaffold ; the 
 Bourbon family were murdered, or scattered over 
 Europe ; and the French government was changed 
 into a frightful chaos, amid the tumultuous and 
 bloody horrors of which, calm truth had no longer 
 a chance to be heard. Schiller turned away from 
 these repulsive and appalling scenes, into other 
 regions where his heart was more familiar, and 
 his powers more likely to produce effect. The 
 French Revolution had distressed and shocked 
 him ; but it did not lessen his attachment to 
 liberty, the name of which had been so desecrated 
 in its wild convulsions. Perhaps in his subsequent 
 writings we can trace a more respectful feeling 
 towards old establishments ; more reverence for 
 majesty of Custom; and with an equal zeal, a
 
 THE HOREN. 189 
 
 weaker faith in human perfectibility ; changes 
 indeed which are the common fruit of years them- 
 selves, in whatever age or climate of the world 
 our experience may be gathered. 
 
 Among a number of fluctuating engagements, 
 one, which for ten years had been constant with 
 him, was the editing of the Thalitt. The principles 
 and performances of that work he had long looked 
 upon as insufficient : in particular, ever since his 
 settlement at Jena, it had been among his favour- 
 ite projects to exchange it for some other, con- 
 ducted on a more liberal scheme, uniting more 
 ability in its support, and embracing a much 
 wider compass of literary interests. Many of the 
 most distinguished persons in Germany had 
 agreed to assist him in executing such a plan ; 
 Goethe, himself a host, undertook to go hand in 
 hand with him. The Thalia was in consequence 
 relinquished at the end of 1793 ; and the first 
 number of the Jlorcn came out early in the 
 following year. This publication was enriched 
 with many valuable pieces on points of philoso- 
 phy and criticism; some of Schiller's finest essays 
 first appeared here : even without the foreign 
 
 aids which had been promised him, it already 
 hide lair to outdo, as he had meant it should, 
 every previous work of that description. The 
 
 Mitscn-tilnittniicli, of which he likewise under 
 took the superintendence, did not aim so high:
 
 190 schiller's life. 
 
 like other works of the same title, which are 
 numerous in Germany, it was intended for pre- 
 serving and annually delivering to the world, a 
 series of short poetical effusions, or other fugitive 
 compositions, collected from various quarters, and 
 often having no connection but their juxtaposi- 
 tion. In this work, as well as in the Horen, some 
 of Schiller's finest smaller poems made their first 
 appearance ; many of these pieces being written 
 about this period, especially the greater part of his 
 ballads, the idea of attempting which took its rise 
 in a friendly rivalry with Goethe. But the most 
 noted composition sent forth in the pages of the 
 Musen-almanach, was the Xenien *# a collection 
 of epigrams which originated partly, as it seems, 
 in the mean or irritating conduct of various 
 cotemporary authors. In spite of the most 
 flattering promises, and of its own intrinsic 
 character, the Horen, at its first appearance, in- 
 stead of being hailed with welcome by the leading 
 minds of the country, for whom it was intended 
 as a rallying point, met in many quarters with 
 no sentiment but coldness or hostility. The con- 
 troversies of the day had sown discord among 
 literary men ; Schiller and Goethe, associating 
 together, had provoked ill-will from a host of 
 
 * So called from fyyt&v, munus hospitale ; a title borrowed 
 from Martial, who has thus designated a scries of personal 
 epigrams in his thirteenth Book.
 
 THE XEMEN. 1 *) 1 
 
 persons, who felt the justice of such mutual pre- 
 ference, but liked not the inferences to be drawn 
 from it; and eyed this intellectual duumvirate, 
 however meek in the discharge of its functions, 
 and the wearing* of its honours, with jealousy 
 and discontent. The cavilling of these people, 
 awkwardly contrasted with their personal absur- 
 dity and insipidity, at length provoked the serious 
 notice of the two illustrious associates: the result 
 was this German Duneiad ; a production of which 
 the plan was, that it should comprise an immense 
 multitude of detached couplets, each conveying a 
 complete thought within itself, and furnished by 
 one of the joint operators. The subjects were of 
 unlimited variety; ' the most,' as Schiller says, 
 ' were wild satire, glancing at writers and writings, 
 Intermixed with here and there a flash of poetical 
 or philosophic thought.' It was at first intended 
 to provide about a thousand of these pointed 
 monodistiehs ; unity in such a work appearing to 
 consist in a certain boundlessness of size, which 
 should hide the heterogeneous nature of the in- 
 dividual parts : the whole were then to be arranged 
 and elaborated, till they had acquired the proper 
 degree of consistency and symmetry; each sacri- 
 ficing something of its own peculiar spirit to 
 
 pres er v e the -pint of the rest. This Dumber 
 never wm completed: and, Goethe being now- 
 busy with bis fVilhelm Meister, the project
 
 192 schiller's life. 
 
 of completing it was at length renounced ; and the 
 Xenia were published as unconnected particles, 
 not pretending to constitute a whole. Enough 
 appeared to create unbounded commotion among 
 the parties implicated : the Xenia were exclaimed 
 against, abused, and replied to, on all hands ; but 
 as they declared war not on persons but on actions ; 
 not against Gleim, Nicolai, Manso, but against 
 bad taste, dulness, and affectation, nothing crimi- 
 nal could be sufficiently made out against them. 
 The Musen-almanach, where they appeared in 
 1797, continued to be published till the time of 
 Schiller's leaving Jena : the Horen ceased some 
 months before. 
 
 The co-operation of Goethe, which Schiller had 
 obtained so readily in these pursuits, was of sin- 
 gular use to him in many others. Both posses- 
 sing minds of the first order, yet constructed and 
 trained in the most opposite modes, each had 
 much that was valuable to learn of the other, and 
 suggest to him. Cultivating different kinds of 
 excellence, they could joyfully admit each other's 
 merit ; connected by mutual services, and now by 
 community of literary interests, few unkindly 
 feelings could have place between them. For a 
 man of high qualities, it is rare to find a meet 
 companion : painful and injurious to want one. 
 Solitude exasperates or deadens the heart, per- 
 verts or enervates the faculties ; association with
 
 CONNEXION WITH GOETHE. 1 ( .)3 
 
 inferiors leads to dogmatism in thought, and self- 
 will even in affections. Rousseau never should 
 have lived in the Val de Montmorenei ; it had 
 been good for Warburton that Hard had not 
 existed ; for Johnson never to have known 
 Bos well or Da vies. From such evils Schiller and 
 Goethe were delivered ; their intimacy seems to 
 have been equal, frank, and cordial ; from the 
 contrasts and the endowments of their minds, it 
 must have had peculiar charms. In his critical 
 theories, Schiller had derived much profit from 
 communicating with an intellect as excursive as 
 his own, but far cooler and more sceptical : as he 
 lopped off from his creed the excrescences of 
 Kantism, Goethe and he, on comparing their 
 ideas, often found in them a striking similarity ; 
 more striking and more gratifying, when it was 
 considered from what diverse premises these har- 
 monious conclusions had been drawn. On such 
 subjects they often corresponded when absent, 
 and conversed when together. They were in the 
 hahit of paying long visits to each others houses ; 
 frequently they used to travel in company between 
 Jena and Weimar. ' At Triesnitz, half a mile 
 from Jena, Goethe and he,' we are told, c might 
 sometimes he observed sitting at table, beneath the 
 
 shade of a spreading tree; talking and looking at 
 the current of passengers. 1 — There are sonic who 
 
 u
 
 194 schiller's life. 
 
 would have ' travelled fifty miles on foot' to join 
 the party ! 
 
 Besides this intercourse with Goethe, he was 
 happy in a kindly connexion with many other 
 estimable men, both in literary and in active life, 
 Dalberg, at a distance, was to the last his friend 
 and warmest admirer. At Jena, he had Schutz, 
 Paul, Hufland, Reinhold. Wilhelm von Hum- 
 boldt, also, brother of the celebrated traveller, 
 had come thither about this time, and was now 
 among his closest associates. At Weimar, ex- 
 cluding less important persons, there were still 
 Herder and Wieland, to divide his attention with 
 Goethe. And what to his affectionate heart must 
 have been the most grateful circumstance of all, 
 his aged parents were yet living to participate in 
 the splendid fortune of the son, whom they had 
 once lamented and despaired of, but never ceased 
 to love. In 1793, he paid them a visit in Swabia, 
 and passed nine cheerful months among the scenes 
 dearest to his recollection : enjoying the kindness 
 of those unalterable friends whom Nature had 
 given him ; and the admiring deference of those 
 by whom it was most delightful to be honoured, — 
 those who had known him in adverse and hum- 
 bler circumstances, whether they might have 
 respected or contemned him. By the Grand 
 Duke, his ancient censor and patron, he was not 
 interfered with ; that prince, in answer to a pre- 

 
 VISITS ins PaRINTS. 193 
 
 vif>us Application on the subject, having indirectly 
 engaged to take no notice o ftliis journey. The 
 Grand Duke had already interfered too much 
 with him, and bitterly repented of his interference. 
 Next year he died, an event which Schiller, who 
 had long forgotten past ill treatment, did not 
 loam without true sorrow, and grateful recollec- 
 tions of bygone kindness. The new sovereign, 
 anxiona to repair the injustice of his predecessor, 
 almost instantly made oiler of a vacant Tubingen 
 professorship to Schiller; a proposal flattering to 
 the latter, but which, by the persuasion of the 
 Duke of Weimar, he respectfully declined. 
 
 Amid labours and amusements so multiplied, 
 amid such variety of intellectual exertion and of 
 intercourse with men, Schiller, it was clear, had not 
 Buffered the encroachments of bodily disease to 
 Undermine the vigour of his mental or moral 
 powers. No period of his life displayed in stronger 
 colour- the lofty and determined zeal of his cha- 
 racter. He had already written much ; his fame 
 stood upon a firm basis \ domestic wants no longer 
 
 called upon him lor incessant effort; and his frame 
 Was pining under the Blow canker of an incurable 
 
 malady. Yet he nevei? loitered, nerer rested ; his 
 fervid spirit, which bad vanquished opposition and 
 oppression in his youth; which had struggled 
 against harassing uncertainties, and passed unsul- 
 lied through many temptations, in hi- earlier man 
 
 o 2
 
 196 schiller's life. 
 
 hood, did not now yield to this last and most fatal 
 enemy. The present was the busiest, most pro- 
 ductive season of his literary life ; and with all its 
 drawbacks, it was probably the happiest. Violent 
 attacks from his disorder were of rare occurrence; 
 and its constant influence, the dark vapours with 
 which it would have overshadowed the faculties 
 of his head and heart, were repelled by diligence 
 and a courageous exertion of his will. In other 
 points, he had little to complain of, and much to 
 rejoice in. He was happy in his family, the cho- 
 sen scene of his sweetest, most lasting satisfaction; 
 by the world he was honoured and admired ; his 
 wants were provided for ; he had tasks which 
 inspired and occupied him ; friends who loved 
 him, and whom he loved. Schiller had much to 
 enjoy, and most of it he owed to himself. 
 
 In his mode of life at Jena, simplicity and uni- 
 formity were the most conspicuous qualities, the 
 single excess which he admitted being that of zeal 
 in the pursuits of literature, the sin which all his 
 life had most easily beset him. His health had 
 suffered much, and principally, it was thought, 
 from the practice of composing by night : yet the 
 charms of this practice were still too great for his 
 self-denial ; and, except in severe fits of sickness, 
 he could not discontinue it. The highest, proud- 
 est pleasure of his mind was, that glow of intel- 
 lectual production, that f fine frenzy,' which makes
 
 HABITS AT JENA. 197 
 
 the poet, while it lasts, a new and nobler creature; 
 exalting: him into brighter regions, adorned by 
 > isions of magnificence and beauty, and delighting 
 all his faculties by the intense consciousness of 
 their excited power. To enjoy this pleasure in 
 perfection, the solitary stillness of night, diffusing 
 its solemn influence over thought as well as earth 
 and air, had at length in Schiller's case grown 
 indispensible. For this purpose, accordingly, he 
 Was accustomed, in the present, as in former pe- 
 riods, to invert the common order of things : by 
 day he read, refreshed himself with the aspect of 
 nature, conversed or corresponded with his friends, 
 but lie wrote and studied in the night. And as 
 his bodily feelings were too often those of languor 
 and exhaustion, he adopted, in impatience of such 
 mean impediments, the pernicious expedient of 
 Btimnlantl, which yield a momentary strength, 
 only to waste our remaining fund of it more speed- 
 ily and surely. 
 
 1 During summer, his place of study was in a 
 ' garden, which at length he purchased, in the 
 ' suburbs of Jena, not far from the Weselhofts' 
 ' house, where at that time was the office of the 
 
 II In i in chic Litteraturzeitung. Reckoning from 
 
 ' the market-place of Jena, it lies on the south-wesl 
 
 ' bolder of the town, between the Eneeleatter 
 
 ' and the Wiitlior, in a hollow defile, through 
 
 bich a part of the Letstrabach flows round the
 
 198 schiller's life. 
 
 city. On the top of the acclivity, from which 
 there is a beautiful prospect into the valley of 
 the Saal, and the fir mountains of the neighbour- 
 ing forest, Schiller built himself a small house, 
 with a single chamber.* It was his favourite 
 abode during hours of composition ; a great part 
 of the works he then wrote were written here. 
 In winter he likewise dwelt apart from the noise 
 of men ; in the Griesbachs' house, on the outside 
 of the city-trench. * * * On sitting down 
 to his desk at nights, he was wont to keep some 
 strong coffee, or wine-chocolate, but more fre- 
 quently a flask of old Rhenish, or Champaign, 
 standing by him, that he might from time to 
 time repair the exhaustion of nature. Often the 
 neighbours used to hear him earnestly declaim- 
 ing, in the silence of the night : and whoever had 
 an opportunity of watching him on such occa- 
 sions, a thing very easy to be done from the 
 heights lying opposite his little garden-house, on 
 the other side of the dell, might see him now 
 speaking aloud and walking swiftly to and fro in 
 his chamber, then suddenly throwing himself 
 down into his chair and writing ; and drinking 
 the while, sometimes more than once, from the 
 glass standing near him. In winter, he was to 
 be found at his desk till four, or even five o'clock 
 
 * i 
 
 The street leading from Schiller's dwelling-house to this, 
 as by some wags named the Xenkn-gasse ; a name not yet 
 utirely disused.'
 
 NOCTURNAL STUDY. 1!)<) 
 
 • in the morning; in gammer, till towards three* 
 
 • lie thru went to bed, from which he seldom rose 
 ' till nine or ten.'* 
 
 Had prudence been the dominant quality in 
 Schiller's character, this practice would undoubt- 
 edly have been abandoned, or rather never taken 
 up. It was an error so to waste his strength ; but 
 one of those which increase rather than diminish 
 our respect : originating, as it did, in generous 
 ardour for what was best and grandest, they must 
 be cold censurers that can condemn it harshly. 
 For ourselves, we but lament and honour this 
 excess of seal ; its effects were mournful, but its 
 origin was noble. Who can picture Schiller's 
 feelings in this solitude, without participating in 
 some faint reflexion of their grandeur! The toil- 
 worn but devoted soul, alone, under the silent 
 starry canopy of Night, offering up the troubled 
 moments of existence on the altar of Eternity ! 
 For here the splendour that gleamed across the 
 spirit of a mortal, transient as one of us, was 
 made' to be perpetual; these images and thoughts 
 were to pass into other ages and distant lands ; to 
 glow in human hearts, when the heart that con- 
 ceived them had long been mouldered into com- 
 mon dust. To the lovers of genius, this little 
 garden-house might have been a place to visit M 
 
 a chosen shrine S nor will they learn without regret 
 * Doering, S. 118-1
 
 200 SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 that the walls of it, yielding to the hand of time, 
 have already crumbled into ruin, and are now no 
 longer to be traced. The piece of ground they 
 stood on is itself hallowed with a glory that is 
 bright, pure, and abiding ; but the literary pilgrim 
 could not have surveyed, without peculiar emo- 
 tion, the simple chamber, in which Schiller wrote 
 the Reich der $ chat ten, the Spaziergang, the 
 Ideal, and the immortal scenes of Wallenstein. 
 
 The last named work had cost him many an 
 anxious, given many a pleasant, hour. For seven 
 years it had continued in a state of irregular, and 
 oft suspended progress ; sometimes i lying endless 
 and formless' before him ; sometimes on the point 
 of being given up entirely. The multitude of 
 ideas, which he wished to incorporate in the 
 structure of the piece, retarded him ; and the 
 difficulty of contenting his taste, respecting the 
 manner of effecting this, retarded him still more. 
 In Wallenstein, he wished to embody the more 
 enlarged notions which experience had given him 
 of men, especially which history had given hirn 
 of generals and statesmen ; and while putting such 
 characters in action, to represent whatever was, or 
 could be made, poetical, in the stormy period of 
 the Thirty Years' War. As he meditated on the 
 subject, it continued to expand ; in his fancy, it 
 assumed successively a thousand forms ; and after
 
 W VLLENSTEIN. 201 
 
 all due strictness of selection, such was still the 
 extent of materials remaining on his hands, that 
 he found it necessary to divide the play into three 
 parts, distinct in their arrangement, hut in truth 
 forming a continuous drama of eleven acts. In 
 this shape it was sent forth to the world, in 179 ( .); 
 a work of Labour and persevering anxiety ; hut of 
 anxiety and labour, as it then appeared, which had 
 not been bestowed in vain. Wallenstein is by 
 far the best performance he had yet produced ; it 
 merits a Inn- chapter of criticism by itself; and a 
 lew hurried pages are all that we can spend on it. 
 As a porch to the great edifice, stands Part 
 first, entitled Wallenstein s Camp, a piece in one 
 act. It paints, with much humour and graphical 
 felicity, the manners of that rude tumultuous host, 
 which Wallenstein presided over, and had made 
 the engine of his ambitious schemes. Schiller's 
 early experience of a military life seems now to 
 have stood him in good stead : his soldiers arc 
 delineated with the distinctness of actual observa- 
 tion ; in rugged sharpness of feature, they some- 
 times remind us of Smollett's seamen. Here arc 
 all the wild lawless spirits of Europe, assembled 
 within the circuit of a single trench : violent, tem- 
 pestnons, unstable i^ the life they lead. Uhmael- 
 
 ites, their hands against every man, and every 
 man's band against them ; the instruments ol 
 rapine; tarnished with almost every vice, and
 
 202 schiller's life. 
 
 knowing scarcely any virtue but those of reckless 
 bravery and uncalculating obedience to their leader, 
 their situation still presents some aspects which af- 
 fect or amuse us ; and these the poet has seized with 
 his accustomed skill. Much of the cruelty and 
 repulsive harshness of these soldiers, we are taught 
 to forget, in contemplating their forlorn houseless 
 wanderings, and the practical magnanimity, with 
 which even they contrive to wring from Fortune 
 a tolerable scantling of enjoyment. Their manner 
 of existence Wallenstein has, at an after period of 
 the action, rather movingly expressed : 
 Our life was but a battle and a march, 
 And, like the wind's blast, never-resting, homeless, 
 We storm'd across the war-convulsed Earth. 
 
 Still farther to soften the asperities of the scene, 
 the dialogue is cast into a rude Hudibrastic metre, 
 full of forced rhymes and strange double-endings, 
 with a rhythm ever changing, ever rough and 
 lively, which might almost be compared to the 
 hard, irregular, fluctuating sound of the regimental 
 drum. In this ludicrous doggrel, with phrases 
 and figures of a correspondent cast, homely, ridicu- 
 lous, graphic, these men of service paint their 
 hopes and doings. There are ranks and kinds 
 among them ; representatives of all the constituent 
 parts of the motley multitude, which followed 
 this prince of Condottieri. The solemn pedantry 
 of the ancient Wachtmeister is faithfully given ; 
 no less so are the jocund ferocity and heedless
 
 W.W.I. LNSTEIN. '203 
 
 daring of Ilolky's Jftgers, Of the iron courage and 
 Btero camp philosophy of Pappenlieim's Cniras- 
 
 re. Of the J&ger the sole principle is military 
 obedience; he does not reflect or calculate; his 
 business is to do whatever he is ordered, and to 
 enjoy whatever he can reach. ' Free wished 1 to 
 to live,' he says, 
 
 Free wished I to live, and easy and gay, 
 
 And si e something new on each new day ; 
 
 In the joys of the moment lustily sharing, 
 
 'Bont the past or the future not thinking or caring : 
 
 To the Kaiser, therefore, I sold my bacon, 
 
 And by him good charge of the whole is taken. 
 
 Ordet me on 'mid the whistling fiery shot, 
 
 Over the Rhine-stream rapid and roaring wide, 
 
 A third of the troop must go to pot, — • 
 
 Without loss of time, I mount and ride ; 
 
 But farther, I beg very much, do you see, 
 
 That in all things else you would leave me free. 
 
 The Pappenheimer is an older man, more sedate 
 and also more indomitable : he has wandered over 
 Europe, and gathered settled maxims of soldierly 
 principle and soldierly privilege : he is not without 
 a rationale of life; the various professions of men 
 have ; d i" review before him, but no coat that 
 
 he has Been has pleased him like his own ' steel 
 doublet, 1 cased in which, it is his wish, 
 
 I ooking down on the world's poor restless icramhle, 
 Carel w, through it, astride of his nag to ramble. 
 
 Y.i at times with this military stoicism, there is
 
 204 SCHILLER'S LIFE, 
 
 blended a dash of homely pathos ; he admits : 
 
 This sword of ours is no plough or spade, 
 You cannot delve or reap with the iron blade ; 
 For us there falls no seed, no corn-field grows, 
 Neither home nor kindred the soldier knows : 
 Wandering over the face of the earth, 
 Warming his hands at another's hearth : 
 From the pomp of towns he must onward roam ; 
 In the village-green with its cheerful game, 
 In the mirth of the vintage or harvest-home, 
 No part or lot can the soldier claim. 
 Tell me then, in the place of goods or pelf, 
 What has he unless to honour himself? 
 Leave not ev'n this his own, what wonder 
 The man should burn and kill and plunder ? 
 
 But the camp of Wallenstein is full of bustle as 
 well as speculation ; there are gamblers, peasants, 
 sutlers, soldiers, recruits, capuchin friars, moving 
 to and fro in restless pursuit of their several pur- 
 poses. The sermon of the Capuchin is an un- 
 parallelled composition ;* a medley of texts, puns, 
 nicknames and verbal logic, conglutinated by a 
 stupid judgment, and a fiery catholic zeal. It 
 seems to be delivered with great unction, and to 
 find fit audience in the camp : towards the conclu- 
 sion they rush upon him, and he narrowly escapes 
 killing or ducking, for having ventured to glance 
 a censure at the General. The soldiers themselves 
 
 * Said to be by Goethe ; the materials faithfully extracted 
 from a real sermon (by the Jesuist Santa Clara) of the period 
 it refers to.
 
 W W.LENSTEIN. '20,") 
 
 arc jeering, wrangling, jostling; discussing their 
 
 wishes and expectations ; and, at last, they 
 combine in a profound deliberation on the state 
 of their affairs. A vague exaggerated outline of 
 the coming events and personages is imaged to 
 us in their coarse conceptions. We dimly discover 
 the precarious position of Wallenstein ; the plots 
 which threaten him, which he is meditating ; 
 we trace the leading qualities of the principal 
 officers ; and form a high estimate of the potent 
 spirit which binds this fierce discordant mass to- 
 gether, and seems to be the object of universal 
 reverence where nothing else is revered. 
 
 In The Two Piccolom'nii, the next division of 
 the work, the generals, for whom we have thus 
 been prepared, appear in person on the scene, and 
 Bpread ont before us their plots and counterplots; 
 iVallenstein, through personal ambition and evil 
 counsel, slowly resolving to revolt; and Octavio 
 Piccolomini in secret undermining his influence 
 among the leaders, and preparing for him that pit 
 of ruin, into which, in the third Part, Jf'itllct)- 
 stciiis Death, we see him sink with all bis 
 fortunes. The military spirit which pervades the 
 former piece i-> here well sustained. The ruling 
 motives of these captains and colonels are a little 
 
 more refined, or more disguised, than those ol the 
 
 ( luirassiers and Jagers ; but they are the same in 
 
 mhttauce ; the love of present or future pleasure.
 
 206 schiller's life. 
 
 of action, reputation, money, power ; selfishness, 
 but selfishness distinguished by a superficial ex- 
 ternal propriety, and gilded over with the splen- 
 dour of military honour, of courage inflexible, yet 
 light, cool, and unassuming. These are not ima- 
 ginary heroes, but genuine hired men of war : we 
 do not love them ; yet there is a pomp about their 
 operations, which agreeably fills up the scene. 
 This din of war, this clash of tumultous conflicting 
 interests, is felt as a suitable accompaniment to the 
 affecting or commanding movements of the chief 
 characters whom it envelopes or obeys. 
 
 Of the individuals that figure in this world of 
 war, Wallenstein himself, the strong Atlas which 
 supports it all, is by far the most imposing. 
 Wallenstein is the model of a high-souled, great, 
 accomplished man, whose ruling passion is ambi- 
 tion. He is daring to the utmost pitch of man- 
 hood ; he is enthusiastic and vehement ; but the 
 fire of his soul burns hid beneath a deep stratum 
 of prudence, guiding itself by calculations which 
 extend to the extreme limits of his most minute 
 concerns. This prudence, sometimes almost bor- 
 dering on irresolution, forms the outward rind of 
 his character, and for a while is the only cjuality 
 which we discover in it. The immense influence 
 which his genius appears to exert on every indivi- 
 dual of his many followers, prepares us to expect 
 a great man ; and, when Wallenstein, after long
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 207 
 
 delay and much forewarning, is in fine presented 
 to OS, We at first experience something like ;i dis- 
 Bppointment. We find him, indeed, possessed of 
 a staid grandeur; yet involved in mystery; 
 Watering between two opinions ; and, as it seems, 
 With all his wisdom, blindly ercdnlous in matters 
 of the highesl import. It is only when events 
 have forced decision on him, that he rises in his 
 native might, that his giant spirit standi unfolded 
 in its strength before us ; 
 
 Nigbt most it be, efe Friedl&tfcTe star will bcom : 
 
 amid difficulties, darkness, and impending ruin, 
 at which the boldest of his followers grow pale, 
 he himself is calm, and first in this awful crisis, 
 feels the serenity and conscious strength of his 
 soid return. Wallenstein, in fact, though pre- 
 eminent in power, both external and internal, of 
 high intellect and commanding will, skilled in 
 war and statesmanship beyond the best in Europe, 
 tbe idol of sixty thousand fearless hearts, is not 
 yet removed above our sympathy. We are united 
 with him by feelings, which lie reckons weak, 
 though they belong to the most generous parts of 
 his nature. His indecision partly takes its rise 
 in tbe sensibilities of Ids heart, B8 well as in the 
 caution of his judgment : his belief iii astroloj 
 Which gives force and confirmation to this ten- 
 dency, originates in Borne soft kindly emotions; 
 
 and adds a new intere-t to tbe spirit oi tbe warrior ;
 
 208 schiller's life. 
 
 it humbles him, to whom the Earth is subject, be- 
 fore those mysterious Powers, which weigh the 
 destinies of man in their balance, in whose eyes 
 the greatest and the least of mortals scarcely 
 differ in littleness. Wallenstein's confidence in 
 the friendship of Octavio, his disinterested love 
 for Max Piccolomini, his paternal and brotherly 
 kindness, are feelings which cast an affecting 
 lustre over the harsher, more heroic qualities 
 wherewith they are combined. His treason to the 
 Emperor is a crime, for which, provoked and 
 tempted as he was, we do not greatly blame him ; 
 it is forgotten in our admiration of his nobleness, 
 or recollected only as a venial trespass. Schiller 
 has succeeded well with Wallenstein, where it 
 was not easy to succeed. The truth of history 
 has been but little violated ; yet we are compelled 
 to feel that Wallenstein, whose actions individu- 
 ally are trifling, unsuccessful, and unlawful, is a 
 strong, sublime, commanding character ; we look 
 at him with interest, our concern at his fate is 
 tinged with a shade of kindly pity. 
 
 In Octavio Piccolomini, his war-companion, 
 we can find less fault, yet we take less pleasure. 
 Octavio's qualities are chiefly negative : he rather 
 walks by the letter of the moral law, than by its 
 spirit ; his conduct is externally correct, but there 
 is no touch of generosity within. He is more of 
 the courtier than of the soldier : his weapon is
 
 WALLENSTEIN. L>0<) 
 
 intrigue, not force. Believing firmly that ' what- 
 ever is is best' he distrusts all new and extraordi- 
 nary things ; he has no faith in human nature, 
 and seems to be virtuous himself more by calcu- 
 lation than by impulse. We scarcely thank him 
 for his loyalty; serving his Emperor, he ruins and 
 betrays his friend : and, besides, though he does 
 not own it, personal ambition is among his leading 
 motives ; he wishes to be general and prince, and 
 Wallenstein is not only a traitor to his sovereign, 
 but a bar to this advancement. It is true, Octa- 
 vio does not personally tempt him towards his 
 destruction ; but neither does he warn him from 
 it ; and, perhaps, he knew that fresh temptation 
 was superfluous. Wallenstein did not deserve 
 BUch treatment, from a man whom he had trusted 
 as a brother, even though such confidence was 
 blind, and guided by visions and starry omens. 
 Octavio is a skilful, prudent, managing statesman ; 
 of the kind, praised loudly, if not sincerely, by 
 their friends, and detested deeply by their enemies. 
 His object may be lawful or even laudable; but 
 bis ways are (rooked; we dislike him but the 
 more, that we know not positively how to blame 
 
 him. 
 
 Octavio Piccolomini and Wallenstein are, as it 
 
 W( re, the two opposing forces by which this w bole 
 universe of military politics is kepi in motion. 
 The stniL'^lc of magnanimity anil Btrength com- 
 
 e
 
 210 schiller's life. 
 
 bined with treason, against canning and apparent 
 virtue, aided by law, gives rise to a series of great 
 actions, which are here vividly presented to our 
 view. We mingle in the clashing interests of these 
 men of war ; we see them at their gorgeous fes- 
 tivals, and stormy consultations, and participate 
 in the hopes or fears that agitate them. The sub- 
 ject had many capabilities ; and Schiller has turned 
 them all to profit. Our minds are kept alert by 
 a constant succession of animating scenes of spec- 
 tacle, dialogue, incident : the plot thickens and 
 darkens as we advance ; the interest deepens and 
 deepens to the very end. 
 
 But among the tumults of this busy multitude, 
 there are two forms of celestial beauty that soli- 
 cit our attention, and whose destiny, involved 
 with that of those around them, gives it an im- 
 portance in our eyes which it could not otherwise 
 have had. Max Piccolomini, Octavio's son, and 
 Thekla, the daughter of Wallenstein, diffuse an 
 etherial radiance over all this tragedy ; they call 
 forth the finest feelings of the heart, where other 
 feelings had already been aroused ; they superadd 
 to the stirring pomp of scenes, which had already 
 kindled our imaginations, the enthusiasm of bright 
 unworn humanity, i the bloom of young desire, 
 the purple light of love.' The history of Max 
 and Thekla is not a rare one in poetry ; but 
 Schiller has treated it with a skill which is ex- 
 tremely rare. Both of them are represented as
 
 v \LLENSTE1N 211 
 
 combining every excellence; their affection is in- 
 stantaneous and unbounded j yet the coolest, most 
 sceptical leader is forced to admire them, and 
 believe in them. 
 
 Or" Max we are taught from the first to form 
 the highest expectations : the common soldiers 
 and their captains speak of him as of a perfect 
 hero ; the Cuirassiers had at Pappcnheim's death, 
 OQ the field of Li'itzen, appointed him their colo- 
 nel by unanimous election. His appearance 
 answer* these ideas : Max is the very spirit of 
 honour, and integrity, and young ardour, personi- 
 fied. Though but passing into matufer age, he 
 has already seen and suffered much ; but the ex- 
 perience of the man has not yet deadened or 
 dulled the enthusiasm of the boy. He has lived, 
 Since his very childhood, constantly amid the 
 
 Dg of war, and with few ideas but those of 
 (amps; yet here, by a native instinct, his heart 
 has attracted to it all that was noble and graceful 
 in the trade of arms, rejecting all that was repul- 
 sive or ferocious. He loves Wallenstein, his 
 patron, hi* gallant and majestic leader: he loves 
 lii* present way of life, because it is one ol peril 
 and ( KCitement, because he knows no other, but 
 
 chiefly b< canse his yoong unsullied spirit can Bhed 
 
 a resplendent beauty over even the wastes! region 
 in the destiny of man. Yet though a soldier. 
 
 and tip bravest of soldiers, be is not this alone. 
 
 Id' feels thai there are fairer scenes in lite, which 
 
 p 2
 
 21 k 2 schiller's life. 
 
 these scenes of havoc and distress hut deform or 
 destroy ; his first acquaintance with the Princess 
 Thekla unveils to him another world, which till 
 then he had not dreamed of; a land of peace and 
 serene elysian felicity, the charms of which he 
 paints with simple and unrivalled eloquence. 
 Max is not more daring than affectionate ; he is 
 merciful and gentle, though his training has heen 
 under tents : modest and altogether unpretending, 
 though young and universally admired. We con- 
 ceive his aspect to he thoughtful hut fervid, 
 dauntless hut mild : he is the very poetry of war, 
 the essence of a youthful hero. We should have 
 loved him anywhere ; but here, amid barren scenes 
 of strife and danger, he is doubly dear to us. 
 
 His first appearance wins our favour ; his elo- 
 quence in sentiment, prepares us to expect no 
 common magnanimity in action. It is as follows: 
 Octavio and Questenberg are consulting on affairs 
 of state; Max enters : he is just returned from 
 convoying the Princess Thekla and her mother, 
 the daughter and the wife of Friedland, to the 
 camp at Pilsen. 
 
 ACT I. SCENE IV. 
 
 Max Piccolomini," Octavio Piccoeomini, Questenberg. 
 
 Max. 'Tis lie himself! My father, welcome, welcome ! 
 (//<? embraces htm : on turning round, he observes Questenberg 
 
 and draws coldly back.) 
 Busied, I perceive? I will not interrupt you.
 
 WALLEN8TEIN. 213 
 
 ( ). i . How dow, Max? View tliis strangei better! 
 An old friend deserves regard and kindness; 
 The Kaiser's messenger should be rever-'d! 
 
 Max. (Drily.) 
 Von Questenberg ! If it is good that brings you 
 I'd head-quarters, welcome! 
 
 QtJKST. {Has taken his hand) Draw not your hand 
 Away, Count Piccolomini! With no had. 
 No trivial purpose do I grasp it. 
 Octavio, Max, Piocolominil {Taking both their hands.) 
 Nanu a of benignant solemn import ! Nevi i 
 Can Austria's fortune fail, while two such stars, 
 To guide and guard her, gleam above our hosts. 
 
 M \\. You play it wrong, Sir Minister ! To praise, 
 I wot, you come not hither ; to blame and censure 
 \i. you come. Let niche no exception. 
 
 O.t. {To Max.) 
 
 I h ( omes from Court, where every one is not 
 So well contented with the Duke as here. 
 
 M w. And what new fault have thev to charge him with '. 
 
 Thai In- alone decides what he alone 
 
 Can understand? Well! Should it not lie sol 
 
 It should ami must! This man was never made 
 To ply and mould himself like wax to others : 
 
 I I '_ r <" s against his heart; he cannot do't, 
 I le has the spirit of a ruler, and 
 
 The station of a ruler. Well for us 
 
 It is so! Few can rule themselves, can use 
 
 Tin- wisdom wisds : happy for the whole 
 
 \\ lure there i> one among them that can he 
 
 \ centre and a hold for many thousands; 
 
 That can plant himself like a linn axis, 
 
 1 "i the whole to lean and move on' Such a one 
 
 I W all* nsb m : e other man mighl betti i 
 
 ( ..mi. none elsei ould icive the Arm)
 
 "214 schiller's life. 
 
 Quest. The Army ! truly ! 
 
 Max. And it is a pleasure 
 
 To behold how all awakes and strengthens 
 And revives around him; how men's faculties 
 Come forth ; their gifts grow plainer to themselves ! 
 From each he can elicit his endowment, 
 His peculiar power ; and does it wisely ; 
 Leaving each to be the man he found him, 
 Watching only that he always be so 
 I' th' proper place : and thus he makes the talents 
 Of all mankind his own. 
 
 Quest. No one denies him 
 
 Skill in men, and skill to use them. His fault is 
 That in the ruler he forgets the servant, 
 As if he had been born to be commander. 
 
 Max. And is he not? By birth he is invested 
 With all gifts for it, and with the farther gift 
 Of finding scope to use them ; of acquiring 
 For the ruler's faculties, the ruler's office. 
 
 Quest. So that how far the rest of us have rights 
 Or influence, if any, lies with Friedland ? 
 
 Max. He is no common person ; he requires 
 No common confidence : allow him space ; 
 The proper limit he himself will set. 
 
 Quest. The trial shews it ! 
 
 Max. Aye ! Thus it is with them! 
 
 Still so ! All frights them that has any depth ; 
 No where are they at ease but in the shallows. 
 
 Oct. (To Quest.) 
 Let him have his way, my friend ! The argument 
 Will not avail us. 
 
 Max. They invoke the spirit 
 
 I' th' hour of need, and shudder when he rises. 
 The great, the wonderful, must be accomplished 
 Like a thing of course ! — In war, in battle,
 
 w VLI.ENSTEIN. 215 
 
 A moment is decisive ; on the spot 
 
 Must be determia'd, in the instant done. 
 
 With ev'ry noble quality of nature, 
 
 The leader must be gifted : let him live, then, 
 
 In their noble sphere! The oracle within him, 
 
 The living spirit, not dead looks, old forms, 
 
 Not mould ring parchments must he take to coudm I 
 
 Oct. My Son! Despise not these old narrow forms! 
 Tin y are as barriers, precious walls, and fences, 
 Which oppressed mortals have erected 
 To mod'rate the quick will of their oppressors. 
 For, the uncontrouled has ever been destructive. 
 The way of order, though it lead thro' windings 
 Is the best. Right forward goes the lightning 
 And the cannon-ball : quick, by the nearest path, 
 They come, op'ning with murderous crash their way, 
 To blast and ruin! My Son! the quiet road 
 Which men frequent, where peace and blessings travel, 
 Follows the river's course, the valley's bendings ; 
 M'm|, i skirts the corn-field and the vine-yard, 
 K< \ ( ring property's appointed bounds ; 
 \n I leading safe tho' slower to the mark. 
 
 Qubst. hear your Father! Him who bat once 
 \ In 10 and a man ! 
 
 0< i. It is the child 
 
 O'th' camp that speaks in thee, my Son : a war 
 Of fifteen years has nursed and taught thee; peace 
 Thou hast never seen. My Son, there is a worth 
 Mid the worth of warriors : cv'n in war itself 
 The object is not war. The rapid deeds 
 Of power, th' astounding wonders of the lnonu j i r — 
 
 I' i . oof iIh ie ili.it minister to man 
 Au^ht useful, aught benignant or endurin 
 
 In haste the wandering soldier comes, and builds
 
 216 schiller's life. 
 
 With canvas his light town : here in a moment 
 
 Is a rushing concourse ; markets open ; 
 
 Roads and rivers crowd with merchandise 
 
 And people ; Traffic stirs his hundred arms. 
 
 Ere long, some morning, look, — and it is gone ! 
 
 The tents are struck, the host has marched away ; 
 
 Dead as a church-yard lies the trampled seed-field, 
 
 And wasted is the harvest of the year. 
 
 Max. O Father ! that the Kaiser would make peace ! 
 
 The bloody laurel I would gladly change 
 For the first violet Spring should offer us, 
 The tiny pledge that Earth again was young ! 
 
 Oct. How's this ? What is it that affects thee so ? 
 Max. Peace I have never seen ? Yes I have seen it ! 
 Ev'n now I come from it : my journey led me 
 Thro' lands as yet unvisited by war. 
 O Father ! life has charms, of which we know not : 
 We have but seen the barren coasts of life ; 
 Like some wild roving crew of lawless pirates, 
 That, crowded in their narrow noisome ship, 
 Upon the rude sea, with rude manners dwell; 
 Nought of the fair land knowing but the bays, 
 Where they may risk their hurried thievish landing. 
 Of the loveliness that, in its peaceful dales, 
 The land conceals — O Father ! — O ! of this, 
 In our wild voyage we have seen no glimpse. 
 
 Oct. {Gives increased attention.) 
 And did this journey shew thee much of it 1 
 
 Max. 'Twas the first holiday of my existence. 
 Tell me, where's the end of all this labour, 
 This grinding labour that has stolen my youth, 
 And left my heart uncheer'd and void, my spirit 
 Uncultivated as a wilderness ?
 
 \\ ALLENSTE1N. 217 
 
 This camp's unceasing din ; the neighing steeds ; 
 
 The trumpet's clang; the never-changing round 
 
 Of service, discipline, parade, give nothing 
 
 To the heart, the heart that longs for nourishment. 
 
 There is no soul in this insipid hus'ness ; 
 
 Life has another fate and other joys. 
 
 Oct. Much hast thou learn'd, my Son, in this short journey ! 
 
 M \x. O blessed bright day, when at last the soldier 
 Shall turn back to life, and be again a man ! 
 Thro' th' merry lines the colours are unfurl'd, 
 And homeward beats the thrilling soft peace march ; 
 All hats and helmets deck'd with leafy sprays, 
 The last spoil of the fields ! The city's gates 
 Fly ii]) ; now needs not the petard to burst them : 
 The walls are crowded with rejoicing people ; 
 Their shouts ring thro' the air: from every tower, 
 Blithe bells are pealing forth the merry vesper 
 Of that bloody day. From town and hamlet 
 Flow the jocund thousands ; with their hearty 
 Kind impetuosity our march impeding. 
 I [ere the mother, weeping that she sees this day, 
 I ibraccs her long lost son: a stranger 
 He revisits his old home ; with spreading boughs 
 The tree o'ershadowa him at his return, 
 Which waver'd as a twig when he departed; 
 And modest blushing comes a maid to meet him, 
 Whom on her nurses breast he left. O happy! 
 For whom some kindly door like this, for whom 
 Soft armi to clasp him shall be open'd! — 
 
 Quest. I With i motion.) O that 
 
 I Im timea you ipeak of should be bo far distant ! 
 Should no! be to-morrow, be to daj ' 
 
 Max, And who's to blame for it but you at Court I
 
 218 schiller's life. 
 
 I will deal plainly with you, Questenberg : 
 
 When I observ'd you here, a twinge of spleen 
 
 And bitterness went thro' me. It is you 
 
 That hinder peace ; yes, you. The General 
 
 Must force it, and you ever keep tormenting him, 
 
 Obstructing all his steps, abusing him ; 
 
 For what ? Because the good of Europe lies 
 
 Nearer his heart, than whether certain acres 
 
 More or less of dirty land be Austria's ! 
 
 You call him traitor, rebel, God knows what, 
 
 Because he spares the Saxons : as if that 
 
 Were not the only way to peace ; for how 
 
 If during war, war end not, can peace follow ? 
 
 Go to ! go to ! As I love goodness, so I hate 
 
 This paltry work of yours : and here I vow to God, 
 
 For him, this rebel, traitor Wallenstein, 
 
 To shed my blood, my heart's blood, drop by drop, 
 
 Ere I will see you triumph in his fall ! 
 
 The Princess Thekla is perhaps still dearer to 
 us. Thekla, just entering on life, with i timid steps/ 
 with the brilliant visions of a cloister yet undis- 
 turbed by the contradictions of reality, beholds 
 in Max, not merely her protector and escort to 
 her father's camp, but the living emblem of her 
 shapeless yet glowing dreams. She knows not 
 deception, she trusts and is trusted : their spirits 
 meet and mingle, and c clasp each other firmly and 
 for ever.' AH this is described by the poet with 
 a quiet inspiration, which finds its way into our 
 deepest sympathies. Such beautiful simplicity is
 
 V7ALLENSTBIN. 219 
 
 irresistible. ' How long,' the Countess Tersky asks. 
 
 How long is it since you disclosed your heart ( 
 M w. This morning first I risked a word of it. 
 Coin. Not til] this morning during twenty days.'' 
 M w. 1 was at the castle where you met us, 'twixt this 
 
 And Nepomuk, the last stage of the journey. 
 
 On a halcony she and I were standing, our looks 
 
 In silence turn'd upon the vacant landscape ; 
 
 And before us the dragoons were riding, 
 
 Whom the Duke had sent to he her escort. 
 
 I I. ivy on my heart lay thoughts of parting, 
 
 And with a falt'ring voice at last I said : 
 
 All this reminds me, Fraulein, that to-day 
 
 I must be parted from my happiness ; 
 
 In few hours you will find a father, 
 
 W ill see yourself encircled by new friends ; 
 
 And I shall be to you nought but a stranger, 
 
 Forgotten in the crowd — ' Speak with Aunt Terzky !' 
 
 Quick she interrupted mc ; I noticed 
 
 A qmVring in her voice ; a glowing blush 
 
 Spread o'er her cheeks ; slow rising from the ground, 
 
 Her eyes met mine: I could controul myself 
 
 No longer — 
 
 ( The Princi it appear* at the door, and stopi ; the CounU 
 but not Piccolomini obsi n ing her.') 
 — I clasp'd her wildly in my arms, 
 
 M\ lip v i ir joind with hers. Some footstep stirring 
 
 I' tli* next room parted us; 'twas you; what then 
 
 Took place, you know. 
 
 Co And can you be so modi si, 
 
 ( )r incuriou . a not once to a^k me 
 
 lor my si cret, in return? 
 M w. Sfoui « en i I 
 
 ' ^ • -. un I On coming in th( moment after,
 
 220 schiller's life. 
 
 How my niece receiv'd me, what i' th' instant 
 Of her first surprise she— 
 
 Max. Ha? 
 
 Tiiekla. (Enters hastily.} Spare yourself 
 
 The trouble, Aunt ! That he can learn from me. 
 
 * * * 
 
 We rejoice in the ardent, pure, and confiding 
 affection of these two angelic beings : but our feel- 
 ing is changed and made more poignant, when 
 we think that the inexorable hand of Des- 
 tiny is already lifted to smite their world with 
 blackness and desolation. Thekla has enjoyed 
 ' two little hours of heavenly beauty ;' but her 
 native gaiety gives place to serious anticipations 
 and alarms ; she feels that the camp of Wallen- 
 stein is not a place for hope to dwell in. The 
 instructions and explanations of her aunt disclose 
 the secret : she is not to love Max ; a higher, it 
 may be a royal, fate awaits her ; but she is to 
 tempt him from his duty, and make him lend his 
 influence to her father, whose daring projects she 
 now for the first time discovers. From that mo- 
 ment her hopes of happiness are vanished, never 
 more to return. Yet her own sorrows touch her 
 less than the ruin which she sees about to over- 
 whelm her tender and affectionate mother. For 
 herself, she waits with gloomy patience the stroke 
 that is to crush her. She is meek, and soft, and 
 maiden-like; but she is Friedland's daughter, 
 and does not shrink from what is unavoidable.
 
 \\ Al.LKNSTKIN. *2'2\ 
 
 rhere is often a rectitude and quickness, and 
 inflexibility of resolution about Thekla, which con- 
 trasts beautifully with her inexperience and timor- 
 ous acntenesa of feeling : on discovering her 
 father's treason, she herself decides that Max 
 4 shall obey his first impulse, 1 and forsake her. 
 
 There are lew scenes in poetry more sublimely 
 pathethic than this. We behold the sinking but 
 still fiery glory of Wallenstein, opposed to the 
 impetuous despair of Max Piccolomini, torn asun- 
 der by the claims of duty and of love; the calm 
 but broken-hearted Thekla, beside her broken- 
 hearted mother, and surrounded by the blank 
 laces of Wallenstein'a desponding followers. There 
 is a physical pomp corresponding to the moral 
 grandeur of the action: the successive revolt and 
 departure of the troops. fa heard without the walls 
 of the Palace; the trumpets of the Pappenhcimcrs 
 re-echo the wild feelings of their leader. What 
 follows too is equally affecting. Max being forced 
 away by his soldiers from the side of Thekla, rid< - 
 forth at their head in a state bordering on frenzy. 
 Next day come tidings of his fate, which no 
 heart is hard enough to hear unmoved. The effect 
 it produces npon Thekla displays all the hidden 
 
 energies oi her son!. The first accidental hear- 
 ing of the news had almost overwhelmed her; but 
 
 she summon-, op her Strength: she semis for the 
 
 in < ! . thai she may question him more
 
 222 schiller's life. 
 
 closely, and listens to his stern details with the 
 heroism of a Spartan virgin. 
 
 ACT IV, SCENE X. 
 
 Thekla ; the Swedish Captain; Fraulein Neubrunn. 
 
 Capt. (Approaches respectfully^) 
 Princess — I — must pray you to forgive me 
 My most rasli unthinking words : I could not — 
 
 Thekla. ( With noble dignity.) 
 You saw me in my grief; a sad chance made you 
 At once my confident, who were a stranger. 
 
 Capt. I fear the sight of me is hateful to you : 
 They were mournful tidings I brought hither. 
 
 Thekla. The blame was mine ! 'Twas I that forced them 
 from you ; 
 Your voice was but the voice of Destiny. 
 My terror interrupted your recital : 
 Finish it, I pray you. 
 
 Capt. 'Twill renew your grief! 
 
 Thekla. I am prepared for't, I will be prepared. 
 Proceed ! How went the action ? Let me hear. 
 
 Capt. At Neustadt, dreading no surprise, we lay 
 Slightly entrench'd; when towards night a cloud 
 Of dust rose from the forest, and our outposts 
 Rush'd into the camp, and cried : The foe was there ! 
 Scarce had we time to spring on horseback, when 
 The Pappenheimers, coming at full gallop, 
 Dash'd o'er the palisado, and next moment 
 These fierce troopers pass'd our camp-trench also. 
 But thoughtlessly their courage had impelled them 
 To advance without support ; their infantry 
 Was far behind ; only the Pappenheimers 
 Boldly following their bold leader — 
 
 (Thekla makes a movement. The Captain pauses for a 
 moment, till she beckons to him to proceed.) 
 On front and flank, with all our horse we charged them ;
 
 U ■ VLLENSTEIN. 2t3 
 
 And ere long fbrc'd them back upon the trcncli, 
 Where nnk'd in haste our infantry presented 
 
 An iron hedge of pikes to stop their passage. 
 Advance they could not, nor retreat a step, 
 Wedg'd in this narrow prison, death on all sides. 
 Then the Rheingraf call'd upon their leader, 
 In fair battle, fairly to surrender: 
 But Colonel Piccolomini — 
 
 [Tkehla, tottering^ catches by a seat.) 
 — We knew him 
 helmet plume, and his long flowing hair. 
 The rapid ride had loosen'd it : to th' trench 
 I [e points ; leaps first himself his gallant steed 
 Clean over it ; the troop plunge after him : 
 But— in a twinkle it was done! — his horse 
 Run thro' the body by a partisan, 
 EL us in its agony, and pitches far 
 I rider ; and fierce o'er him tramp the steeds 
 < > ill* rest, now heeding neither bit nor bridle. 
 
 (Thekla, who has lis!,,/.,/ to the last voids with increasing 
 mtsguisk, falls into a violent tremor; she is sinking 
 to the ground; FrauL in Neubrutm hastuis to fur, and 
 receives her in her arms.) 
 Nil. Lady, dearest mistress — 
 Capt. {Moved.) Let me begone. 
 
 Tiii.ki. \. "lis past; conclude it. 
 Cai-t. Seeing their leader fall, 
 
 A L'riiu inexorable desperation 
 
 /'d the troops: their own escape forgotten, 
 Like wild tigers tliey attack us ; their fury 
 
 Provokes our soldiers, and the battle ends not 
 
 'fill the last man of tin- l'appciiheimcrs falls. 
 
 Tiii.ki. \. | With a quivering oou 
 And where- Where is You have not told me all. 
 
 1 I ///- i a poiMi .) 
 
 fhi , morning we intend him. I Ic wa . borne
 
 224 schiller's life. 
 
 By twelve youths of the noblest families, 
 
 And all our host accompanied the bier. 
 
 A laurel deck'd his coffin ; and upon it 
 
 The Rheingraf laid his own victorious sword. 
 
 Nor were tears wanting to his fate : for many 
 
 Of us had known his noble-mindedness, 
 
 And gentleness of manners ; and all hearts 
 
 Were mov'd at his sad end. Fain would the Rheingraf 
 
 Have sav'd him ; but himself prevented it ; 
 
 'Tis said he wish'd to die. 
 
 Neu. (With emotion, to Thekla, who hides her face.) 
 
 O ! dearest mistress 
 Look up ! O why would you insist on this ? 
 
 Thekla, Where is his grave ? 
 
 Capt. I' th' chapel of a cloister 
 
 At Neustadt is he laid, till we receive 
 Directions from his father. 
 
 Thekla. What is its name ? 
 
 Capt. St. Catharine's. 
 
 Thekla. Is't far from this ? 
 
 Capt. Seven leagues, 
 
 Thekla. How goes the way ? 
 
 Capt. You come byTirschenreit 
 
 And Falkenberg, and thro' our farthest outposts. 
 
 Thekla. Who commands them ? 
 
 Capt. Colonel Seckendorf. 
 
 Thekla. (Stejis to a table, and takes a ring from her 
 jewel-box.) 
 You have seen me in my grief, and shewn me 
 A sympathising heart : accept a small 
 Memorial of this hour. (Giving him the ring.) 
 
 Now leave me. 
 
 Capt. (Overpowered.) Princess ! — 
 
 (Theckla silently makes him a sign to go, and turns from him. 
 He lingers, and attempts to speak; Neidminn repeats 
 the sign; he goes.)
 
 n ILLENSTEIN. 22^ 
 
 SCENE XI. 
 
 Nbubri w : 'I'm ki.a. 
 
 I'h t k i \. Fully on Neubrunn's neck.) 
 Sow, good Neubrunn, is the time to shew the love 
 Which thou hast always vow'd me. Prove thyself 
 A true friend and attendant ! Wo must go, 
 This very night 
 
 Nil. Go! This very night ! And whither ? 
 
 Tin ki \. Whither ? There is hut one place in the world, 
 The place where he lies buried : t<> his grave. 
 
 Nil. O ! what would you there, my dearest mistress? 
 
 Tjii.ki. \. What there? Unhappy girl! Thou would'st not ask 
 If thou hadst ever lov'd. There, there, is all 
 Thai yet remains of him ; that one small spot 
 Is all the earth to me. Do not detain me! 
 come! Prepare, think how we may escape. 
 
 Nil . Have you reflected on your father's anger ( 
 
 'I'm i. k i. \ . I dread no mortal's anger now. 
 
 Ni r. The mockery 
 
 ()t tlii' world, the wicked tongue of slander! 
 
 Tm.Ki. \. I go to seek one that is cold and low: 
 Am I then hast'ning to my lover's arms? 
 < » God ! I am hut hast'ning to his grave ! 
 
 Nil. And we alone? Two feeble, helpless women i 
 
 Tin. ki.a. We will arm ourselves, my hand shall guard thee. 
 
 Nil . In tin gloomy night-time? 
 
 lift k r. \. Night will hide us. 
 
 Nil. In tliis rude storm '. 
 
 Thekla. Was Ai« bed made of down, 
 
 When tli' horses' hoofs went o'er him \ 
 
 N i . () I leaven ' 
 
 And then tin- iii.niv Swedish posts! They will not 
 
 I. it us pans.
 
 226 schiller's life. 
 
 Thekla. Are they not men ? Misfortune 
 Passes free thro' all the earth. 
 
 Neu. So far ! So — 
 
 Thekla. Does the pilgrim count the miles, when journeying 
 To the distant shrine of grace ? 
 
 Neu. How shall we 
 
 Even get out of Eger ? 
 
 Thekla. Gold opens gates. 
 
 G(j< Do go ! 
 
 Neu. If they should recognize us ? 
 
 Thekla. In a fugitive despairing woman, 
 No one will look to meet with Friedland's daughter. 
 
 Neu. And where shall we get horses for our flight? 
 
 Thekla. My Equerry will find them. Go and call him, 
 
 Neu. Will he venture without his master's knowledge ? 
 
 Thekla. He will, I tell thee. Go! O linger not! 
 
 Neu. Ah ! And what will your mother do when you 
 Are vanish 'd ? 
 
 Thekla. (Recollecting this, $ gazing with a look of anguish.) 
 O my mother! 
 Neu. Your good mother ! 
 
 She has already had so much to suffer : 
 Must this last heaviest stroke too fall on her? 
 
 Thekla. I cannot help it. Go, I prithee, go! 
 
 Neu. Think well what you are doing. 
 
 Thekla. All is thought 
 
 That can be thought, already. 
 
 Neu. Were we there, 
 
 What would you do ? 
 
 Thekla. God will direct me, there. 
 
 Neu. Your heart is full of trouble : O my lady ! 
 This way leads not to peace. 
 
 Thekla. To that deep peace 
 
 Which he has found. O hasten ! Go ! No words ! 
 There is some force, I know not what to call it,
 
 WALLENSTEIN. 227 
 
 Pulls me irresistibly, and drags me 
 
 I >n to his grave : there I shall find some solace 
 
 Instantly ; the strangling band of sorrow 
 
 \\ ill be loosen'd ; tears will flow. O hasten! 
 
 Long time ago we might have been o' th' road. 
 
 No rest for me till I have fled these walls : 
 
 They fall upon me, some dark power repels me 
 
 Prom them — Ha ! What's this? The chambers filling 
 
 N\ ith pale gaunt shapes! No room is left for me ! 
 
 M mv ! more ! The crowding s|n etres press on me, 
 
 And push me forth from this accursed house. 
 
 X] i . You frighten me, my lady : I dare stay 
 No longer; let me summon Rosenberg. 
 
 SCENE XII. 
 
 Thekla. 
 It is his spirit calls me ! 'Tis the host 
 Of faithful souls that sacrificed themselves 
 In fiery vengeance for him. They upbraid me 
 Pot this loit'ring: they in death forsook him not, 
 Who in their life had led tin in ; their rude hearts 
 Wen i apable ofthia : and / can live ' 
 
 That la . land which tlu y laid 
 
 :i his bier was twined fi>i both of us ! 
 What is this life without the light of love? 
 I cast it from me, since its worth is gone. 
 
 . when we found and lov'd each other, life 
 a< thing ' Glittering lay before me 
 The golden morn : I had two hours of Heaven. 
 
 final itood t al the threshold of the scene 
 < )f l»iis_\ life ; with timid tap I cro i'd it : 
 How fair ii la\ in solemn made and sheen! 
 And thou betid* me, like lome angi I, posted 
 
 u 2
 
 228 schiller's life. 
 
 To lead me out of childhood's fairy land 
 
 On to life's glancing summit, hand in hand ! 
 
 My first thought was of joy no tongue can tell, 
 
 My first look on tluj spotless spirit fell. 
 
 {She sinks into a reverie, then with signs of horror proceeds.) 
 
 And Fate put forth its hand : inexorable, cold, 
 
 My friend it grasp'd and clutch'd with iron hold, 
 
 And — under th' hoofs of their wild horses hurl'd: 
 
 Such is the lot of loveliness i' th' world ! 
 
 Thekla has yet another pang to encounter ; the 
 parting with her mother: but she persists in her 
 determination, and goes forth to die beside her 
 lover's grave. The heart-rending emotions, which 
 this amiable creature has to undergo, are described 
 with an almost painful effect : the fate of Max and 
 Thekla might draw tears from the eyes of a stoic. 
 Less tender, but not less sublimely poetical, is 
 the fate of Wallenstein himself. We do not pity 
 Wallenstein ; even in ruin he seems too great for 
 pity. His daughter having vanished like a fair 
 vision from the scene, we look forward to Wallen- 
 stein's inevitable fate with little feeling save 
 expectant awe: 
 
 This kingly Wallen&tein, whene'er he falls, 
 Will drag a world to ruin down with him, 
 And as a ship that in the midst of ocean 
 Catches fire, and shiv'ring springs into the air, 
 And in a moment scatters between sea and sky 
 The crew it bore, so will he hurry to destruction 
 Ev'ry one whose fate was join'd with his. 
 
 Yet still there is some touch of pathos in his
 
 WALENST£IN. '2'2\) 
 
 gloomy fall ; .some visitings ol nature in the aus- 
 tere grandeur of his slowly-coming, but inevitable, 
 and annihilating doom. The last Bceneol his life 
 is among the finest which poetry can boast of. 
 Thekla's death is still unknown to him ; but he 
 thinks o\ Max and almost weeps. He looks at 
 the stars : dim shadows of superstitions dread pass 
 lit t nl 1 v across his spirit, as he views those foun- 
 tains of light, and compares their glorious and 
 enduring existence with the fleeting troubled lile 
 of man. The strong spirit of his sister is subdued 
 bv dark forebodings ; omens are against him ; his 
 astrologer entreats, one of the relenting conspira- 
 tors entreats, his own feelings call upon him, to 
 watch and beware. Hut he refuses to let the reso- 
 lution of his mind be overmastered ; he casts away 
 these warnings, and t;ocs cheerfully to sleep, with 
 dreams of hope about his pillow, unconscious that 
 the javelins are already grasped which will send 
 him to his long and dreamless sleep. The death 
 of Wallenstein does not cause tears ; but it is per- 
 haps the mo>t high-u rought scene of the play. A 
 shade of horror, of fateful dreariness, hangs over 
 it. and gives additional effect to the fire of t hat 
 brilliant poetry, which glows in every line <>l it. 
 Except in Macbeth or the conclusion ol Othello, 
 
 We know not where to match it. Schiller's genius 
 
 i~ ol a kind much narrower than Shakespeare s ; 
 
 but in his own peculiar province, the exciting ol
 
 230 schiller's life. 
 
 lofty, earnest, strong emotion, he admits of no 
 superior. Others are finer, more piercing, varied, 
 thrilling, in their influence : Schiller, in his finest 
 mood, is overwhelming. 
 
 This tragedy of Wallenstein, published at the 
 close of the eighteenth century, may safely be rated 
 as the greatest dramatic work of which that cen- 
 tury can boast. France never rose into the sphere 
 of Schiller, even in the days of her Corneille : 
 nor can our own country, since the times of Eli- 
 zabeth, name any dramatist to be compared with 
 him in general strength of mind, and feeling, and 
 acquired accomplishment. About the time of 
 IVallensteln s appearance, we of this gifted land 
 were shuddering at The Castle Spectre ! Ger- 
 many, indeed, boasts of Goethe : and on some rare 
 occasions, it must be owned that Goethe has 
 shown talents of a higher order than are here ma- 
 nifested ; but he has made no equally regular or 
 powerful exertion of them : Faust is but a careless 
 effusion compared with Wallenstein. The latter 
 is in truth a vast and magnificent work. What an 
 assemblage of images, ideas, emotions, disposed in 
 the most felicitous and impressive order ! We have 
 conquerors, statesmen, ambitious generals, ma- 
 rauding soldiers, heroes, and heroines, all acting 
 and feeling as they would in nature, all faithfully 
 depicted, yet all embellished by the spirit of
 
 removes ro wtniAK. 231 
 
 poetry, and all made conducive to heighten one 
 paramoanl impression, oar sympathy with the 
 three chief characters of* the piece. 1 * 
 
 Soon after the publication of Watlenstein, 
 
 Schiller once more changed his abode. The 
 ' mountain air of Jena' was conceived by his phy- 
 sicians to be prejudicial in disorders of the kings ; 
 and partly in consequence of this opinion, he de- 
 termined henceforth to spend his winters in 
 Weimar. Perhaps a weightier reason in favor of 
 this new arrangement was the opportunity it gave 
 him of being near the theatre ; a constant attend- 
 ance on which, now that lie had once more' become 
 a dramatist, seemed highly useful for his farther 
 improvement. The summer he, for several years, 
 continued still to spend in Jena; to which, espe- 
 cially its beautiful environs, he declared himself 
 particularly attached. His little garden-house was 
 
 * Wall* nsti'in has been translated into French by M. Ben- 
 jamin Cnnstant ; and the last two parts of it have been faith- 
 fully rendered into English by Mr. Coleridge. As to the 
 French version, we know nothing, save that it is an improved 
 one ; but that little is enough : Schiller, as a dramatist, im- 
 proved by M. Constant, is a spectacle we feel no wish to 
 vMtiH-ss. Mr. Coleridge's translation is also, .is .1 whole, 
 
 unknown to us: but judging from many large specimens, we 
 should pronounce it, excepting Sotheby'6 Oberon, to be the 
 best, indeed, 1 1 1 . - onlj suflerable, translation from tin German, 
 with which our literature has yet been enrich' d.
 
 232 schiller's life. 
 
 still his place of study during summer ; till at last 
 lie settled constantly at Weimar. Even then he 
 used frequently to visit Jena ; to which there was 
 a fresh attraction in later years, when Goethe 
 chose it for his residence, which, we understand, 
 it still occasionally is. With Goethe he often 
 staid for months. 
 
 This change of place produced little change in 
 Schiller's hahits or employment : he was now as 
 formerly in the pay of the Duke of Weimar ; now 
 as formerly engaged in dramatic composition as 
 the great object of his life. What the amount of 
 his pension was we know not : that the Prince 
 behaved to him in a princely manner we have 
 proof sufficient. Four years before,* when invited 
 to the university of Tubingen, Schiller had received 
 a promise, that, in case of sickness or any other 
 cause preventing the continuance of his literary 
 labour, his salary should be doubled. It was actu- 
 ally increased on occasion of the present removal; 
 and again still farther in 1804, some advanta- 
 geous oifers being made to him from Berlin. 
 Schiller seems to have been, what he might have 
 wished to be, neither poor nor rich : his simple 
 unostentatious ceconomy went on without embar- 
 rassment ; and this was all that he required. To 
 avoid pecuniary perplexities was constantly among 
 his aims : to amass wealth, never. We ought 
 also to add that, in 1802, bv the voluntary solid-
 
 I Ml'l.oVMKNT AT \\ I.I.MAK. 233 
 
 tation of the Duke, he was ennobled; a fact which 
 we mention, for his sake by whose kindness this 
 honour was procured ; not for the sake of Schil- 
 ler, who accepted it with gratitude, but had nei- 
 ther needed nor desired it. 
 
 The official services expected of him in return 
 for so much kindness seem to have been Blight, if 
 anv. Chiefly or altogether of his own accord, he 
 appears to have applied himself to a close inspec- 
 tion of the theatre, and to have shared withGoethe 
 the ta-«k of superintending its concerns. The 
 rehearsals of new pieces commonly took place at 
 the house of one of these friends ; they consulted 
 together on all such subjects, frankly and copi- 
 ously. Schiller was not slow to profit by the 
 means of improvement thus afforded him ; in the 
 mechanical details of his art he grew more skilful ; 
 by a constant observation of the Stage, he became 
 more acquainted with its capabilities and its laws. 
 It wis not long till, with his characteristic ex pan- 
 siveness of enterprise, he set about turning this 
 new knowledge to account. In conjunction with 
 Goethe, he remodelled his own Dan Carlos, and 
 lii> friend's Com// Egmont, altering both accord- 
 ing to hi> latest views oi scenic propriety. Ii was 
 farther intended to treat, in the same manner, the 
 
 whole scries ot leading German plays, and thus to 
 produce u natioual stock oi dramatic pieces, formed 
 accorditig to the best rules; a vast project, in
 
 234 schiller's life. 
 
 which some progress continued to be made, 
 though other labours often interrupted it. For 
 the present, Schiller was engaged with his Maria 
 Stuart : it appeared in 1800. 
 
 This tragedy will not detain us long. It is upon 
 a subject, the incidents of which are now getting 
 trite, and the moral of which has little that can 
 peculiarly recommend it. To exhibit the repent- 
 ance of a lovely but erring woman, to show us 
 how her soul may be restored to its primitive 
 nobleness, by sufferings, devotion, and death, is 
 the object of Maria Stuart. It is a tragedy of 
 sombre and mournful feelings ; with an air of 
 melancholy and obstruction pervading it ; a look- 
 ing backward on objects of remorse, around on 
 imprisonment, and forward on the grave. Its 
 object is undoubtedly attained. We are forced to 
 pardon and to love the heroine ; she is beautiful, 
 and miserable, and lofty minded ; and her crimes, 
 however dark, have been expiated by long years 
 of weeping and woe. Considering also that they 
 were the fruit not of calculation, but of passion 
 acting on a heart not dead, though blinded for a 
 time, to their enormity, they seem less hateful 
 than the cold, premeditated villany of which she 
 is the victim. Elizabeth is selfish, heartless, en- 
 vious ; she violates no law, but she has no virtue, 
 and she lives triumphant : her arid, artificial cha- 
 racter serves by contrast to heighten our sympathy
 
 MAR] <i ST1 IRT. 235 
 
 with her warm-hearted, forlorn, ill-fated rival. 
 These two Queens, particularly Mary, are well 
 delineated : their respective qualities are vividly 
 brought out, and the feelings they were meant to 
 exeite arise within us. There is also Mortimer, a 
 fierce, impetuous, impassioned lover ; driven on- 
 ward chiefly by the heat of his blood, but still 
 interesting by his vehemence and unbounded 
 daring. The dialogue, moreover, has many beau- 
 tics; then- are scenes which have merited pecu- 
 liar commendation. Of this kind is the interview 
 between the Queens ; and more especially the first 
 entrance of Mary, when, after long seclusion, she 
 is once more permitted to behold the cheerful sky. 
 In the joy of a momentary freedom, she forgets 
 that she is still a captive ; she addresses the clouds, 
 the ' sailors of the air,' who ' are not subjects of 
 Elizabeth,' and bids them carry tidings of her to 
 the hearts that love her in other lands. Without 
 doubt, in all that he intended, Schiller has sue- 
 de;! : Maria Stuart is a beautiful tragedy ; it 
 would have formed the glory of a meaner man, 
 Ian it cannot materially alter his. Compared with 
 Wallensteln its purpose is narrow, and its result 
 is common. We have no manners or true histo- 
 rical delineation. The figure of" the English 
 court is not given : and Elizabeth is depicted 
 
 more like one of the French Medici, than like 
 
 1. 111 own politic capricious, coquettish, imperious,
 
 23(i schiller's life. 
 
 yet on the whole true-hearted, ' good Queen Bess.' 
 Witli abundant proofs of genius, this tragedy 
 produces a comparatively small effect, especially 
 on English readers. We have, already wept 
 enough for Mary Stuart, hoth over prose and 
 verse ; and the persons likely to be deeply touched 
 with the moral or the interest of her story, as it 
 is recorded here, are rather a separate class than 
 men in general. Madame dc Stael, we observe, 
 is her principal admirer. 
 
 Next year, Schiller took possession of a pro- 
 vince more peculiarly his own : in 1801, appeared 
 his Maid of Orleans (Jung/ran von Orleans) ; 
 the first hint of which was suggested to him by a 
 series of documents, relating to the sentence of 
 Jeanne d'Arc, and its reversal, first published 
 about this time by De l'Averdy of the Academie 
 des Inscriptions. Schiller had been moved in 
 perusing them : this tragedy gave voice to his 
 feelings. 
 
 Considered as an object of poetry or history, 
 Jeanne d'Arc, the most singular personnage of 
 modern times, presents a character capable of 
 being viewed under a great variety of aspects, 
 and with a corresponding variety of emotions. 
 To the English of her own age, bigoted in their 
 creed, and baffled by her prowess, she appeared 
 inspired by the Devil, and was naturally burnt as 
 a sorceress. In this light, too, she is painted in
 
 Illl. MAID Ol ORLEANS. 237 
 
 the poems of Shakspeare. To Voltaire, again, 
 whose trade it was to war with every kind of 
 superstition, tliis child of lunatic ardour seemed 
 no better than a moon-struck zealot ; and the 
 people who followed her, and believed in her, 
 something worse than lunatics. The Ejlorv ol 
 what she had achieved was forgotten, when the 
 means of achieving it were recollected ; and the 
 M aid ol' Orleans was deemed the fit subject of a 
 poem, the wittiest and most profligate for which 
 literature has to blush. Our illustrious Don Juan 
 hides his head when contrasted with Voltaire's 
 Pucelle: Juan's biographer, with all his zeal, is 
 but an innocent, and a novice, by the side of this 
 arch-scorner. 
 
 Such a manner of considering the Maid of 
 Orleans is evidently not the right one. Feelings 
 -<> deep and earnest as her's can never be an ob- 
 ject of ridicule: whoever pursues a purpose ol' 
 any sort, with Buch fervid devoteilness, is entitled 
 to awaken emotions, at least of a serious kind, in 
 the hearts of others. Enthusiasm puts on a dif- 
 ferent shape in every different age: always in 
 some degree sublime, olten it is dangerous ; its 
 
 very essence i> a tendency to error and exaggera- 
 tion : yet it i> the Fundamental quality of strong 
 
 BOuls; the line nobility ol blood, in which all 
 greatness ol thought Or action has its rise. 
 Quicquid wit r<il<lc vult is ever tin* first and
 
 238 
 
 SCHILLER S LIFE. 
 
 surest test of mental capability. This peasant 
 girl, who felt within her such fiery vehemence of 
 resolution, that she could subdue the minds of 
 kings and captains to her will, and lead armies on 
 to battle, conquering, till her country was cleared 
 of its invaders, must evidently have possessed the 
 elements of a majestic character. Benevolent 
 feelings, sublime ideas, and above all an over- 
 powering will, are here indubitably marked. Nor 
 does the form, which her activity assumed, seem 
 less adapted for displaying these qualities, than 
 many other forms in which we praise them. The 
 gorgeous inspirations of the Catholic religion are 
 as real as the phantom of posthumous renown ; 
 the love of our native soil is as laudable as ambi- 
 tion, or the principle of military honour. Jeanne 
 d'Arc must have been a creature of shadowy, 
 yet far- glancing dreams, of unutterable feelings, 
 of ' thoughts that wandered through Eternity.' 
 Who can tell the trials and the triumphs, the splen- 
 dours and the terrors, of which her simple spirit 
 was the scene! ' Heartless, sneering, god-forget- 
 ting French !' as old Suwarrow called them, — they 
 are not worthy of this noble maiden. Hers were \ 
 errors, but errors which a generous soul alone 
 could have committed, and which, generous souls 
 would have done more than pardon. Her dark- 
 ness and delusions were of the understanding only ; 
 thcv but make the radiance of her heart more
 
 1 HE MAID Oi uKl.F \\s. 239 
 
 touching and apparent ; as clouds arc gilded by 
 the orient light into something more beautiful than 
 azure itself. 
 
 It is under tin's aspect that Schiller has content 
 plated the Maid of Orleans, and endeavoured to 
 make us contemplate her. For the latter purpose, 
 it appears thai more than one plan has occurred 
 to him. His first idea was, to represent Joanna, 
 and the times she lived in, as they actually were: 
 to exhibit the superstition, ferocity, and wretched- 
 ness of the period, in all their aggravation ; and 
 to show us this patriotic and religions enthusiast 
 beautifying the tempestuous scene by her presence; 
 swaying the fierce passions of her countrymen ; 
 directing their fury against the invaders of France ; 
 till a' length, forsaken and condemned to die, 
 she perished at the stake, retaining the same stead- 
 fist and lofty faith, which had ennobled and 
 redeemed the errors of her life, and was now to 
 glorify the ignominy of her death. This project, 
 after much deliberation, In; relinquished, as too 
 difficult. By a new mode of management, much 
 of tin- homeliness and rude horror, that defaced 
 and encumbered the reality, is thrown awav. The 
 Dauphin is not hi re a voluptuous weakling, noi- 
 is his court the centre of vice and crueltl and im- 
 becility : the misery oi' the time i. touched but 
 lightly, and the Maid of Arc herself i- invested 
 with a certain faint degree of mysterious dignity,
 
 240 schiller's life. 
 
 ultimately represented as being in truth a preter- 
 natural gift ; though whether preternatural, and 
 if so, whether sent from above or from below, 
 neither we nor she, except by faith, are absolutely 
 sure, till the conclusion. 
 
 The propriety of this arrangement is liable to 
 question ; indeed, it has been more than ques- 
 tioned. But external blemishes are lost in the 
 intrinsic grandeur of the piece : the spirit of 
 Joanna is presented to us with an exalting and 
 pathetic force sufficient to make us blind to far 
 greater improprieties. Joanna is a pure creation, 
 of half celestial origin, combining the mild 
 charms of female loveliness with the awful ma- 
 jesty of a prophetess, and a sacrifice doomed to 
 perish for her country. She resembled, in Schil- 
 ler's view, the Iphigenia of the Greeks ; and as 
 such, in some respects, he has treated her. 
 
 The woes and desolation of the land have 
 kindled in Joanna's keen and fervent heart a fire, 
 which the loneliness of her life, and her deep 
 feelings of religion, have nourished and fanned 
 into a holy flame. She sits in solitude with her 
 flocks, beside the mountain chapel of the Virgin, 
 under the ancient Druid oak, a wizard spot, the 
 haunt of evil spirits as well as of good ; and visions 
 are revealed to her such as human eyes behold 
 not. It seems the force of her own spirit, ex- 
 pressing its feelings in forms which re-act upon
 
 THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 241 
 
 itself. The strength of her impulses persuades 
 her that she is called from on high to deliver her 
 native France; the intensity of her own faith per- 
 mi ides others ; she goes forth on her mission ; all 
 bends to the fiery vehemence of her will ; she is 
 inspired hecause she thinks herself so. There is 
 something heautiful and moving in the aspect of 
 a noble enthusiasm, fostered in the secret soul, 
 amid obstructions and depressions, and at length 
 bursting forth with an overwhelming force to 
 accomplish its appointed end: the impediments 
 which long hid it are now become testimonies of 
 its power ; the very ignorance, and meanness, and 
 error, which still in part adhere to it, increase our 
 sympathy without diminishing our admiration ; it 
 seems the triumph, hardly contested, and not 
 wholly carried, hut still the triumph, of Mind 
 over Fate, of human volition over material ne- 
 cessity. 
 
 All this Schiller felt, and has presented with 
 even more than his usual skill. The secret mecha- 
 nism of Joanna's mind is concealed from us in a 
 dim religious obscurity; but its active movements 
 are distinct; we behold the lofty heroism of her 
 feelings; she afleets us to the very heart. The 
 quiet, devout, innocence of her early years, when 
 she lived silent, shrouded in herself, meek and 
 
 kindly though not communing with others, makes 
 
 u> love her; the celestial splendour which illumi- 
 nates her afterlife adds reverence to our love, 
 
 R
 
 242 schiller's life. 
 
 Her words and actions combine an overpowering 
 force with a calm unpretending dignity : we seem 
 to understand how they must have carried in their 
 favour the universal conviction. Joanna is the 
 most noble being in tragedy. We figure her with 
 her slender lovely form, her mild but spirit-speak- 
 ing countenance ; e beautiful and terrible' ; bear- 
 ing the banner of the Virgin before the hosts of 
 her country; travelling in the strength of a rapt 
 soul ; irresistible by faith ; f the lowly herdsmaid,' 
 greater in the grandeur of her simple spirit than the 
 kings and queens of this world. Yet her breast is 
 not entirely insensible to human feeling, nor her 
 faith never liable to waver. When that inexora- 
 ble vengeance, which had shut her ear against the 
 voice of mercy to the enemies of France, is sus- 
 pended at the sight of Lionel, and her heart expe- 
 riences the first touch of mortal affection, a baleful 
 cloud overspreads the serene of her mind ; it seems 
 as if Heaven had forsaken her, or from the beginning 
 permitted demons or earthly dreams to deceive her. 
 The agony of her spirit, involved in endless and 
 horrid labyrinths of doubt, is powerfully pour- 
 trayed. She has crowned the king at Rheims ; 
 and all is joy, and pomp, and jubilee, and almost 
 adoration of Joanna : but Joanna's thoughts are 
 not of joy. The sight of her poor but kind and 
 true-hearted sisters in the crowd, moves her to the 
 soul. Amid the tumult and magnificence of this 
 royal pageant, she sinks into a reverie ; her small
 
 THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 243 
 
 native dale of Arc, between its quiet hills, rises 
 on her mind's eye, with its straw-roofed huts, and 
 its clear green sward ; where the sun is even then 
 •hilling so brightly, and the sky is so blue, and all 
 is so calm, and motherlv, and safe. She sighs for 
 the peace of that sequestered home ; then shud- 
 ders to think that she shall never see it more. 
 Accused of witchcraft, by her own ascetic melan- 
 cholic father, she utters no word of denial to the 
 charge ; for her heart is dark, it is tarnished by 
 earthly love, she dare not raise her thoughts to 
 Heaven. Parted from her sisters ; cast out with 
 horror by the people she had lately saved from 
 despair, she wanders forth, desolate, forlorn, 
 not knowing whither. Yet she docs not sink un- 
 der this sore trial : as she surfers from without, 
 and is forsaken of men, her mind grows clear and 
 strong, her confidence returns. She is now more 
 firmly fixed in our admiration than before; ten- 
 derness is united to our other feelings ; and her 
 faith has been proved by sharp vicissitude. Her 
 countrymen recognize their error; Joanna closes 
 her career bv a glorious death ; wc take farewell 
 of her in a Bolemn mood of heroic pity. 
 
 Joanna is the animating principle of this tra- 
 gedy ; the Bcenei employed in developing her cha- 
 racter and feelings constitute its great charm. 1 et 
 there arc other personages in it, thai leave a dis- 
 tinct and phasing impression of themselves in our 
 memory. Agnes Sorel, the soft, languishing 
 
 ft 2
 
 244 schiller*s life. 
 
 generous mistress of the Dauphin, relieves and 
 heightens by comparison the sterner beauty of the 
 Maid. Dunois, the Bastard of Orleans, the lover 
 of Joanna, is a blunt, frank, sagacious soldier, 
 and well described. And Talbot, the grey vete- 
 ran, delineates his dark, unbelieving, indomitable 
 soul, by a few slight but expressive touches : he 
 sternly passes down, as he thinks, to the land of 
 utter nothingness, contemptuous even of the Fate 
 that destroys him, and — 
 
 On the soil of France he sleeps, as does 
 A hero on the shield he would not quit. 
 
 A iexv scattered extracts may in part exhibit 
 some of these inferior personages to our readers^ 
 though they can afford us no impression of the 
 Maid herself. Joanna's character," like every 
 finished piece of art, to be judged of must be 
 seen in all its bearings. It is not in parts, but as 
 a whole, that the delineation moves us : by light 
 and manifold touches, it works upon our hearts, 
 till they melt before it into that mild rapture, free 
 alike from the violence and the impurities of Na- 
 ture, what it is the highest triumph of the Artist 
 to communicate. 
 
 ACT III, SCENE IV. 
 
 The Dauphin Charles, with his suite : afterwards Joanna. 
 (She is in armour, but without Iter helmet ; and wears a gar- 
 land in her hair.) 
 
 * * * 
 
 Dunois. (Steps forward.) 
 My heart made choice of her while she way lowly.
 
 THE NfAID OF ORLEANS. *24-> 
 
 This new honour raises not her merit 
 
 ( h my love. Here in the presence of my Kin", 
 
 Ami of this holy Archbishop, I oiler her 
 
 My hand and princely rank, if she regard me 
 
 As worthy to be her's. 
 
 Charles. Resistless Maid, 
 
 Thou addest miracle to miracle ! 
 
 Henceforward I believe that nothing is 
 
 Impossible to thee. Thou hast subdued 
 
 This haughty spirit, that till now delied 
 
 Tlf omnipotence of Love. 
 
 La Hiki:. {Steps forward.) If I mistake not 
 
 Joanna's form of mind, what most adorns her 
 
 Is hex modest heart. The rev'rence of the great 
 She merits ; but her thoughts will never rise 
 So high. She strives not after giddy splendours : 
 The true affection of a faithful soul 
 Contents her, and the still, sequester'd lot, 
 
 Which with this hand I offer her. 
 
 Charles. Thou too 
 
 La Hire ? Two valiant suitors, equal in 
 Heroic virtue and renown of war ! 
 — Wilt thou that hast united my dominions, 
 Reconcil'd my enemies, part my firmest friends I 
 Both may not gain thee, each deserving thee : 
 Speak, then! Thy heart must here be arbiter. 
 
 \ SoBEL. (Approaches.) 
 
 Joanna is einbarrass'd and surpris'd ; 
 I see the bashful crimson tinge her cheeks. 
 Let bet have time to ask her heart, to open 
 Her clos'd bosom in trustful confidence 
 ^ itli me. The moment is arriv'd, when I 
 In sisterly communion also may 
 Approach the rigorous Maid, and offer her
 
 246 schiller's life. 
 
 The solace of my faithful, silent breast. 
 First let us women sit in secret judgment 
 On this matter that concerns us ; then expect 
 What we shall have decided. 
 
 Charles. {About to go.) Be it so then! 
 
 Joanna. Not so, Sire ! 'Twas not the embarrassment 
 Of virgin shame that dy'd my cheeks in crimson : 
 To this lady I have nothing to confide, 
 Which I need blush to speak of before men- 
 Much am I honour'd by the preference 
 Of these two noble Knights ; but it was notj 
 To chace vain worldly grandeurs, that I left 
 The shepherd moors ; not in my hair to bind 
 The bridal garland, that I girt myself 
 With warlike armour. To far other work 
 Am I appointed : and the spotless virgin 
 Alone can do it. I am the soldier 
 Of the God of Battles ; to no living man 
 Can I be wife. 
 
 Archbishop. As kindly help to man 
 Was woman born ; and in obeying Nature, 
 She best obeys and reverences Heaven. 
 When the command of God who summon'd thee 
 To battle is fulfill'd, thou wilt lay down 
 Thy weapons, and return to that soft sex, 
 Which thou deny'st, which is not call'd to do 
 The bloody work of war. 
 
 Joanna. Father, as yet 
 
 I know not how the Spirit will direct me : 
 When the needful time comes round, His voice 
 Will not be silent, and I will obey it. 
 For the present, I am bid complete the task 
 He gave me. My sov'reign's brow is yet uncrown'd, 
 His head unwetted by the holy oil, 
 He is not yet a King.
 
 TIIK MAID OF ORLEANS. '247 
 
 Charlks. We are journeying 
 
 Towards Khcims. 
 
 Jo\nn \. Let us not linger by the way. 
 
 Our foes are busy round us, shutting up 
 Thy passage : I will lead thee through them all. • 
 
 Dlkois. And when the work shall be fulliU'd, when we 
 Have march'd in triumph into Uheims, 
 Will not Joanna then — 
 
 Joanna. If God see meet 
 
 That I return with life and vict'ry from 
 These broils, my task is ended, and the herdsmaid 
 Has nought more to do in her King's palace. 
 
 Charles. (Taking her hand.) 
 It is the Spirit's voice impels thee now, 
 And Love is mute in thy inspired bosom. 
 Believe me, it will not be always mute ! 
 Our swords will rest ; and Victory will lead 
 Meek Peace by th' hand, and Joy will come again 
 To ev'ry breast, and softer feelings waken, 
 In every heart : in thy heart also waken; 
 And tears of sweetest longing wilt thou weep, 
 Such as thine eyes have never shed. This heart, 
 S BlTd by Ileav'n, will softly open 
 To some terrestial heart. Thou hast began 
 By blessing thousands ; but thou wilt conclude 
 By blessing one. 
 
 Joanna. Dauphin ! Art thou weary 
 
 Of the heavenly vision, that thou seckest 
 To deface its chosen vessel, wouldst degrade 
 To common dust the Maid whom God has sent thee I 
 
 Ye Mind of heart I <> ye oi little faith! 
 
 1 1 wen's brightness is about you : from your eyi 
 
 It rails ii ^ wonders ; and in DM 
 
 Nought but B woman. Dare a woman, think y'\ 
 
 Clothe herself in iron harm is, and mingle
 
 348 schiller's life. 
 
 In the wreck of battle ? Woe, woe to me, 
 
 If bearing in my hand th' avenging sword 
 
 Of God, I bore in my vain heart a love 
 
 To earthly man ! Woe to me ! It were better 
 
 That I^iever had been born ! No more, 
 
 No more of this ! Unless ye would awake the wrath 
 
 Of Him that dwells in me ! The eye of man 
 
 Desiring me is an abomination 
 
 And a horror. 
 
 Charles. Cease ! 'Tis vain to urge her. 
 
 Joanna. Bid the trumpets sound ! This loit'ring grieves 
 And harasses me. Something chaces me 
 From sloth, and drives me forth to do my mission, 
 Stern beck'ning me to my appointed doom. 
 
 SCENE V. 
 
 A Knight (In haste.) 
 
 Charles. How now ? 
 
 Knight. The enemy has pass'd the Marne; 
 
 Is forming as for battle. 
 
 Joanna (As if inspired) Arms and battle! 
 My soul has cast away its bonds ! To arms ! 
 Prepare yourselves, while I prepare the rest ! (She hastens out.) 
 
 Jft -fi JfC 
 
 (Trumpets sound with a piercing tone, and while the scene is 
 changing, pass into a wild tumultuous sound of battle.) 
 
 SCENE VI. 
 
 (The scene changes to an open space encircled with trees. 
 
 During the music, soldiers are seen hastily re treating across 
 
 the background.) 
 Talbot, leaning upon Fastolf, and accompanied by Soldiers. 
 
 Soon after, Lionel. 
 
 Talbot. Here set me down beneath this tree, and you 
 Betake yourselves again to battle : quick ! 
 I need no help to die.
 
 THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 249 
 
 Fastolv. day of woe ! {Lionel enters, | 
 
 Look what a sight awaits yon, Lionel I 
 Our General expiring of bis wounds ! 
 
 Lionel. Now God forbid ! Rise, noble Talbot ! Tins 
 Is not a time for you to faint and sink. 
 Yield not to Death ; force faltering Nature 
 By your strength of soul, that life depart not ! 
 
 Talbot. In vain ! The day of Destiny is come 
 That prostrates with the dust our power in France. 
 In vain, in the fierce clash of desp'rate battle, 
 Have 1 ri>k d our utmost to withstand it : 
 The l)i >lt has smote and crush'd me, and I lie 
 To rise no more for ever. Rheims is lost ; 
 Make haste to rescue Paris. 
 
 Lionel. Paris has surrenderd 
 
 To the Dauphin: an express is just arriv'd 
 With tidings. 
 
 Talbot. {Tears away his bandages) 
 
 Then flow out ye life-streams ; 
 I am grown to loathe this Sun. 
 
 Lionel. They want me! 
 
 Fastolf, bear him to a place of safety : 
 We can hold this post few instants longer, 
 The coward knaves arc giving way on all sides, 
 Irresistible the Witch is pressing on. 
 
 Talbot. Madness thou conquerest, and I must yield : 
 A • Stupidity the gods themselves are powerless. 
 
 Lofty Reason, radiant Daughter of the head of God, 
 Wise Foundress of th< Bystemofthe Universe, 
 ConduCtTl IS of the stars, who art thou, then, 
 
 If tii <1 to tli' tail o' th' wild Imrsc Superstition, 
 Thou must plunge, eyes open, vainly shouting, 
 She. r down with that drunk Beast to the Abyss f 
 Cursed who sets his life upon the great 
 And dignified; and with forecasting spirit
 
 250 schiller's life. 
 
 Forms wise projects ! The Fool-king holds the world. 
 
 Lionel. Oh ! Death is near you ! Think of your Creator ! 
 
 Talbot. Had we as brave men been defeated 
 By brave men, we might have consoled ourselves 
 With common thoughts of Fortune's fickleness : 
 But that a sorry farce should be our ruin ! — 
 Did our earnest toilsome life, then, merit 
 No more serious issue ? 
 
 Lionel. (Grasps his hand.) Talbot, farewell ! 
 The meed of bitter tears I'll duly pay you, 
 When the fight is done, should I outlive it. 
 Now, Fate calls me to the field, where yet 
 She wav'ring sits, and shakes her doubtful urn. 
 Farewell ! we meet beyond the unseen shore. 
 Brief parting for long friendship ! God be with you ! [Exit. 
 
 Talbot. Soon it is over, and to th' Earth I render, 
 To the everlasting Sun, the atoms, 
 Which for pain and pleasure join'd to form me ; 
 And of the mighty Talbot, whose renown 
 Once fill'd the world, remains nought but a handful 
 Of light dust. Thus man comes to his end ; 
 And th' only conquest that we carry with us 
 From the fight of life, is a conviction 
 Of its nothingness, and deep contempt for all 
 That seem'd exalted and desireable. 
 
 SCENE VII. 
 
 Enter Charles ; Burgundy ; Dunois ; Du Chatel ; and 
 
 Soldiers. 
 
 Burgun. The trench is storm'd. 
 
 Dunois. The victory is our's. 
 
 Charles (Observing Talbot.) 
 Ha ! who is this that to the light of day 
 Is bidding his constrained and sad farewell 1 
 His bearing speaks no common man : go, haste,
 
 THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 251 
 
 \asaai him, if assistance yet avail. 
 
 s /(litis from the Dauphin's suit step forward.) 
 
 1 v-tolf. Back ! Keep away ! Approach not the Departing, 
 
 Whom in lite ye never wish'd too near you. 
 
 Busoi n. What do I see? Lord Talbot in his blood ! 
 
 [He goes towards him. Talbot gazes fixedly at him, and dies.) 
 
 Fastolf. Oft; Burgundy ! With th' aspect of a traitor, 
 
 Poison not the last look of a hero. 
 
 Duhois. Dreaded Talbot I Stern, unconquerable ! 
 
 Dost thou content thee with a space so narrow, 
 
 And the wide domains of Trance once could not 
 
 Staj the striving of thy giant spirit? 
 
 — Now for the fust time, Sire, I call you King : 
 
 The crown bat totter'd on your head, so long 
 
 As in this body dwelt a soul. 
 
 Charles. {After looking at the dead in silence.) 
 
 It was 
 
 A higher hand that conquered him, not we. 
 
 Here on the soil of France he sleeps, as does 
 
 A hero on the shield he would not quit. 
 
 Bring him away. 
 
 (Soldiers lift the corpse, and carry it off.) 
 
 And peace be with his dust ! 
 
 A fair memorial .shall arise to him 
 
 1' th' midst of France : here where the hero's course 
 
 And life were finished, let his bones repose. 
 
 Thus far no other foe has e'er advane'd. 
 
 His epitaph shall be the place lie lell on. 
 
 * * * 
 
 SCENE IX. 
 
 Another cm pi i/ \ tin fa Id of battle. In the distance, are 
 
 tlo lowers "/ ' Ilhtims illuminated by the sun. 
 
 I K- m .11;. ca ed in black armour, with hit vizor shut, 
 
 JOAMA follows him to the front of thi f( < if, where 
 
 he stop and await I" r.) 
 Joan:- v. Dooeiv< rl Now I sec thy craft. Thou hail
 
 252 schiller's life. 
 
 By seeming flight, enticed me from the battle, 
 And warded death and destiny from off the head 
 Of many a Briton. Now they reach thy own. 
 
 Knight. Why dost thou follow me, and track my steps 
 With murd'rous fury ? I am not appointed 
 To die by thee. 
 
 Joanna. Deep in my lowest soul, 
 
 I hate thee as the Night, which is thy colour. 
 To sweep thee from the face of Earth, I feel 
 Some irresistible desire impelling me. 
 Who art thou ? Lift thy vizor ! Had not I 
 Seen Talbot fall, I should have named thee Talbot. 
 
 Knight. Speaks not the prophecying Spirit in thee? 
 
 Joanna. It tells me loudly, in my inmost bosom, 
 That Misfortune is at hand. 
 
 Knight. Joanna d'Arc ! 
 
 Up to the gates at Rheims hast thou advanced, 
 Led on by victory. Let the renown 
 Already gain'd suffice thee ! As a slave 
 Has Fortune serv'd thee : emancipate her, 
 Ere in wrath she free herself; fidelity 
 She hates ; no one obeys she to the end. 
 
 Joanna. How say'st thou, in the middle of my course, 
 That I should pause, and leave my work unfinish'd ? 
 I will conclude it and fulfil my vow. 
 
 Knight. Nothing can withstand thee ; thou art most strong ; 
 In every battle thou prevailest. But go 
 Into no other battle. Hear my warning ! 
 
 Joanna. This sword I quit not, till the English yield. 
 
 Knight. Look ! Yonder 1 rise the towers of Rheims, the goal 
 And purpose of thy march ; thou seest the dome 
 Of the cathedral glittering in the sun : 
 There wouldst thou enter in triumphal pomp, 
 To crown thy sovereign and fulfil thy vow.
 
 THE MAID OF ORLEANS. 2~)?> 
 
 Enter not there. Turn homewards. Hear my warning ! 
 
 Joanna. Who art thou, false, double-tongued betrayer, 
 That woiddst frighten and perplex me I Dar'st thou 
 Utter King oracles to me I 
 (The Black Knight attempts to go ; she stcjis in his way.) 
 
 No! 
 Thou shall answer me, or perish by me! 
 
 (She lifts her arm to strike him.) 
 
 Kniciit. ( Touches her with his hand : she stands imuioveahle.) 
 Kill what is mortal ! 
 
 (Darkness, lightning and thunder. The Knight sinks.) 
 
 Joan. 
 
 (Stands at first amazed; but soon recovers herself.) 
 It was nothing earthly. 
 Some delusive form of Hell, some spirit 
 Of Falsehood, sent from th' everlasting Pool, 
 To tempt and terrify my fervent soul ! 
 Bearing the sword of God, what do I fear \ 
 \ ictorioiii will I end my fated course ; 
 Tho' Hell itself with all its Bends assail me, 
 My heart and faith shall never Glint or fail me. I She is going.) 
 
 SCENE X. 
 
 Lionel, Joanna. 
 Lionel. Accursed Sorceress, prepare for battle: 
 Not both of us shall leave the place alive. 
 Thou hasl (I. .t roved the chosen of my host; 
 Brave Talbot has breath'd out his mighty spirit 
 In my bosom. I will avenge the Dead, 
 Or ihare his fate. Ami would-t thou know the man 
 Who !>riii'_ r > thee -dory, let him die or conquer, 
 1 an i Lionel, tin- last lun hror 
 
 Of our chiefl ; and still un\;nn|uish'd is tlii^ arm. 
 
 ( Hi ru h. toward* her; after << short contest, sh,- strikes the 
 
 ■ J 1 1 fill hi III
 
 254 schillers life. 
 
 Faithless fortune ! {He struggles with her.) 
 
 Joanna. {Seizes him by the plume from behind, and tears 
 his helmet violently down, so that his face is exposed : at 
 the same time she lifts her sword with the right hand.) 
 Suffer what thou soughtest ! 
 The Virgin sacrifices thee thro' me ! 
 
 {At this moment she looks in his face ; his aspect touches her ; 
 she stands immoveable, and then slowly drops her arm.) 
 Lionel. Why linger 'st thou, and stayest the stroke of death ? 
 My honour thou hast taken, take my life : 
 Tis in thy hands to take it ; I want not mercy. 
 
 {She gives him a sign with her hand to depart.) 
 Fly from thee ? Owe thee my life ? Die rather ! 
 
 Joanna. {Her face turned away.) 
 I will not remember that thou owedst 
 Thy life to me. 
 
 Lionel. I hate thee and thy gift. 
 
 I want not mercy. Kill thy enemy, 
 Who meant to kill thee, who abhors thee ! 
 Joanna. Kill me, and fly ! 
 Lionel. Ha ! How is this ? 
 
 Joanna. (Hides her face.) Woe's me ! 
 
 Lionel. {Approaches her.) 
 Thou killest ev'ry Briton, I have heard, 
 Whom thou subdu'st in battle : why spare me ? 
 
 Joanna. {Lifts her sword with a rapid movement against 
 him, but quickly lets it sink again, rvhen she observes 
 his face.) 
 O Holy Virgin ! 
 
 Lionel. Wherefore namest thou 
 
 The Virgin ? She knows nothing of thee ; Heaven 
 Has nought to say to thee. 
 
 Joanna. {In violent anguish.) What have I done! 
 My vow, my vow is broke ! 
 
 (JVrings her hands in despair.)
 
 THE MAID OP ORLEANS. '2,~)~> 
 
 Lionel. (Look* at her with sympathy, ami io/iirs nearer.) 
 
 Unhappy girl ! 
 I pitv thee ; thou touchest me ; thou shewed'st 
 M. nv to me alone. My hate is going : 
 I am constraint to feel for thee. Who art thou? 
 Whence eomest thou ? 
 
 Joanna. Away! Begone! 
 
 Lionel. Thy youth, 
 
 Thy beauty, melt and sadden me ; thy look 
 Goes to my heart : 1 could wish much to save thee; 
 Tell me how I may! Come, come with me ! Forsake 
 This horrid business; cast away those arms ! 
 
 Toah. I no more deserve to hear them ! 
 
 Lionel. Cast them 
 
 Away, then, and come with me ! 
 
 Joanna. (With horror.) Come with thee! 
 
 Lionel. Thoumay'stbe sav'd : come with me ! I will save 
 thee ; 
 But delay not. A strange sorrow for thee 
 Seizes me, and an unspeakable desire 
 To save thee. [Setae* her arm.) 
 
 Joans \. Ha! Dunois ! 'Tis they! 
 
 If they should find thee ! — 
 
 Lionel. Fear not ; I will guard thee. 
 
 Joannv. I should die, were they to kill thee. 
 
 Lionel. Am I 
 
 Dear to thee ? 
 
 Jow. \. Saints of Heaven! 
 
 Lionel. Shall I ever 
 
 See thee, hear of thee, again I 
 
 Jiiws \. Never I Never ! 
 
 I.iom.i . This sword lor pledge that I will see thee ! 
 
 (//r wresU the word from her.) 
 Joanna. Madman !
 
 25G schiller's life. 
 
 Thoudar'st? 
 
 Lionel. I }<ield to force ; again I'll see thee. [Exit. 
 
 The introduction of supernatural agency in this 
 play, and the final aberration from the truth of 
 history, have been considerably censured by the 
 German critics : Schlegel, we recollect, calls 
 Joanna's end a i rosy death.' In this dramatur- 
 gic discussion, the mere reader need take no great 
 interest. To require our belief in apparitions and 
 miracles, things which we cannot now believe, 
 no doubt for a moment disturbs our submission 
 to the poet's illusions : but the miracles in this 
 story are rare and transient, and of small account 
 in the general result : they give our reason little 
 trouble, and perhaps contribute to exalt the he- 
 roine in our imaginations. It is -still the mere 
 human grandeur of Joanna's spirit that we love 
 and reverence ; the lofty devotedness with which 
 she is transported, the generous benevolence, the 
 irresistible determination. The heavenly mandate 
 is but the means of unfolding these qualities, and 
 furnishing them with a proper passport to the 
 minds of her age. To have produced, without 
 the aid of fictions like these, a Joanna so beauti- 
 fied and exalted, would undoubtedly have yielded 
 greater satisfaction : but it may be questioned 
 whether the difficulty Avould not have increased in 
 a still higher ratio. The sentiments, the charac- 
 ters, are not only accurate, but exquisitely beautiful; 
 the incidents, expecting the very last, are possible,
 
 THE MAID OF ORLEANS. °2~>7 
 
 or even probable : what remains is but a very 
 Blender evil. 
 
 After all objections have been urged, and this 
 among others has certainly a little weight, the Maid 
 of Orleans will remain one of the very finest of 
 modern dramas. Perhaps, among all Schiller's 
 plavs, it i> the one which evinces most of that quali- 
 tv denominated genius in the strictest meaning of 
 the word. Ifa/lenstein embodies more thought, 
 more knowledge, more conception ; but it is only in 
 parts illuminated by that ethereal brightness, which 
 shines over every part of this. The spirit of the 
 romantic ages is here imaged forth; but the whole 
 is exalted, embellished, ennobled. It is what the 
 critics call idealized. The heart must be cold, 
 the imagination dull, which the Jungfrau von 
 Or leans will not move. 
 
 In Germany this case did not occur: the recep- 
 tion of the work was beyond example flattering. 
 The leading idea suited the German mind ; the 
 execution of it inflamed the hearts and imagina- 
 tions of the people ; they felt proud of their great 
 poet, and delighted to enthusiasm with his poetry. 
 At the first exhibition of the play in Leipzig, 
 Schiller being in the theatre, though not among 
 the audience, this feeling was displayed in a 
 rather Bingniar manner. When the curtain drop- 
 ped at the end of the first act, there arose on all 
 Bides a shout of ' Es lebe Friedrich Schiller /'
 
 258 schiller's life. 
 
 accompanied by the sound of trumpets and other mi- 
 litary music : at the conclusion of the piece, the 
 whole assembly left their places, went out, and 
 crowded round the door through which the poet 
 was expected to come ; and no sooner did he shew 
 himself, than his admiring spectators, uncovering 
 their heads, made an avenue for him to pass ; 
 and as he walked along, many, we are told, held 
 up their children, and exclaimed, ' That is he "* 
 
 This must have been a proud moment for Schil- 
 ler ; but also an agitating, painful one ; and per- 
 haps on the whole, the latter feeling, for the time, 
 prevailed. Such noisy, formal, and tumultuous 
 plaudits were little to his taste : the triumph they 
 confer, though plentiful, is coarse ; and Schiller's 
 modest nature made him shun the public gaze, 
 not seek it. He loved men, and did not affect to 
 despise their approbation ; but neither did this 
 form his leading motive. To him, art like virtue 
 
 * Doering (s. 176.) — Who adds as follows : ' Another tes- 
 timony of approval, very different in its nature, he received at 
 the first production of the play in Weimar. Knowing and 
 valuing, as he did, the puhlic of that city, it could not but sur- 
 prise him greatly, when a certain young Doctor S 
 
 called out to him, ' Bravo, Schiller J' from the gallery, in a 
 very loud tone of voice. Offended at such impertinence, the 
 poet hissed strongly, in which the audience joined him. He 
 likewise expressed in words his displeasure at this conduct ; 
 and the youthful sprig of medicine was, by direction of the 
 Court, farther punished for his indiscreet applause, by some 
 admonitions from the police.'
 
 HABITS VI WKIM \K. 359 
 
 was its own reward ; he delighted in his tasks for 
 the sake of the fascinating feelings which they 
 fielded him in their performance. Poetry was the 
 chosen gift of his mind, which his pleasure lay in 
 cultivating : in other things he wished not that 
 his habits or enjoyments should be different from 
 those of other men. 
 
 At Weimar his present way of life was like his 
 former one at Jena: his business was to study and 
 compose ; his recreations were in the circle of his 
 family, where he could abandon himself to affec- 
 tions, grave or trifling, and in frank and cheerful 
 intercourse with a few friends. Of the latter he 
 had lately formed a social club, the meetings of 
 which afforded him a regular and innocent amuse- 
 ment. He still loved solitary walks: in the Park 
 at Weimar he might frequently be seen wander- 
 ing among the groves and remote avenues, with a 
 note-book in his hand ; now loitering slowly along, 
 now standing still, now moving rapidly on ; it any 
 one appeared in sight, he would dart into another 
 alley, that his dream might not be broken.* 'One of 
 
 * ' Whatever he intended to write, lie first eomposod in 
 
 ln> bead, befhri patting down a line of it on paper. He ueed 
 
 to call a work ready so soon as its existence in his spirit WU 
 
 complete; hence in the public there often were reports, that 
 such ami such a piece ofhis if as finished, when in the common 
 sense, it was not even begun.'' —Jdrderu !■<■ tieon, •> Schili i b 
 
 - 2
 
 260 schiller's life, 
 
 bis favourite resorts', we are told, 'was the thickly- 
 overshadowed rocky path which leads to the Rom- 
 ische Hans, a pleasure-house of the Duke's, 
 built under the direction of Goethe. There he 
 would often sit in the gloom of the crags, over- 
 grown with cypresses and boxwood ; shady hedges 
 before him ; not far from the murmur of a little 
 brook, which there gushes in a smooth slaty 
 channel, and where some verses of Goethe are 
 cut upon a brown plate of stone, and fixed in the 
 rock.' He still continued to study in the night : 
 the morning was spent with his children and his 
 wife, or in pastimes such as we have noticed ; 
 in the afternoon he revised what had been last 
 coYnposed, wrote letters, or visited his friends. 
 His evenings were often passed in the theatre ; 
 it was the only public place of amusement which 
 he ever visited ; nor was it for the purpose of 
 amusement that he visited this : it was his obser- 
 vatory, where he watched the effect of scenes and 
 situations; devised new schemes of art, or corrected 
 old ones. To the players he was kind, friendly : 
 on nights, when any of his pieces had been acted 
 successfully, or for the first time, he used to invite 
 the leaders of the company to a supper in the Stad- 
 thaus, where the time was spent in mirthful diver- 
 sions, one of which was frequently a recitation, by 
 Genast, of the Capuchin's sermon in Wallenstein y s 
 Camp. Except on such rare occasions, he returned
 
 Tll^ BRIDE OF MESSINA. -<>1 
 
 home directly from the theatre to light his mid- 
 night lamp, and commence the most earnest of 
 his labour-'. 
 
 The assiduitv, with which he straggled for im- 
 provement in dramatic composition, had now pro- 
 duced its natural result : the requisitions of his taste 
 no longer hindered the operation of his genius ; 
 art had at length become a second nature. A new 
 proof at once of his fertility, and of his solicitude 
 for farther improvement, appeared in 1803. The 
 Brunt von Mtssina was an experiment ; an attempt 
 to exhibit a modern 'subject, and modern senti- 
 ments, in an antique garb. The principle, on which 
 the interest of this play rests is, the Fatalism of 
 the ancients ; the plot is of extreme simplicity ; a 
 Chorus also is introduced, an elaborate discussion 
 ot the nature and uses of that accompaniment 
 being prefixed by wav of preface. The experi- 
 ment was not successful: with a multitude of indi- 
 vidual beauties this Bride of Messina is found to 
 be ineffectual as a whole: it does not move us ; 
 the great object of every tragedy is not attained. 
 The Chorus, which Schiller, swerving from the 
 Greek models, has divided into two contending 
 parts, and made to enter and depart writh the prin- 
 cipals to whom they are attached, has in his hands 
 become the medium of conveying many beautiful 
 effusions of poetry; but it retards the progress of 
 the plot ; it dissipates and diffuses our B) mpathics ;
 
 262 schiller's life. 
 
 the interest we should take in the fate and prospects 
 of Manuel and Csesar, is expended on the fate and 
 prospects of man. For beautiful and touching deli- 
 neations of life ; for pensive and pathetic reflections, 
 sentiments, and images, conveyed in language sim- 
 ple but nervous and emphatic, this tragedy stands 
 high in the rank of modern compositions. There is 
 in it a breath of young tenderness and ardour, min- 
 gled impressively with the feelings of gray-haired 
 experience, whose recollections are darkened with 
 melancholy, whose very hopes are checquered and 
 solemn. The implacable Destiny which consigns 
 the Brothers to mutual enmity and mutual destruc- 
 tion, for the guilt of a past generation, involving 
 a Mother and a Sister in their ruin, spreads a som- 
 bre hue over all the poem ; we are not unmoved 
 by the characters of the hostile Brothers, and we 
 pity the hapless and amiable Beatrice, the victim 
 of their feud. Still there is too little action in the 
 play ; the incidents are too abundantly diluted 
 with reflexion ; the interest pauses, flags, and fails 
 to produce its full effect. For its specimens of 
 lyrical poetry, tender, affecting, sometimes exqui- 
 sitely beautiful, the Bride of Messina will long 
 deserve a careful perusal ; but as exemplifying a 
 new form of the drama, it has found no imitators, 
 and is likely to find none. 
 
 The slight degree of failure or miscalculation,
 
 u ILHLLM TELL. '2l).'> 
 
 winch occurred in the present instance, was next 
 
 ir abundantly redeemed. Wilhelm Tell, sent 
 
 out iii 1< S <> 1, is one ot* Schiller's very finest dramas ; 
 it exhibits some of the highest triumphs which his 
 genius combined with his art ever realized. The 
 first descent ot Freedom to our modern world, 
 the first unfurling of her standard on that rocky 
 pinnacle of Europe, is here celebrated in the style 
 which it deserved. There is no false tinsel deco- 
 ration about Tell, no sickly refinement, no decla- 
 matory sentimentality. All is downright, simple, 
 and agreeable to Nature ; yet all is adorned and 
 purified and rendered beautiful, without losing its 
 resemblance. An air of freshness and wholesome- 
 ness breathes over it ; we are among honest, 
 inoffensive, yet fearless peasants, untainted by the 
 vices, undazzled by the theories, of more complex 
 and perverted conditions of society. The opening 
 of the first scene sets us down among the Alps. 
 It is ' a high roeky shore of the Luzern lake, 
 4 opposite to SchwytZ. The lake makes a little 
 ' bight in the land, a hut stands at a short distance 
 ' from the bank, the fisher-boy is rowing himself 
 ' about in his boat. Jkvond the lake, on the other 
 " side, we sec the green meadows, the hamlets and 
 ' farms of SchwytZ, lying ID the clear sunshine. 
 
 • On our left are observed the peaks of the Eiacken 
 
 • BUITOUnded with clouds: to the right, and far in 
 
 ' the distance, appear the glaciers. We hear the
 
 204 schiller's life. 
 
 6 ranee des vetches, and the tinkling of cattle-bells/ 
 This first impression never leaves us ; we are in 
 a scene where all is grand and lovely; but it is 
 the loveliness and grandeur of unpretending, un- 
 adulterated Nature. These Switzers are not 
 Arcadian shepherds, or speculative patriots ; there 
 is not one crook or beechen bowl among them, 
 and they never mention the Social Contract, or 
 the Rights of Man. They are honest people, 
 driven by oppression to assert their privileges ; 
 *ad they go to work like men in earnest, bent on 
 the despatch of business, not on the display of 
 sentiment. They are not philosophers or tribunes ; 
 but frank, stalwart landmen: even in the field of 
 Rutli, they do not forget their common feelings ; 
 the party that arrive first indulge" in a harmless 
 ebullition of cantonal vanity : ' We are first here !' 
 they say, ' we Unterwaldeners !' They have not 
 charters or written laws to which they can appeal ; 
 but they have the traditionary rights of their 
 fathers, and bold hearts and strong arms to make 
 them good. The rules by which they steer are 
 not deduced from remote premises, by a fine pro- 
 cess of thought ; they are the accumulated result 
 of experience, transmitted from peasant sire to 
 peasant son. There is something singularly 
 pleasing in this exhibition of genuine humanity ; 
 of wisdom, embodied in old adages and practical 
 maxims of prudence ; of magnanimity, displayed
 
 WILHELM TELL. 265 
 
 in the quiet unpretending discharge of the bum- 
 blest cvcry-da\ duties. Truth is superior to 
 Fiction : we feel at home among these brave good 
 people : their fortune interests us more than that 
 of all the brawling, vapid, sentimental heroes in 
 creation. Yet to make them interest us was the 
 \ i tv highest prohlem of art ; it was to copy 
 lowly Nature, to give us a copy of it emhcllished 
 and refined by the agency of genius, yet preserving 
 the likeness in every lineament. The highest 
 quality of art is to conceal itself: these peasants 
 of Schiller's are what everyone imagines he could 
 imitate successfully ; yet in the hands of any hut 
 a true and strong-minded poet, they dwindle 
 into repulsive coarseness or mawkish insipidity. 
 Among our own writers, who have tried such 
 subjects, we remember none that has succeeded 
 equally with Schiller. One potent hut ill-fated 
 genius has, in far different circumstances and with 
 far other means, shown that he could have 
 equalled him : the Cotters Saturday Night of 
 Bums is, in its own humble wav, as quietly beau- 
 tiful, as simplex munditiis, as the scenes of Tell. 
 No Other has even approached them ; though 
 
 some gifted persons have attempted it. Mr. 
 
 \\ onl-worth ih no ordinal v man ; nor ..re his 
 pedlars, and leech-gatherers, and dalesmen with- 
 out their attractions and their moral; hut they 
 
 sink into whining drivellers beside Rosselmann
 
 266 Schiller's life. 
 
 the Priest, Ulric the Smith, Hans of the Wall, 
 and the other sturdy confederates of Rutli. 
 
 The skill with which the events are concatena- 
 ted in this play corresponds to the truth of its 
 delineation of character. The incidents of the 
 Swiss Revolution, as detailed in Tschudi or Mid- 
 ler, are here faithfully preserved, even to their 
 minutest branches. The beauty of Schiller's 
 descriptions all can relish ; their fidelity is what 
 surprises every reader who has been in Switzerland. 
 Schiller never saw the scene of his play ; but his 
 diligence, and quickness and intensity of concep- 
 tion supplied this defect. Mountain and moun- 
 taineer, conspiracy and action, are all brought 
 before us in their true forms, all glowing in the 
 mild sun-shine of the poet's fancy." The tyranny 
 of Gessler, and the misery to which it has re- 
 duced the land ; the exasperation, yet patient 
 courage of the people ; their characters, and those 
 of their leaders, Furst, Stauffacher, and Melch- 
 thal ; their exertions and ultimate success, 
 described as they are here, keep up a constant 
 interest in the piece. It abounds in action, as 
 much as the Bride of Messina is defective in 
 that point. 
 
 But the finest delineation is undoubtedly the 
 character of Wilhelm Tell, the hero of the Swiss 
 Revolt, and of the present drama. In Tell are 
 combined all the attributes of a great man, with-
 
 WlLHKLBfl TELL. 2()7 
 
 out the help of education or of great occasions to 
 develope diem. His knowledge has been gathered 
 chieflv from his own experience, and this is hounded 
 by his native mountains : he has had no lessons 
 or examples of splendid virtue, no wish or oppor- 
 tunity to earn renown : he has grown up to 
 manhood, a simple yeoman of the Alps, among 
 simple yeomen ; and has never aimed at being 
 moil-. Yet we trace in him a deep, reflective, 
 earnest spirit, thirsting for activity, yet bound in 
 by the wholesome dictates of prudence ; a heart 
 benevolent, generous, unconscious alike of boast- 
 ing or of fear. It is this salubrious air of rustic, 
 unpretending honesty that forms the great beauty 
 in Tell's character : all is native, all is genuine; 
 he does not declaim : he dislikes to talk of noble 
 conduct, he exhibits it. He speaks little of his 
 freedom, because he has always enjoyed it, and 
 feels that he can always defend it. His reasons 
 lor destroying Gessler are not drawn from juris- 
 consults and writers on morality, but from the 
 everlasting instincts of Nature : the Austrian Vogt 
 most die ; because if not, the wife and children of 
 Tell will be destroyed by him. The scene, where 
 this peaeefid but indomitable archer sits waiting 
 for Gessner in the hollow way among the rocks 
 ot Kussnacht, presents him in a striking light. 
 Former scenes bad shown us Tell under many
 
 2(58 schiller's life. 
 
 amiable and attractive aspects ; we knew that he 
 was tender as well as brave, that he loved to 
 haunt the mountain tops, and inhale in silent 
 dreams the influence of their wild and magnificent 
 beauty : we had seen him the most manly and 
 warm-hearted of fathers and husbands ; intrepid, 
 modest, and decisive in the midst of peril, and 
 venturing his life to bring help to the oppressed. 
 But here his mind is exalted into stern solemnity ; 
 its principles of action come before us with 
 greater clearness, in this its fiery contest. The 
 name of murder strikes a damp across his frank 
 and fearless spirit ; while the recollection of his 
 children and their mother proclaims emphatically 
 that there is no remedy. Gessler must perish : 
 Tell swore it darkly in his secret soul, when the 
 monster forced him to aim at the head of his 
 boy ; and he will keep his oath. His thoughts 
 wander to and fro, but his volition is unalterable ; 
 the free and peaceful mountaineer is to become a 
 shedder of blood : woe to them that have made 
 him so ! 
 
 Travellers come along the pass ; the unconcern 
 of their every-day existence is strikingly contrasted 
 with the dark and fateful purposes of Tell. The 
 shallow innocent garrulity of Stussi the Forester, 
 the maternal vehemence of Armgart's wife, the 
 hard-hearted haughtiness of Gessler, successively
 
 WILIIELM TELL. 269 
 
 presented to us, give an air of truth to the deline- 
 ation, and deepen the impressiveness of the result. 
 
 ACT IV, SCENE III. 
 
 The hollow way at Kiissnacht. Van descend from behind amid 
 
 rocks ; n>ul travellers, before appearing on the scan-, are 
 
 i from the height above. Rocks encircle the ninth' spine • 
 
 one of tin- foremost, is a projecting crag overgrown with 
 
 brushwood. 
 
 Ti 1 1 [ Enters with his how. ) 
 
 Here thro' the hollow way he'll pass ; there is 
 No other road to Kiissnacht : here I'll do it ' 
 The opportunity is good ; the bushi a 
 
 ( >i alder there will hide me; from that point 
 \I\ arrow hits him ; the strait pass prevents 
 Pursuit. Now, Gessler, balance thy account 
 With Heaven ! Thou must begone : thy sand is run. 
 
 Remote and harmless I have liv'd ; my bow 
 
 Ne'er bent save on the wild beast of the forest ; 
 
 My thoughts were free of murder. Thou hast scar'd me 
 
 From my peace; to fell asp-poison hast thou 
 
 Changed the milk of kindly temper in me ; 
 
 Thou hast accustom'd me to horrors. Gessler ! 
 
 The archer who could aim at his boy's head, 
 
 (.'an send an arrow to his enemy's heart. 
 
 Poor little boys I My kind true wife ! F will 
 
 Protect them from thee, Landvogl ! When I drew 
 
 That bowstring, and my hand was quiv'ring, 
 
 And uitli devilish joj thou mad'st me point it 
 At the child, and I in fainting anguish 
 Entreated thee in vain : then with a grim 
 Irr. \ ocabli oath, deep in my soul. 
 
 >t d to God in Heav'n, that the next aim
 
 270 • schiller's life. 
 
 I took should be thy heart. The vow I made 
 In that despairing moment's agony, 
 Became a holy debt ; and I will pay it. 
 
 Thou art my master, and my Kaiser's Vogt ; 
 Yet would the Kaiser not have suffer'd thee 
 To do as thou hast done. He sent thee hither 
 To judge us ; rigorously, for he is angry ; 
 But not to glut thy savage appetite 
 With murder, and thyself be safe, among us : 
 There is a God to punish them that wrong us. 
 
 Come forth, thou bringer once of bitter sorrow, 
 My precious jewel now, my trusty yew ! 
 A mark I'll set thee, which the cry of woe 
 Could never penetrate : to thee it shall not 
 Be impenetrable. And, good bowstring ! 
 Which so oft in sport has serv'd me truly, 
 Forsake me not in this last awful earnest ! 
 Yet once hold fast, thou faithful cord ; thou oft 
 For me hast wing'd the biting arrow ; 
 Now send it sure and piercing, now or never ! 
 Fail this, there is no second in my quiver. 
 
 (Travellers cross the scene.) 
 
 Here let me sit on this stone bench, set up 
 For brief rest to the wayfarer ; for here 
 There is no home. Each pushes on, quick, transient, 
 Regarding not the other or his sorrows. 
 Here goes the anxious merchant, and the light 
 Unmonied pilgrim ; the pale pious monk, 
 The gloomy robber, and the mirthful showman ; 
 The carrier with his heavy-laden horse, 
 Who comes from far-off lands ; for every road 
 Will lead one to the end o' th' World. 
 They pass ; each hastening forward on his path,
 
 WILHELM rELL. '271 
 
 Pursuing liis own business : mine is death ! 
 
 {Sits doirn.) 
 Erewhile, my children, were your father out. 
 There was a merriment at his return ; 
 For still on coming home, he brought you somewhat, 
 Might be an Alpine flower, rare bird, or elf-bolt, 
 Such as the wand'rer finds upon the mountains : 
 Now he is gone in quest of other spoil. 
 On the wild way he sits with thoughts of murder : 
 Tis for his enemy's life he lies in wait. 
 And yet on you, dear children, you alone 
 He thinks as then : for your sake is he here ; 
 To guard you from the Tyrant's vengeful mood, 
 I L bends his peaceful bow for work of blood. 
 
 (Rises.) 
 No common game I watch for. Does the hunter 
 Think it nought to roam the live-long day, 
 In winter's cold; to risk the dcsp'rate leap 
 
 From crag to crag, to climb the slipp'ry face 
 O' th' dizzy steep, gluing his steps in's blood ; 
 
 And all to catch a pitiful chamois? 
 
 Here is a richer prize afield : the heart 
 
 Of my sworn enemy, that would destroy me. 
 
 (A sound of gay music is //■ aril in the distance ; it approaches.') 
 All my days, the bow has been my comrade, 
 
 I have train'd myself to archery ; oft 
 
 Have I took the bull's-eye, many a prize 
 
 Brought home from merry shooting; but to-day, 
 
 I will perform my master-feat, and win me 
 
 The best prise in the circuit of the bills. 
 
 (A wedding co m p any crosses tin sunt, and mounts up 
 thru' the Pass, 'Iii i. lookt at them, leaning on his 
 
 lion ; BtUSSI nil FoRSSTIH joins him.) 
 
 Stusst. I i KlostermeyV of M orhschachen, boldi 
 
 HlS Inula! feast to-day I B wealthy man ;
 
 272 schiller's life. 
 
 Has half a score of glens i' th' Alps. They're going 
 To fetch the bride from Imisee : to night 
 There will be mirth and wassail down at Kiissnacht. 
 Come you ! All honest people are invited. 
 
 Tell. A serious guest befits not bridal feasts. 
 
 Stussi. If sorrow press you, dash it from your heart ! 
 Seize what you can : the times are hard ; one needs 
 To snatch enjoyment nimbly while it passes. 
 Here 'tis a bridal, there 'twill be a burial. 
 
 Tell. And oftentimes the one leads to the other. 
 
 Stussi. The way o' th' world at present ! There is nought 
 But mischief every where : an avalanche 
 Has come away in Glarus ; and, they tell me, 
 A side o' th' Glarnish has sunk under ground. 
 
 Tell. Do then the very hills give way ! On earth 
 Is nothing that endures. 
 
 Stussi. In foreign parts, too, 
 
 Are strange wonders. I was speaking with a man 
 From Baden : a Knight, it seems, was riding 
 To the King ; a swarm of hornets met him 
 By the way, and fell on 's horse, and stung it 
 Till it dropt down dead of very torment, 
 And the poor Knight was forced to go afoot. 
 
 Tell. Weak creatures too have stings. 
 
 (Armgari's Wife enters with several children, and places 
 herself at the entrance of the Pass.) 
 
 Stussi. 'Tis thought to bode 
 
 Some great misfortune to the land ; some black 
 Unnatural action. 
 
 Tell. Ev'ry day such actions 
 
 Occur in plenty : needs no sign or wonder 
 To foreshew them. 
 
 Stussi. Aye, truly ! Well for him 
 
 That tills his field in peace, and undisturb'd 
 Sits by his own fireside !
 
 WILHELM TELL. 273 
 
 Tell. The peacefullest 
 
 Dwells not in peace, if wicked neighbours hinder. 
 ( Tell looks often, with restless expectation, towards the top of 
 
 the Pass.) 
 Stussi. Too true. — Good b'ye! — You've waiting here for 
 
 some one I 
 Tell. That I am. 
 
 Stussi. Glad meeting with your friends ! 
 
 You are from Uri ? His Grace the Landvogt 
 ! ipected thence to-day. 
 
 Traveller (Enters.') Expect not 
 
 The Landvogt now. The waters, from the rain, 
 Are flooded, and have swept down all the bridges. 
 (Tell stands up.) 
 Armoart. (Coming forwards.) 
 The Vogt not come ! 
 
 s i Did vou want aught with him ? 
 
 Aucga&t. Ah ! yes, indeed! 
 
 Si ussi. Why have you placed yourself 
 
 In this strait pass to meet him? 
 
 J >kt. In the pass, 
 
 He cannot turn aside from me, must hear me. 
 
 (FUXSSHA&DT comes hastily dona the Pass, and calls 
 into the Scene.) 
 Make way ! make way ! My lord the Landvogt 
 Is riding close at hand. 
 
 I MfiART. The Landvogt coming ! 
 
 (She goes with her children to the front of the Scene. GesS- 
 
 i.i k and Rudolph deb Hab&as appear on hortebach at 
 
 the top of the Pins.) 
 
 To FuxsSB \k:»t.) 
 1 1 n got you thro* the water, when the flood 
 Had carried down the bridges I 
 1 We have battled 
 
 T
 
 274 SCHILLER'S LIFE. 
 
 With the billows, friend ; we heed no Alp-flood. 
 
 Stussi. Were you o' board i' th' storm ? 
 
 Frless. That were we ; 
 
 While I live, I shall remember't. 
 
 Stussi. Stay, stay! 
 
 O tell me ! 
 
 Friess. Cannot; must run on t' announce 
 His lordship in the Castle. (Exit.) 
 
 Stussi. Had these fellows 
 
 I' th' boat been honest people, 'twould have sunk 
 With ev'ry soul of them. But, for such rakehells, 
 Neither fire nor flood will kill them. (He looks round.) 
 
 Whither 
 Went the Mountain-man was talking with me ? (Exit,) 
 
 Gessler and Rudolph der Harras, on horseback. 
 
 Gessler. Say what you like, I am the Kaiser's servant, 
 And must think of pleasing him. He sent me 
 Not to caress these hinds, to soothe or nurse them : 
 Obedience is the word ! The point at issue is 
 Shall Boor or Kaiser here be lord o' th' land. 
 
 Armgart. Now is the moment ! Now for my petition ! 
 (Approaches timidly.) 
 
 Gessler. This Hat at Aldorf, mark you, I set up 
 Not for the joke's sake, or to try the hearts 
 O' th' people; these I know of old : but that 
 They might be taught to bend their necks to me, 
 Which are too straight and stiff: and in the way 
 Where they are hourly passing, I have planted 
 This offence, that so their eyes may fall on't, 
 And remind them of their lord, whom they forget. 
 
 Rudolph. But yet the people have some rights — 
 
 Gessler. Which now 
 
 Is not a time for settling or admitting. 
 Mighty things are on the anvil. The house 
 Of Hapsburg must wax powerful ; what the Father
 
 WILHELM TELL. 275 
 
 Gloriouslvbe<jan, tlie Son must forward: 
 This people is a stone of stumbling, which 
 One way or t'other must be put aside. 
 
 (The// are about to pass a/on^. The nomaii t/trotrs herself 
 before the Lamhogt.) 
 
 Armgart. Mercy, gracious Landvogt 1 Justice! Justice! 
 
 Gbssu h. Why do you plague me here, and stop my way 
 I' th' open road I Off! Let me pass ! 
 
 \ vkt, My husband 
 
 Is in prison ; these orphans cry for bread. 
 1 lave pity, good your Grace, have pity on us ! 
 
 I! noLrn. Who or what are you then? Who is your husband ? 
 
 Armoakt. A poor wild-hay-man of the Rigiherg, 
 Whose trade is on the brow of the abyss, 
 To mow the common grass from craggy shelves, 
 And nooks to which the cattle dare not climb. 
 
 K DOLFH. (Y'o Gcsslcr.) 
 By Heaven, a wild and miserable life! 
 Do now ! do let the poor drudge free, I pray you ! 
 Whatever be his crime, that horrid trade 
 \m punishment enough* ( To the psoas**.) 
 
 \ On shall have justice: 
 In the Castle there, make your petition ; 
 This is not the place. 
 
 Armgart. No, no! I stir not 
 
 Prom the spot till you give up my husband I 
 I the sixth month he has lain i' th' dungeon, 
 
 Waiting for (he sentence of some judge, n rain. 
 • . Woman! Wouldst' lay hands on me? Begone 1 
 
 I . Justice, Landvogl ! rhouartjudgeo'th'landhare, 
 
 r th' Kaiser*! stead and God's. Perform thj dutj ' 
 \ . thou expectest justice from above, 
 Show u to as !
 
 276 schiller's life. 
 
 Gessler. Off! Take the mutinous rabble 
 From my sight. 
 
 Armgart. (Catches the bridle of the horse.) 
 No, no ! I now have nothing 
 More to lose. Thou shalt not move a step, Vogt, 
 'Till thou hast done me right. Aye, knit thy brows, 
 And roll thy eyes as sternly as thou wilt ; 
 We are so wretched, wretched now, we care not 
 Aught more for thy anger. 
 
 Gessler. Woman, make way ! 
 
 Or else my horse shall crush thee. 
 
 Armgart. Let it ! There — 
 
 {She pulls her children to the ground, and throws herself 
 along with them, in his way.) 
 Here am I with my children : let the orphans 
 Be trodden underneath thy horse's hoofs ! 
 'Tis not the worst that thou hast done. 
 
 Rudolph. Woman! Art' mad? 
 
 Armgart. (JVith still greater violence.} 
 
 'Tis long that thou hast trodden 
 The Kaiser's people under foot, Too long ! 
 Oh ! I am but a woman ; were I a man, 
 I should find something else to do, than lie 
 Here crying in the dust. 
 
 (The music of the Wedding is heard again, at the top 
 of the Pass, but softened by distance.) 
 Gessler. Where are my servants ? 
 
 Quick ! Take her hence ! I may forget myself, 
 And do the thing I shall repent. 
 
 Rudolph. My lord, 
 
 The servants cannot pass ; the place above 
 Is crowded by a bridal company. 
 
 Gessler. I've been too mild a ruler to this people ; 
 They are not tamed as they should be ; their tongues
 
 WILIIELM TELL. 277 
 
 Arc still at liberty. This shall be alter'd ! 
 I will break that stubborn humour ; Freedom 
 With its pert vaunt ings shall no more be heard of: 
 I will enforce a new law in these lands ; 
 There shall not — 
 
 {An arrow pierces kirn; he claps his hand upon his heart, 
 and is about to sink. With a faint voice.) 
 God be merciful to me ! 
 
 Rudolph. Herr Landvogt — God! What is it? Whence 
 came it I 
 
 Abkg vut. {Springing up.) 
 Dead ! dead ! He totters, sinks ! T has hit him ! 
 
 RoDOU'Ji. (Springs from his horse.) 
 Horrible ! — O God of Heaven! — Ilerr Ritter, 
 Cry to God for mercy ! You are dying. 
 
 Glssler. Tis Tell's arrow. 
 
 (Has slid down from his horse into Rudolph's arms, who sets 
 him on the stone bench.) 
 
 Tei.i.. (Appears above, on (he point of the rock.) 
 
 Thou hast found the archer ; 
 - k no other. Free are the cottages, 
 Secure is innocence from thee ; thou wilt 
 Torment the land no more. 
 
 (Disappears from the height. The people rush in.) 
 
 Stumi* (Foremost.) What? What has happen'd? 
 
 Aiok.art. The Landvogt shot, kill'd by an arrow. 
 
 People. {Rushing in.) Who? 
 
 Who is shot ? 
 
 (Whilst the foremost of the Wedding Company enter ou the 
 
 . the hindmost oic still on the height, and the music 
 
 ( nnti/IIICS.) 
 
 Rudolph* He'i bleeding, bleeding to death. 
 
 Away ! Seek Ik ]p j pursue the murderer ! 
 
 Lost man ! Mu i it so end with thee ? Thou wouldit DOt 
 
 Hear my warning !
 
 278 schiller's life. 
 
 Stussi. Sure enough ! There lies he 
 
 Pale, and going fast. 
 
 Many Voices. Who was it killed him ? 
 
 Rudolph. Are the people mad, that they make music 
 Over murder ? Stop it, I say ! 
 (The music ceases suddenly ; more people come crowding round.) 
 
 Herr Landvogt, 
 Can you not speak to me ? Is there nothing 
 You would entrust me with ? 
 {Gessler makes signs with his hand, and vehemently repeats 
 
 them, as they are not understood.) 
 
 Where shall I run 1 
 To Kiissnacht ? I cannot understand you : 
 O grow not angry ! Leave the things of Earth, 
 And think how you shall make your peace with Heaven ! 
 (The whole Bridal Company surround the dying man, with an 
 
 expression of unsympathizing horror.) 
 
 Stussi. Look there ! How pale he grows ! Now! Death is 
 coming 
 Round his heart : his eyes grow dim and fixed. 
 
 Armgart. {Lifts up one of her children.) 
 See, children, how a miscreant departs ! 
 
 Rudolph. Out on you, crazy hags ! Have ye no touch 
 Of feeling in ye, that ye feast your eyes 
 On such an object ? Help me, lend your hands ! 
 Will no one help to pull the tort'ring arrow 
 From his breast ? 
 
 Women. {Start back.) We touch him, whom God has smote! 
 
 Rudolph. My curse upon you ! {Draws his sword.) 
 
 Stussi. {Lays his hand on Rudolph's arm.') 
 
 Softly, my good Sir ! 
 Your government is at an end. The Tyrant 
 Is fallen : we will endure no farther violence : 
 We are free.
 
 WILIIELM TELL. 27D 
 
 An.. (Titnutltuousli/.) The land is free! 
 
 Ri noi.m. Ha ! runs it so I 
 
 Arc rev'rence and obedience gone already \ 
 
 ( To the Armed Jttemlauts, who pn ss in.) 
 You see the murd'rous deed that has been done. 
 Our help is vain ; vain to pursue the murd'rer ; 
 Other cares demand us. On ! To Kusmaehl ! 
 To save the Kais.. r '■ fortresses ! For now 
 All bonds of Older, duty, are unloosed, 
 No man's fidelity is to be trusted. 
 (Whilst he departs with the Attendants, appear six Frati. I 
 
 MlSERICORDl.V..) 
 
 Armgart. Koom ! Room ! Here come the Friars of Mercy. 
 
 Stussl The victim slain, the ravens are assembling! 
 
 Fratiu s MisKKICORlU i . 
 
 (Form a half cirele round (lie dead body, and sing in a deep 
 tone.") 
 
 With noiseless tread, death comes on man, 
 
 No plea, no prayer delivers him ; 
 
 i) midst of busy life's unlinish'd plan, 
 
 With sudden hand, it severs him : 
 And ready or not ready, — no delay, 
 Forth to liis Judge's bar he must away ! 
 
 The death ol" Gessler, which forms the leading 
 object of the plot, happens at the end of the 
 fourth act ; the fifth, occupied with representing 
 the expulsion of his satellites, and the final tri- 
 umph and liberation of the Swiss, though diversi 
 lied with occurrences and spectacles, moves on 
 with inferior animation. A certain want of unity 
 
 is, indeed, distinctly tell throughout all the piece; 
 the incidents do not point one way ; there is no
 
 280 schiller's life. 
 
 connexion, or a very slight one, between the enter- 
 prise of Tell and that of the men of Rutli. This 
 is the principal, or rather sole, deficiency of the 
 present work ; a deficiency inseparable from the 
 faithful display of the historical event, and far 
 more than compensated by the deeper interest and 
 the wider range of action and delineation, which a 
 strict adherence to the facts allows. By the pre- 
 sent mode of management, Alpine life in all its 
 length and breadth is placed before us : from the 
 feudal halls of Attinghausen, to Ruodi the Fisher 
 of the Luzern Lake, and Armgart — 
 
 The poor wild-bay-man of the Rigiberg, 
 Whose trade is, on the brow of the abyss, 
 To mow the common grass, from craggy shelves, 
 And nooks to which the cattle dare not climb. 
 
 We stand as if in presence of the Swiss, behold- 
 ing the achievement of their freedom in its minutest 
 circumstances, with all its simplicity and unaffected 
 greatness. The light of the poet's genius is upon 
 the Four Forest Cantons, at the opening of the 
 fourteenth century : the whole time and scene 
 shine as with the brightness, the truth, and more 
 than the beauty, of reality. 
 
 The tragedy of Tell wants unity of interest and 
 of action ; but in spite of this, it may justly claim 
 the high dignity of ranking with the very best of 
 Schiller's plays. Less comprehensive and ambi- 
 tious than Wallenstein, less ethereal than the 
 Jungfrau, it has a look of nature and substantial
 
 WILIIELM TELL. 281 
 
 truth, which neither of its rivals can boast of. 
 The feelings it inculcates and appeals to are those 
 of universal human nature, and presented in their 
 purest, most unpretending form. There is no high- 
 wrought sentiment, no poetic love. Tell loves his 
 wife as honest men love their wives ; and the 
 episode of Bertha and lludenz, though beautiful, is 
 very brief, and without effect on the general result. 
 It is delightful and salutary to the heart to wander 
 among the scenes of Tell: all is lovely, yet all is 
 real. Physical and moral grandeur arc united ; 
 yet both are the unadorned grandeur of Nature. 
 There are the lakes and green vallies beside us, the 
 Schreckhorn, the Jungfrau, and their sister peaks, 
 with their avalanches and their palaces of ice, all 
 glowing in the southern sun; and dwelling among 
 them are a race of manly husbandmen, heroic 
 without ceasing to be homely, poetical without 
 ceasing to be genuine. 
 
 We have dwelt the longer on this play, not 
 only on account of its peculiar fascinations, but 
 also — as it is our last ! Schiller's faculties had 
 never been more brilliant than at present: strong 
 in mature, age, in rare and varied accomplish- 
 ments, he was now reaping the full fruit ol his 
 studious vigils ; the rapidity with which he wrote 
 such noble poems, at onee betokened the exuber- 
 ant riches of his mind, and the prompt command
 
 282 schiller's life. 
 
 * 
 
 which he enjoyed of them. Still all that he had 
 
 done seemed hut a fraction of his appointed task : 
 a hold imagination was carrying him forward into 
 distant untouched fields of thoughts and poetry, 
 where triumphs yet more glorious were to be 
 gained. Schemes of new writings, new kinds of 
 writing, were budding in his fancy ; he was yet, 
 as he had ever been, surrounded by a multitude of 
 projects, and full of ardour to labour in fulfilling 
 them. But Schiller's labours and triumphs were 
 drawing to a close. The invisible Messenger was 
 already near, which overtakes alike the busy and 
 the idle, which arrests man in the midst of his 
 pleasures or his occupations, and changes his 
 countenance and sends him away^ 
 
 In 1804, having been at Berlin witnessing the 
 exhibition of his JVilhelm Tell, he was seized, 
 while returning, with a paroxysm of that malady, 
 which for many years had never wholly left him. 
 The attack was fierce and violent ; it brought him 
 to the verge of the grave ; but he escaped once 
 more ; was considered out of danger, and again 
 resumed his poetical employments. Besides vari- 
 ous translations from the French and Italian, he 
 had sketched a tragedy on the history of Perkin 
 Warbeck, and finished two acts of one on that of 
 a kindred but more fortunate impostor, Dimitri of 
 Russia. His mind, it would appear, was also fre- 
 quently engaged with more solemn and sublime
 
 LAST SICKNESS. 283 
 
 ideas. The universe of human thought he had 
 now explored and enjoyed ; hut he seems to have 
 found no permanent contentment in any of its pro- 
 ^ inccs. Many of his later poems indicate an 
 incessant and increasing longing for some solution 
 of the mystery of life ; at times it is a gloomy 
 p lignation to the want and the despair of any. 
 Hi^ ardent spirit could not satisfy itself with 
 things xen. though gilded with all the glories of in- 
 tellect and imagination ; it soared away in search of 
 other lands, looking witli unuttcrahle desire for 
 some surer and brighter home beyond the horizon 
 of this world. Death he had no reason to regard as 
 probably a near event; but we easily perceive that 
 the awful secrets connected with it had long been 
 familiar to his contemplation. The veil, which 
 hid them from his eyes, was now shortly, when 
 he Looked not for it, to be rent asunder. 
 
 The spring of 1805, which Schiller had antici- 
 pated with no ordinary hopes of enjoyment and 
 if tivitv, came on in its course, cold, bleak, and 
 Stormy; and along with it his sickness returned. 
 The help of physicians was vain ; the unwearied ser- 
 vices of trembling affection were vain: bis disorder 
 kepi increasing; on the 9tfa of May it reached a 
 crisis. Early in the morning of that day, be grew 
 insensible, and by degrees delirious. Anion:; his 
 
 saprcssions, the word IAchtenberg was frequently 
 
 noticed ; a word of no import ; indicating, as SOON
 
 284 schiller's life. 
 
 thought, the writer of that name, whose works he 
 had lately been reading ; according to others, the 
 castle of Leuchtenberg, which, a few days before 
 his sickness, he had been proposing to visit. The 
 poet and the sage was soon to lie low ; but his 
 friends were spared the farther pain of seeing him 
 depart in madness. The fiery canopy of physical 
 suffering, which had bewildered and blinded his 
 thinking faculties, was drawn aside ; and the spi- 
 rit of Schiller looked forth in its wonted serenity, 
 once again before it passed away for ever. After 
 noon his delirium abated ; about four o'clock he 
 fell into a soft sleep, from which he ere long 
 awoke in full possession of his senses. Restored 
 to consciousness in that hour, when the soul is cut 
 oif from human help, and man must front the 
 King of Terrors on his own strength, Schiller did 
 not faint or fail in this his last and sharpest trial. 
 Feeling that his end was come, he addressed him- 
 self to meet it as became him ; not with affected 
 carelessness or superstitious fear, but with the 
 quiet unpretending manliness which had marked 
 the tenor of his life. Of his friends and family 
 he took a touching but a tranquil farewell : he 
 ordered that his funeral should be private, with- 
 out pomp or parade. Some one inquiring how 
 he felt, he said : i Calmer and calmer ; sim- 
 ple but memorable words, expressive of the mild 
 heroism of the man. About six he sank into a
 
 DEATH. 286 
 
 deep sleep ; onec for a moment he looked up with 
 a lively air, and said : £ Many thing* were growing 
 plain and decor to him /' Again he closed his eyea ; 
 
 and his sleep deepened and deepened, till it changed 
 into the Bleep from which there is no awakening; 
 and all that remained of Schiller was a lifeless form, 
 soon to be mingled with the clods of the valley. 
 
 The news of Schiller's death fell cold on many 
 a heart : not in Germany alone, but over Europe, 
 it was regarded as a publie loss, by all who under- 
 stood its meaning. In Weimar especially, the 
 scene of his noblest efforts, the abode of his chosen 
 friends, the sensation it produced was deep and 
 universal. The public places of amusement were 
 shut ; all ranks made haste to testify their feelings, 
 to honour themselves and the deceased by tributes 
 to bis memory. It was Friday when Schiller died; 
 his funeral was meant to be on Sunday; but the 
 state of his remains made it necessary to proceed 
 before. Doering thus describes the ceremony : 
 
 * According to his own directions, the bier was 
 ' to be borne by private burghers of the city; but 
 ' several young artists and students, out of revcr- 
 c ence lor the deceased, took it from them, it was 
 1 between midnight and one in the morning, when 
 ' they approached the chnrch-yard. The over- 
 
 1 clouded heaven threatened rain, lint as the bier 
 
 ' was set down beside the grave, the clouds and-
 
 286 
 
 c denly split asunder, and the moon, coming forth 
 ' in peaceful clearness, threw her first rays on the 
 ' coffin of the Departed. They lowered him into 
 c the grave ; and the moon again retired behind 
 ' her clouds. A fierce tempest of wind began to 
 ' howl, as if it were reminding the bystanders of 
 ' their great, irreparable loss. At this moment 
 e who could have applied without emotion the 
 1 poet's own words : 
 
 Alas ! the ruddy morning tinges 
 
 A silent, cold, sepulchral stone ; 
 
 And evening throws her crimson fringes 
 
 But round his slumber dark and lone. 
 
 So lived and so died Fried rich Schiller ; a man 
 on whose history other men will long dwell with 
 a mingled feeling of reverence and love. Our 
 humble record of his life and writings is drawing 
 to an end : yet we still linger, loth to part with a 
 spirit so dear to us. From the scanty and too 
 much neglected field of his biography, a few slight 
 facts and indications may still be gleaned ; slight 
 but distinctive of him as an individual, and not to 
 be despised in a penury so great and so unmerited. 
 
 Schiller's age was forty-five years and a few 
 months when he died.* Sickness had long wasted 
 
 * ' He left a widow, two sons, and two daughters,' of whom 
 we regret to say, that we have learned nothing. ' Of his
 
 CHARACTER. 287 
 
 his form, which at no time could boast of fault- 
 less symmetry. He was tall and strongly boned ; 
 but mi muscular and lean : his body, it might be 
 perceived, was wasting under the energy of a 
 >pirit too keen for it. His face was pule, the 
 cheeks and temples rather hollow, the chin some- 
 what deep and slightly projecting, the nose irre- 
 gularly aquiline, his hair inclined to auburn. 
 \\ ithal liis countenance was attractive, and had a 
 ortain manly beauty. The lips were curved to- 
 gether in a line, expressing delicate and honest 
 sensibility ; a silent enthusiasm, impetuosity not 
 unchecked by melancholy, gleamed in his softly 
 kindled eves and pale cheeks, and the brow was 
 high and thoughtful. To judge from his portraits, 
 Schiller's face expressed well the features of his 
 mind: it is mildness tempering strength; fiery 
 ardour Bhining throngh the clouds of suffering and 
 disappointment, deep but patiently endured. Pale 
 was its proper tint ; the cheeks and temples were 
 besl hollow. There are few laces that affect us 
 more than Schiller's : it is at once meek, tender, 
 onpretending, and heroic. 
 
 In bis dress and manner, as in all things, he was 
 plain and unaffected. Among strangers, some 
 
 three listen the youngi it died before bim; the eldest ia max* 
 ried to the Hofirath Reinwald, inMeinungen; the second to 
 
 1 1 it I'r.nikli, the clergyman of MeckmubJ, in V\ urti mberg.'
 
 288 schiller's life. 
 
 thing shy and retiring might occasionally be 
 observed in him : in his own family, or among 
 his select friends, he was kind-hearted, free, and 
 gay as a little child. In public, his external 
 appearance had nothing in it to strike or attract. 
 Of an unpresuming aspect, wearing plain appa- 
 rel, his looks as he walked were constantly bent 
 on the ground ; so that frequently, as we are 
 told, i he failed to notice the salutation of a passing 
 acquaintance ; but if he heard it, he would catch 
 hastily at his hat, and give his cordial 'Guten Tag!' 
 Modesty, simplicity, a total want of all parade or 
 affectation were conspicuous in him. These are 
 the usual concomitants of true greatness, and 
 serve to mitigate its splendour. . Common things 
 he did as a common man. His conduct in such 
 matters was uncalculated, spontaneous ; and there- 
 fore natural and pleasing. 
 
 Concerning his mental character, the greater 
 part of what we had to say has been already said, 
 in speaking of his works. The most cursory pe- 
 rusal of these will satisfy us that he had a mind 
 of the highest order; grand by nature, and culti- 
 vated by the assiduous study of a life-time. It is 
 not the predominating force of any one faculty 
 that impresses us in Schiller; but the general 
 force of all. Every page of his writings bears the 
 stamp of internal vigour ; new truths, new aspects 
 of known truth, bold thought, happy imagery,
 
 CHARACTER. 289 
 
 loitv emotion. Schiller would have been no com- 
 mon man, though he had altogether wanted the 
 qualities peculiar to poets. His intellect is clear, 
 deep, and comprehensive: its deductions, frequently 
 elicited from numerous and distant premises, are 
 presented under a magnificent aspect, in the shape 
 of theorems embracing an immense multitude of 
 minor propositions. Yet it seems powerful and 
 vast, rather than quick or keen ; for Schiller is 
 not notable for wit, though his fancy is ever 
 prompt with its metaphors, illustrations, compa- 
 risons, to decorate and point the perceptions of 
 his reason. The earnestness of his temper farther 
 disqualified him for this : his tendency was rather 
 to adore the grand and the lofty, than to despise 
 the little and the mean. Perhaps his greatest 
 faculty was a half poetical, half philosophical 
 imagination : a faculty teeming with magnificence 
 and brilliancy : now adorning, or aiding to (-reel, 
 a stately pyramid of scientific speculation-, now 
 brooding over the abysses of thought and feeling, 
 till thoughts and feelings, else unutterable, were 
 embodied in expressive forms, and palaces and 
 landscapes glowing in ethereal beauty rose like 
 exhalations from the bosom of the deep. 
 
 Combined and partly of kindred with these in- 
 tellectual faculties, was that vehemence of tem- 
 perament which is necessary for their lull 
 developement. Schiller's heart was at once fiery 
 
 u
 
 290 schiller's life. 
 
 and tender; impetuous, soft, affectionate, his 
 enthusiasm clothed the universe with grandeur, 
 and sent his spirit forth to explore its secrets and 
 mingle warmly in its interests. Thus poetry in 
 Schiller was not one but many gifts. It was not 
 the i lean and flashy song' of an ear apt for har- 
 mony, combined with a maudlin sensibility, or a 
 mere animal ferocity of passion, and an imagina- 
 tion creative chiefly because unbridled ; it was, 
 what true poetry is always, the quintessence of 
 general mental riches, the purified result of strong 
 thought and conception, and of refined as well as 
 powerful emotion. In his writings, we behold 
 him a moralist, a philosopher, a man of univer- 
 sal knowledge : in each of these capacities he is 
 great, but also in more ; for all that he achieves 
 in these is brightened and gilded with the touch 
 of another quality : his maxims, his feelings, his 
 opinions are transformed from the lifeless shape 
 of didactic truths, into living shapes that address 
 faculties far finer than the understanding. 
 
 The gifts by which such transformation is 
 effected, the gift of pure, ardent, tender sensibility, 
 joined to those of fancy and imagination, are 
 perhaps not wholly denied to any man endowed 
 with the power of reason ; possessed in various 
 degrees of strength, they add to the products of 
 mere intellect corresponding tints of new attrac- 
 tiveness ; in a degree great enough to be remark-
 
 CHARACTER. 2Vi 
 
 able they constitute a poet. Of this peculiar 
 faculty how much had fallen to Schiller's lot, we 
 need not attempt too minutely to explain. Without 
 injuring his reputation, it may be admitted that, 
 in general, his works exhibit rather extraordinary 
 strength, than extraordinary fineness or versatility. 
 His power of dramatic imitation is perhaps never 
 of the very highest, the Shakspearcan kind ; and 
 in its best state, it is farther limited to a certain 
 range of characters. It is with the grave, the 
 earnest, the exalted, the affectionate, the mournful 
 that he succeeds: he is not destitute of humour, 
 as his Wallensteiris Gimp will show, but neither 
 is he rich in it ; and for sprightly ridicule in any 
 of its forms, he has seldom shown either taste or 
 talent. Chance principally made the drama his 
 department ; he might have shone equally in 
 many others. The vigorous and copious inven- 
 tion, the knowledge of life, of men and things, 
 displayed in his theatrical pieces, might have been 
 available in very different pursuits ! frequently the 
 charm of his works has little to distinguish it 
 from the charm of intellectual and moral force in 
 neral; it is often the capacious thought, the 
 vivid imagery, the impetuous feeling of the orator, 
 
 rather than t lie wild pathos, and capricious enchant- 
 ment-, of the poet . Yet that he was capable of 
 rising to the loftiest regions of poetry, no reader 
 
 of his Moid of Orleans, bis character of Tkckla, 
 
 u 2
 
 292 schiller's life. 
 
 or many other of his pieces, will hesitate to grant. 
 Sometimes we suspect that it is the very grandeur 
 of his general powers, which prevents us from 
 exclusively admiring his poetic genius. We are 
 not lulled by the syren song of poetry, because 
 her melodies are blended with the clearer, manlier 
 tones of serious reason, and of honest though 
 exalted feeling. 
 
 Much laborious discussion has been wasted in 
 denning genius, particularly by the countrymen of 
 Schiller, some of whom have narrowed the con- 
 ditions of the term so far, as to find but three men 
 of genius since the world was created: Homer, 
 Shakspeare, and Goethe ! From such rigid pre- 
 cision, applied to a matter in itself indefinite, there 
 may be an apparent, but there is no real increase 
 of accuracy. The creative power, the faculty not 
 only of imitating given forms of being, but of 
 imagining and representing new ones, which is 
 here attributed with such distinctness and so spa- 
 ringly, has been given by nature in complete per- 
 fection to no man, nor entirely denied to any. 
 The shades of it cannot be distinguished bv so 
 loose a scale as language. A definition of genius 
 which excludes such a mind as Schiller's, will 
 scarcely be agreeable to philosophical correctness, 
 and it will tend rather to lower than to exalt the 
 dignity of the word. Possessing all the general 
 mental faculties in their highest degree of strength,
 
 CHARACTER. 21).'$ 
 
 ;m intellect ever active, vast, powerful, far-sighted ; 
 an imagination never weary of producing grand or 
 beautiful forma ; a heart of the noblest temper, 
 sympathies comprehensive yet ardent, feelings 
 vehement, impetuous, vet full of love and kind- 
 liness and tender pity; conscious of the rapid and 
 fervid exercise of all these powers within him, 
 and able farther to present their products refined 
 and harmonized, and ' married to immortal verse,' 
 Schiller may or may not be called a man of ge- 
 nius by his critics ; but his mind in either case 
 Will remain one of the most enviable which can 
 fall to the share of a mortal. 
 
 In a poet worthy of that name, the powers of 
 the intellect are indissolubly interwoven with the 
 moral feelings; and the exercise of his art depends 
 not more uu the perfection of the one than of the 
 Other. The poet, who does not feel nobly and 
 justly, as well as passionately, will never perma- 
 nently succeed in making others feel : theformsof 
 error and falseness, infinite in number, are transi- 
 tory in duration; truth, of thought and sentiment, 
 but chiefly of sentiment, truth alone is eternal and 
 unchangeable, lint, happily, a delight in the pro- 
 ducts of reason and imagination can scarcely ever 
 be divided from, at least, a love lor virtue and ge- 
 nuine greatness. Our feelings are in favour <>t 
 heroism; we wish to lie pure and perfect. Happy 
 be whose i ( -<)lut!',ii^ are so Btrong, or whose temp-
 
 294 schiller's life. 
 
 tations are so weak, that he can convert these 
 feelings into action ! The severest pang, of which 
 a proud and sensitive nature can he conscious, is 
 the perception of its own debasement. The 
 sources of misery in life are many : vice is one of 
 the surest. Any human creature, tarnished with 
 guilt, will in general be wretched ; a man of genius 
 in that case will be doubly so, for his ideas of 
 excellence are higher, his sense of failure is more 
 keen. In such miseries, Schiller had no share. 
 The sentiments, which animated his poetry, were 
 converted into principles of conduct ; his actions 
 were as blameless as his writings were pure. 
 With his simple and high predilections, with his 
 strong devotedness to a noble cause, he contrived 
 to Rteer through life, unsullied by its meanness, 
 unsubdued by any of its difficulties or allurements. 
 With the world, in fact, he had not much to do; 
 without effort, he dwelt apart from it ; its prizes 
 were not the wealth which could enrich him. His 
 great, almost his single aim, was to unfold his spi- 
 ritual faculties, to study and contemplate and 
 improve their intellectual creations. Bent upon 
 this, with the steadfastness of an apostle, the more 
 sordid temptations of the world passed harmlessly 
 over him. Wishing not to seem, but to be, envy 
 was a feeling of which he knew but little even be- 
 fore he rose above its level. Wealth or rank he 
 regarded as a means, not an end ; his own humble
 
 ( HAR.YCTER. 296 
 
 fortune supplying him with all the essential con- 
 veniences of life, the world had nothing more that 
 lie chose to covet, nothing more that it could give 
 him. He was not rich ; hut his habits were sim- 
 ple, and, except by reason of his sickness and its 
 consequences, unexpensive. At all times he was 
 tar above the meanness of self-interest, particularly 
 in its meanest shape, a love of money. Doering 
 tells us, that a bookseller having travelled from a 
 distance expressly to offer him a higher price for 
 the copyright of Jftilloiste'in, at that time in the 
 press, and for which he was on terms with Cotta 
 of Tubingen, Schiller, answering, ' Cotta deals 
 fairly with me, and I with him,' sent away this 
 new merchant, without even the hope of a future 
 bargain. The anecdote is small ; but it seems to 
 paint the integrity of the man, careless of pecuni- 
 ary concerns in comparison with the strictest up- 
 rightness in his conduct. In fact, his real wealth 
 lay in being able to pursue his darling studies, and 
 to live in the sunshine of friendship and domestic 
 love. This he had always longed for; this he at 
 l;tsi enjoyed. And though sickness and many 
 vexatious annoyed him, the intrinsic excellence of 
 hi- nature chequered the darkest portions of their 
 
 gloom with an effulgence derived from himself. 
 The ardour of his Feelings, tempered bybanevo- 
 lenee. was equable and placid : his temper, though 
 overflowing with generous warmth, seems almost
 
 296 schiller's life. 
 
 never to have shewn any hastiness or anger. To 
 all men he was humane and sympathizing ; among 
 his friends, open-hearted, generous, helpful ; in the 
 circle of his family, kind, tender, sportive. And 
 what gave an especial charm to all this, was the 
 unobtrusiveness with which it was attended : there 
 was no parade, no display, no particle of affecta- 
 tion ; rating and conducting himself simply as an 
 honest man and citizen, he became greater by for- 
 getting that he was great. 
 
 Such were the prevailing habits of Schiller. 
 That in the mild and beautiful brilliancy of their 
 aspect, there must have been some specks and im- 
 perfections, the common lot of poor humanity, 
 who knows not ? That these were small and tran- 
 sient, we judge from the circumstance that scarcely 
 any hint of them has reached us : nor are we anx- 
 ious to obtain a full description of them. For 
 practical uses, we can sufficiently conjecture what 
 they were ; and the heart desires not to dwell 
 upon them. This man is passed away from our 
 dim and tarnished world : let him have the benefit 
 of departed friends ; let him be transfigured in our 
 thoughts, and shine there without the little blem- 
 ishes that clung to him in life. 
 
 Schiller gives a fine example of the German 
 character : he has all its good qualities in a high 
 degree, with very few of its defects. We trace in 
 him all that downrightness and simplicity, that
 
 CHARACTER. 207 
 
 sincerity of heart and mind, for which the Ger- 
 mans are remarked ; their enthusiasm, their patient, 
 long-continuing', earnest devotedness ; their ima- 
 gination, delighting in the lofty and magnificent; 
 
 their intellect, rising into refined abstractions, 
 stretching itself into comprehensive generaliza- 
 tions. But the excesses to which such a charac- 
 ter is liable are, in him, prevented by a firm and 
 watchful sense of propriety. His simplicity never 
 degenerates into ineptitude or insipidity ; his en- 
 thusiasm must be based on reason; he rarely suf- 
 fers his love of the vast to betray him into tolera- 
 tion of the vague. The boy Schiller was extrava- 
 gant ; but the man admits no hombast in his style, 
 no inflation in his thoughts or actions. lie is the 
 poet of truth : our understandings and consciences 
 are satisfied, while our hearts and imaginations arc 
 moved. His fictions are emphatically nature co- 
 pied and embellished ; his sentiments arc refined 
 and touchingly beautiful, but they arc likewise 
 manly and correct, they exalt and inspire, but 
 they do not mislead. Above all, he has no cant; 
 in any of its thousand branches, ridiculous or hate- 
 ful, none, lie does not distort his character or 
 genius into BbapeSj W Inch be thinks more becoming 
 than their natural one: he does not hang out prin- 
 ciples which are not his. or harbour beloved per- 
 masions which he hall or wholly knows to lie 
 false. lie did not often speak oi wholesome
 
 298 schiller's life. 
 
 prejudices ; he did not ' embrace the Roman 
 Catholic religion, because it was the grandest and 
 most comfortable.' Truth, with Schiller, or what 
 seemed such, was an indispensible requisite : if he 
 but suspected an opinion to be false, however dear 
 it may have been, he seems to have examined it 
 with rigid scrutiny, and if he found it guilty, to 
 have plucked it out, and resolutely cast it forth. 
 The sacrifice might cause him pain, perma- 
 nent pain ; real damage, he imagined, it could 
 hardly cause him. It is irksome and dangerous 
 to travel in the dark ; but better so, than with an 
 Ignis-fatuus to guide us. Considering the warmth 
 of his sensibilities, Schiller's merit on this point 
 is greater than we might at first suppose. For a 
 man with whom intellect is the ruling or exclusive 
 faculty, whose sympathies, loves, hatreds, are com- 
 paratively coarse and dull, it may be easy to avoid 
 this half-wilful entertainment of error, and this 
 cant which is the consequence and sign of it. But 
 for a man of keen tastes, a large fund of innate 
 probity is necessary to prevent his aping the ex- 
 cellence which he loves so much, yet is unable to 
 attain. Among persons of the latter sort, it is 
 extremely rare to meet with one completely unaf- 
 fected. Schiller's other noble qualities would not 
 have justice, did we neglect to notice this, the 
 truest proof of their nobility. Honest unpre- 
 tending manly simplicity pervades all parts of his
 
 CHARACTER. 299 
 
 character anil genius and habits of lite. We not 
 onlv admire him, we trust him and love him. 
 
 ' The character of child-like simplicity,' he has 
 ' himself observed,* ' which genius impresses on 
 
 * its works, it shows also in its private life and man- 
 ' ners. It is bashful, for nature is ever so ; but it is 
 1 not prudish, for only corruption is prudish. It is 
 
 * clear-sighted, for nature can never be the con- 
 1 trary ; but it is not cunning, for this only art can 
 ' be. It is faithful to its character and inclinations; 
 ' but not so much because it is directed by princi- 
 'ples, as because after all vibrations nature con- 
 
 * stantlv reverts to her original position, constantly 
 1 renews her primitive demand. It is modest, nay 
 1 timid, for genius is always a secret to itself; but it 
 
 * is not anxious, for it knows not the dangers of the 
 ' way which it travels. Of the private habits of 
 'the persons, who have been peculiarly distin- 
 ' tinguished by their genius, our information is 
 ' small ; but the little that has been recorded for 
 ' us of the chief of them; of Sophocles, Archi- 
 ' medes, Hippocrates; and in modern times, of 
 'Dante and Taaso, of Rafaelle, Albrecht Durer, 
 'Cervantes, Shakspeare, Fielding, and others, 
 'confirms this observation.' Schiller himself con- 
 firms it; perhapa more strongly than most of the 
 examples bere adduced. No man ever wore his ia- 
 
 *A<"'< "I'll Sentmn ntalut ht Dichtung,
 
 300 schiller's life. 
 
 culties more meekly, or performed great works with 
 less consciousness of their greatness. Abstracted 
 from the contemplation of himself, his eye was 
 turned upon the objects of his labour, and he pur- 
 sued them with the eagerness, the entireness, the 
 spontaneous sincerity, of a hoy pursuing sport. 
 Hence this ' childlike simplicity,' the last perfec- 
 tion of his other excellencies. His was a mighty 
 spirit unheedful of its might. He walked the 
 earth in calm power : l the staff of his spear was 
 like a weaver's beam ;' but he wielded it like a 
 wand. 
 
 Such, so far as we can represent it, is the form 
 in which Schiller's life and works have gradually 
 painted their character, in the rnind of a secluded 
 individual, whose solitude he has often charmed, 
 whom he has instructed, and cheered, and moved. 
 The original impression, we know, was faint and 
 inadequate, the present copy of it is still more so; 
 yet we have sketched it as we could : the figure of 
 Schiller, and of the figures he conceived and drew 
 are there ; himself, ' and in his hand a glass which 
 shows us many more.' To those who look on 
 him as we have wished to make them, Schiller 
 will not need a farther panegyric. For the sake 
 of Literature, it may still be remarked, that his 
 merit was peculiarly due to her. Literature was 
 his creed, the dictate of his conscience ; he
 
 CHARACTER. 301 
 
 was an Apostle of the Sublime and Beautiful, 
 ami this his calling made a hero of him. For 
 it was in the spirit of a true man that he 
 viewed it, and undertook to cultivate it ; and its 
 inspirations constantly maintained the noblest tem- 
 per in his soul. The end of literature was not, 
 in Schiller's judgment, to amuse the idle, or to 
 recreate the busy, by showy spectacles for the 
 imagination, or quaint paradoxes and epigram- 
 matic disquisitions for the understanding : least of 
 all was it to gratify in any shape the selfishness 
 of its professors, to minister to their malignity, 
 their love of money, or even of fame. For per- 
 sons who degrade it to such purposes, the deepest 
 contempt of which his kindly nature could admit 
 was at all times in store. ' Unhappv mortal!' says 
 he to the literary tradesman, the man who writes 
 for gain, " Unhappy mortal! that with science 
 and art, the noblest of all instruments, effectest 
 ami attemptest nothing more, than the day-drudge 
 with the meanest! That in the domain of per- 
 fect Freedom bearest about, in thee the spirit of 
 Sla\ As Schiller viewed it, genuine litera- 
 
 ture includes the essence of philosophy, religion, 
 art ; whatever speak.-, to the immortal part of 
 
 man. The daughter, she is likewise the DUTSe ol 
 all that is spiritual and exalted in our character. 
 The boon she bestows is tiuth ; truth not merely 
 
 physical, political, economical, Biich as the sensual
 
 302 schiller's life. 
 
 man in us is perpetually demanding, ever ready to 
 reward, and likely in general to find ; but truth of 
 moral feeling, truth of taste, that inward truth in 
 its thousand modifications, which only the most 
 etherial portion of our nature can discern, but 
 without which that portion of it languishes and 
 dies, and we are left divested of our birthright, 
 thenceforward * of the earth earthy', machines for 
 earning and enjoying, no longer worthy to be 
 called the Sons of Heaven. The treasures of 
 Literature are thus celestial, imperishable, beyond 
 all price : with her is the shrine of our best 
 hopes, the palladium of pure manhood ; to be 
 among the guardians and servants of this is the 
 noblest function that can be entrusted to a mor- 
 tal. Genius, even in its faintest scintillations, is 
 ' the inspired gift of God' ; a solemn mandate to 
 its owner to go forth and labour in his sphere, to 
 keep alive i the sacred fire' among his brethren, 
 which the heavy and polluted atmosphere of this 
 world is for ever threatening to extinguish. Woe 
 to him if he neglect this mandate, if he hear not 
 its small still voice ! Woe to him if he turn this 
 inspired gift into the servant of his evil or igno- 
 ble passions ; if he offer it on the altar of vanity, 
 if he sell it for a piece of money ! 
 
 { The Artist, it is true,' says Schiller, ' is the 
 ' son of his age ; but pity for him if he is its pupil, 
 c or even its favourite ! Let some beneficent divi-
 
 CHARACTER. 303 
 
 nity snatch him when a Buckling from the breast 
 of his mother, and nurse him with the milk of a 
 better time ; that he may ripen to his full stature 
 beneath a distant Grecian sky. And having 
 grown to manhood, let him return, a foreign shape, 
 into his century; not, however, to delight it by 
 his presence; but dreadful like the son or Aga- 
 memnon to purify it. The Matter of his works 
 he will take from the present ; but their Form he 
 will derive from a nobler time, nay, from beyond 
 all time, from the absolute unchanging unity of 
 hi- nature. Here from the pure a?ther of his 
 spiritual essence, flows down the Fountain of 
 Beauty, uncontaminated by the pollutions of ages 
 and generations, which roll to and fro in their 
 turbid vortex far beneath it. His Matter caprice 
 can dishonour, as she has ennobled it ; but 
 the chaste form is withdrawn from her muta- 
 tions. The Roman of the first century had long 
 bent the knee before his Ca?sars, when the 
 statues ol Home were still standing erect ; the 
 temples continued holy to the eye, when their 
 gods had long been a laughing-stock ; and the 
 abominations of a Nero and a Comniodns were 
 silently rebuked by the style of the edifice which 
 
 Kent them its concealment. Man has lost his 
 dignity, but Art has saved it, and preserved it 
 
 lor him in expressive marbles. Truth still lives 
 in fiction, and from the copy the original will be 
 
 tored.
 
 304 schiller's life. 
 
 ' But how is the Artist to guard himself from 
 the corruptions of his time, which on every side 
 assail him ? By despising its decisions. Let him 
 look upwards to his dignity and his mission, not 
 downwards to his happiness and his wants. 
 Free alike from the vain activity, that longs to 
 impress its traces on the fleeting instant ; and 
 from the discontented spirit of enthusiasm that 
 measures hy the scale of perfection the meagre 
 product of reality, let him leave to common 
 sense, which is here at home, the province of 
 the actual ; while he strives from the union of 
 the possible with the necessary to bring out the 
 ideal. This let him imprint and express in fic- 
 tion and truth, imprint it in the sport of his im- 
 agination and the earnest of his actions, imprint 
 it in all sensible and spiritual forms, and cast it 
 silently into everlasting time.'* 
 Nor were these sentiments, be it remembered, 
 the mere boasting manifesto of a hot-brained in- 
 experienced youth, entering on literature with feel- 
 ings of heroic ardour, which its difficulties and 
 temptations would soon deaden or pervert : they 
 are the calm principles of a man, expressed with 
 honest manfulness, at a period when the world 
 could compare them with a long course of con- 
 duct. In this just and lofty spirit, Schiller under- 
 
 * Uber die JEsthelische Erziehmg des Menschen.
 
 I w \u \( n.K. 306 
 
 took the business of literature ; in the same spirit, 
 be pursued it with unflinching energy all the days 
 of his life. The common, and some uncommon, 
 difficulties of a fluctuating ami dependent existence 
 could not quench or abate his zeal : sickness itself 
 seemed hardly to afiect him. During his Ias1 
 fifteen years, he wrote his noblest works ; yet, as 
 it has been proved too well, no day of that period 
 could have passed without its load of pain.* Pain 
 could not turn him from his purpose, or shake his 
 equanimity: in death itself he was calmer and 
 calmer. Nor has he gone without his recom- 
 pense. To the credit of the world it can he re- 
 corded, that their suffrages, which he never 
 courted, were liberally bestowed on him: happier 
 than the mighty Milton, he found ' fit hearers,' 
 even in his lifetime, and they were not ' few'. 
 His effect on the mind of his own country has 
 been deep and universal, and bids fair to be 
 
 abiding: his effect on other countries must in 
 time he equally decided ; for such nohleness of 
 heart and soul, shadowed forth in beautiful impe- 
 rishable emblems, is ii treasure, which belongs not 
 
 * On a surgical inspection <>i his body after death, the most 
 vital or re found totally deranged. ' The structure of 
 
 the lun in great pari oyed, the cavities of the heart 
 
 were m arlj grown up, tin- liver had become bard, and the gall- 
 bladder was extended to an extraordinary sise.' — Ducr'mg. 
 
 \
 
 .306 schiller's life. 
 
 to one nation but to all. In another age this 
 Schillerwill stand forth in the foremost rank among 
 the master-spirits of his century ; and be admitted 
 to a place among the chosen of all centuries. His 
 works, the memory of what he did and was, will 
 rise afar off like a towering land-mark in the soli- 
 tude of the Past, when distance shall have dwarfed 
 into invisibility the lesser people that encompassed 
 him, and hid him from the near beholder. 
 
 On the whole, we may pronounce him happy. 
 His days passed in the contemplation of ideal 
 grandeurs ; he lived among the glories and solem- 
 nities of universal Nature ; his thoughts were of 
 sages and heroes, and scenes of elysian beauty. 
 It is true, he had no rest, no peace ; but he enjoyed 
 the fiery consciousness of his own activity, which 
 stands in place of it for men like him. It is true, 
 he was long sickly : but did he not even then con- 
 ceive and body forth Max Piccolomini, andThekla, 
 and the Maid of Orleans, and the scenes of Wit- 
 helm Tell P It is true, he died early ; but the stu- 
 dent will exclaim with Charles XII. in another 
 case : c Was it not enough of life, when he had 
 conquered kingdoms ?' These kingdoms which 
 Schiller conquered, were not for one nation at the 
 expense of suffering to another ; they were soiled 
 by no patriot's blood, no widow's, no orphan's 
 tear : they are kingdoms conquered from the
 
 CHARACTER. 307 
 
 barrel] realms of Darkness, to increase the hap- 
 piness, and dignity, and power, of all men ; new 
 
 tonus of Truth, new maxims of Wisdom, new 
 images and scenes of Beauty, won from the 'void 
 and formless Infinite ;' a k-r»//<n it aid 'a possession 
 for ever,' to all the generations of the Earth. 
 
 x 2
 
 APPENDIX.
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Note A. Page 40. 
 
 DANIEL SCHUBART. 
 
 Tin: enthusiastic discontent so manifest in the Robbers has 
 by some been in part attributed to Schiller's intercourse with 
 Schubart. This seems as wise as the hypothesis of Gray's 
 Alderman, who aft er half a century of turtle-soup, imputed 
 tlie ruin of his health to eating two unripe grapes ; ' he felt 
 them cold upon his stomach, the moment they were over; he 
 ii vt r L r,, t the bitter of them. 1 Schiller, it appears, saw Schu- 
 bart only once, and their conversation was not of a confidential 
 kind. For any influence this interview could have produced 
 upon the former, the latter could have merited no mention 
 here : it u on other grounds that we refer to him. Schubart's 
 history, not devoid of interest in itself, unfolds in a striking 
 light the circumstances under which Schiller stood at present; 
 and may serve to justify the violence of his alarms, which to 
 the happy natives of our Island might otherwise appear pusil- 
 
 lanimoua and excessive. For these reasons we subjoin a sketch 
 of a. 
 
 5( bubart'f character is not a new one in literature; nor is it 
 
 ■age that his Lift should have been unloitunate. A warm 
 
 id '|iirit; a glowing lain v, and a friendly heart; every
 
 312 APPENDIX. 
 
 faculty but diligence, and every virtue but ' the understrap- 
 ping virtue of discretion' : such is frequently the constitution 
 of the poet ; the natural result of it also has frequently been 
 pointed out, and sufficiently bewailed. This man was one of 
 the many who navigate the ocean of life with ' more sail than 
 ballast' ; his voyage contradicted every rule of seamanship, 
 and necessarily ended in a wreck. 
 
 Christian Friedrich Daniel Schubart was born at Obersont- 
 heim in Swabia, on the 26th of April, 1739. His father, a 
 well-meaning soul, officiated there in the multiple capacity of 
 schoolmaster, precentor and curate ; dignities which, with vari- 
 ous mutations and improvements, he subsequently held in 
 several successive villages of the same district. Daniel from 
 the first was a thing of inconsistencies ; his life proceeded as if 
 by fits and starts. At school, for a while, he lay dormant : at 
 the age of seven he could not read, and had acquired the repu- 
 tation of a perfect dunce. But ' all at once,' says his biogra- 
 pher, • the rind which inclosed his spirit .started asunder' ; and 
 Daniel became the prodigy of the school ! His good father 
 determined to make a learned man of him : he sent him at the 
 age of fourteen to the Nordlingen Lyceum, and two years 
 afterwards to a similar establishment at Niirnberg. Here 
 Schubart began to flourish with all his natural luxuriance ; 
 read classical and domestic poets ; spouted, speculated ; wrote 
 flowing songs ; discovered' a decided turn for music,' and even 
 composed tunes for the harpsichord ! In short, he became an 
 acknowledged genius : and his parents consented that he 
 should go to Jena, and perform his cursus of Theology. 
 
 Schubart's purposes were not at all like the decrees of Fate : 
 he set out towards Jena ; and on arriving at Erlangen, resolved 
 to proceed no farther, but perform his cursus where he was. 
 For a time he studied well; but afterwards ' tumultuously,' 
 that is, in violent fits, alternating with fits as violent of idle- 
 ness and debauchery. He became a Bursche of the first 
 water ; drank and declaimed, rioted and ran in debt ; till his
 
 NOTE i. 313 
 
 parents, unable any longer to support bucB expenses, were 
 glad i<> seiae the first opening in his cursus, and recal him. 
 He returned to them with a mind levered by intemperance, 
 and a constitution permanently injured; his heart burning with 
 
 j ret, and vanity, and love of pleasure ; his head without habits 
 of activity or principles of judgment, a whirlpool where fan- 
 tasies and hallucinations and ' fragments of science' were cha- 
 otically jumbling to and fro. But he could babble college- 
 latin; and talk with a trenchant tone about the ' revolutions of 
 Philosophy. 1 Such accomplishments procured him pardon 
 from his parents : the preccntorial spirit of his father was 
 more than reconciled, on discovering that Daniel could also 
 preach, and play upon the organ. The good old people still 
 loved their prodigal, and would not cease to hope in him. 
 
 As a preacher Schubart was at first very popular; he imi- 
 tated Cramer ; but at the same time manifested first-rate pul- 
 pit talents of his own. These, however, he entirely neglected 
 to improve : presuming on his gifts and their acceptance, he 
 in to 'play such fantastic tricks before high Heaven,' as 
 made his audience sink to yawning, or explode in downright 
 laughter. I le often preached extempore ; once he preached 
 in verse! His love of company and east diverted him from 
 study : bis musical propensities diverted him still farther. I le had 
 gifts as an organist; but to handle t ho concordance 
 and to make ' the heaving bellows learn to blow' were incon- 
 Dt thing 
 Vet withal it was impossible to hate poor Schubart, or even 
 riously to dislike him. A joyful, piping, guileless mortal, 
 od nature, innocence of heart, and love of frolic beamed 
 from every feature of bis count; name; lie wished no ill to any 
 
 son of Adam. He was musical and poetical, a maker and a 
 
 , humorous also, speculative, discur- 
 
 ch, though aimlei and redundant, glittered with 
 
 tin hues of fimcy, and here and there with the keene I rays of 
 
 intellect. He was vain, bill had no touch of pride; and the
 
 314 APPENDIX. 
 
 excellencies which he loved in himself, he acknowledged and 
 as warmly loved in others. He was a man of few or no prin- 
 ciples, but his nervous system was very good. Amid his cho- 
 sen comrades, a jug of indifferent beer and a pipe of tobacco 
 could change the earth into elysium for him, and make his 
 brethren demigods. To look at his laughing eyes, and his 
 effulgent honest face, you were tempted to forget that he was 
 a perjured priest, that the world had duties for him which he 
 was neglecting. Had life been all a may-game, Schubart 
 was the best of men, and the wisest of philosophers. 
 
 Unluckily it was not : the voice of Duty had addressed him 
 in vain ; but that of Want was more impressive. He left his 
 father's house, and engaged himself as tutor in a family at 
 Konigsbronn. To teach the young idea how to shoot had few 
 delights for Schubart : he soon gave up this place in favour of a 
 younger brother ; and endeavoured to subsist, for some time, by 
 affording miscellaneous assistance to the clergy of the neigh- 
 bouring villages. Ere long, preferring even pedagogy to 
 starvation, he again became a teacher. The bitter morsel 
 was sweetened with a seasoning of music : he was appointed 
 not only schoolmaster but also organist, of Geisslingen. A 
 fit of diligence now seized him : his late difficulties had im- 
 pressed him ; and the parson of the place, who subsequently 
 married Schubart's sister, was friendly and skilful enough to 
 turn the impression to account. Had poor Schubart always 
 been in such hands, the epithet 'poor' could never have be- 
 longed to him. In this little village-school he introduced 
 some important reforms and improvements, and in conse- 
 quence attracted several valuable scholars. Also for his own 
 behoof, he studied honestly. His conduct here, if not irre- 
 prehensible, was at least very much amended. His marriage) 
 in his twenty-fifth year, might have improved it still farther; 
 for his wife was a good soft-hearted amiable creature, who loved 
 him with her whole heart, and would have died to serve him. 
 
 But new preferments awaited Schubart, and with them new
 
 NOTE A. 315 
 
 temptations. His tame as .1 musician was deservedly cxtend- 
 ino : in time it readied Ludwigsburg, and the Grand Duke of 
 Wurtemberg himself heard Schubart spoken of! The school- 
 master of Geisslingen was, in 17(38, promoted to be organist 
 and hand-director in this gay and pompous court. With a 
 bounding heart, he tossed away his ferula, and hastened to the 
 scene, where joys lbrevermore seemed calling on him. He 
 plunged into the heart of business and amusement. Besides 
 the music which he taught and played, publicly and privately, 
 with great applause, he gave the military officers instruction 
 in various branches of science ; he talked and feasted; he 
 indited songs and rhapsodies ; he lectured on History and the 
 Belles Lcttres. All this was more than Schubart's head could 
 Stand. In a little time he fell in debt ; took up with virtuosi ; 
 began to read Voltaire, and talk against religion in his drink. 
 From the rank of genius, he was fast degenerating into that of 
 profligate : his affairs grew more and more embarrassed ; and 
 he had no gift of putting any order in them. Prudence was 
 not one of Schubart's virtues ; the nearest approximation he 
 could make to it was now and then a little touch of cunning. 
 His wife still loved him; loved him with that perverseness of 
 affection, which increases in the inverse ratio of its requital : 
 she had long patiently endured his follies and neglect, happy 
 if she could obtain a transient hour of kindness from him. 
 Hut his endless course of riot, and the straits to which it had 
 reduced their hapless family, at length overcame her spirits : 
 -he grew melancholy, almost broken-hearted; and her father 
 took bei home to him, with her children, from the spendthrift 
 who had hecn her ruin. Schubart's course in Ludwigsburg 
 ing 10 us close ; Ins extravagance increasedi and 
 debts pi' ised heavier and heavier on him; for some scandal 
 mi!i a roung woman of tb place, he was cast into prison; and 
 I' 1 out -.1 11, with an injunction forthwith to qui! the dominions 
 1 ih< ( hrand Dull 
 Forlorn and homeless, lien then wai Schubart footing the
 
 316 APPENDIX. 
 
 hard highway, with a staff in his hand, and one solitary Thaler 
 in his purse, not knowing whither he should go. At Heil- 
 bronn, the Biirgermeister Wachs permitted him to teach his 
 Biirgermeisterinn the harpsichord ; and Schubart did not die 
 of hunger. For a space of time, he wandered to and fro, with 
 numerous impracticable plans ; now talking for his victuals ; 
 now lecturing or teaching music ; kind people now attracted 
 to him by his genius and misfortunes, and anon repelled from 
 him by the faults which had abased him. Once a gleam of 
 court preferment revisited his path : the Elector Palatine was 
 made acquainted with his gifts, and sent for him to Schwet- 
 zingen to play before him. His playing gratified the Electo- 
 ral ear ; he would have been provided for, had he not in con- 
 versation with his Highness happened to express a rather free 
 opinion of the Manheim Academy, which at that time was his 
 Highness' hobby. On the instant of this luckless oversight, 
 the door of patronage was slammed in Schubart's face, and he 
 stood solitary on the pavement as before. 
 
 One Count Schmettau took pity on him ; offered him his 
 purse and home ; both of which the way-worn wanderer was 
 happy to accept. At Schmettau's he fell in with Baron Lei- 
 den, the Bavarian envoy, who advised him to turn Catholic, 
 and accompany the returning embassy to Munich. Schubart 
 hesitated to become a renegade ; but departed with his new 
 patron, upon trial. In the way, he played before the Bishop 
 of Wurzburg ; was rewarded by his Princely Reverence with 
 gold as well as praise ; and arrived under happy omens at Mu- 
 nich. Here for a while, fortune seemed to smile on him again. 
 The houses of the great were thrown open to him ; he talked 
 and played, and fared sumptuously every day. He took seri- 
 ous counsel with himself about the great Popish question ; 
 now inclining this way, now that : he was puzzling which to 
 choose, when Chance entirely relieved him of the trouble. 
 ' A person of respectability' in Munich wrote to Wurtemburg
 
 NOTE A. 317 
 
 to make inquiries who or what this general favourite was ; and 
 received for answer, that the general favourite was a villain, 
 and had been banished from Ludswigburg for denying that 
 there was a Holy Ghost! — Schubart was happy to evacuate 
 Munich without tuck of drum. 
 
 Once more upon the road without an aim, the wanderer 
 turned to Augsburg, simply as the nearest city, and — setup 
 a Newspaper ! The Deutehe Chronik flourished in his hands; 
 in a little while it had acquired a decided character for 
 sprigbtliness and talent; in time it became the most widely 
 circulated journal of the country. Schubart was again a pros- 
 perous man : his writings, stamped with the vigorous impress 
 of his own genius, travelled over Europe ; artists and men of 
 letters gathered round him; he had money, he had fame; the 
 rich and noble threw their parlours open to him, and listened 
 with delight to his overflowing, many-coloured conversation. 
 He wrote paragraphs and poetry ; he taught music and gave 
 concerts ; he set up a spouting establishment, recited newly- 
 published poems, read Klopstock's Messias, to crowded 
 and enraptured audiences. Schubart's evil genius seemed 
 asleep, but Schubart himself awoke it. He had borne a grudge 
 
 'inst the < I' • r since his banishment from Ludwigs- 
 
 burg : and he now employed the facilities of his journal for 
 giving vi nt t>> it. lb criticised the priesthood of Augsburg; 
 ■peculated on their selfishness and cant, and took every op- 
 portunity of turning them and their proceedings into ridicule. 
 The Jesuits especially, whom lie regarded as a fallen body, lie 
 treated with extreme freedom; exposing their deceptions, and 
 holding ii|) to public contumely certain quacks whom they 
 patronized. The Jesuitic Beast was prostrate, but not dead: 
 it had still strength enough to lend a dangerous kick to any 
 .me too near it. (l ening, an official person 
 
 w. ute. I upon Schubart, :nu\ mentioned an arrest bj virtue of a 
 
 arrant from i l eister! Schubart was obliged 
 
 i of the Protestant party made an effort
 
 318 APPENDIX. 
 
 in his favour : they procured his liberty, but not without a sti- 
 pulation that he should immediately depart from Augsburg. 
 Schubart asked to know his crime ; but the Council answered 
 him : ' We have our reasons ; let that satisfy you' ; and with 
 this very moderate satisfaction, he was forced to leave their city. 
 But Schubart wat now grown an adept in banishment ; so 
 trifling an event could not unhinge his equanimity. Driven 
 out of Augsburg, the philosophic editor sought refuge in Ulm, 
 where the publication of his journal had, for other reasons, 
 already been appointed to take place. The Deutche Chronik 
 was as brilliant here as ever: it extended more and more 
 through Germany ; ' copies of it even came to London, Paris, 
 Amsterdam, and Petersburgh.' Nor had its author's fortune 
 altered much ; he had still the same employments and remu- 
 nerations and extravagancies ; the same sort of friends, the 
 same sort of enemies. The latter were a little busier than 
 formerly : they propagated scandals; engraved caricatures, in- 
 dited lampoons against him ; but this he thought a very small 
 matter. A man that has been three or four times banished, 
 and as often put in prison, and for many years on the point of 
 starving, will not trouble himself much about a gross or two 
 of pasquinades. Schubart had his wife and family again beside 
 him, he had money also to support them ; so he sang and fid- 
 dled, talked and wrote, and ' built the lofty rhyme', and cared 
 no fig for any one. 
 
 But enemies, more fell than these, were lurking for the 
 thoughtless Man of Paragraphs. The Jesuits had still their 
 feline eyes upon him, and longed to have their talons in his 
 flesh. They found a certain General Ried, who joined them 
 on a quarrel of his own. This General Ried, the Austrian 
 Agent at Ulm, had vowed inexpiable hatred against Schubart, 
 for a cause which proves the General to have been the weakest 
 man of that or any other century : once Schubart had engaged to 
 play before him, and then finding that the harpsichord was out of 
 order, had refused, flatly refused ! The General's elevated
 
 NOTE A. 
 
 :ny 
 
 spirit ealled for vengeance on this impudent plebeian; the 
 tits encouraged bin ; and thus all lay in eager watch. An 
 •rtunitv ere long occurred. One week in 1778, there ap- 
 peared in Schubert's newspaper, an Extract of a Letter from 
 Vienna, stating that ' the Empress Maria Theresa had been 
 struck by apoplexy.' On reading which, the General made 
 instant application to his Ducal Highness, requesting that the 
 publisher of this 'atrocious libel' should be given up to him, 
 and ' sent to expiate his crime in Hungary,' by imprisonment 
 — for life. The Duke desired his gallant friend to be at ease, 
 for that he had long had his own eye on this man, and would 
 himself take charge of him. Accordingly, a few days after, 
 Hcrr von Scholl, comptroller of the Convent at Blaubcuren, 
 came to Schubart with a multitude of compliments, inviting 
 him to dinner, ' as there was a stranger wishing to be intro- 
 duced to him.' Schubart sprang into the Schlitten with this 
 wolf in sheep's clothing, and away they drove to Blaubcuren. 
 Arrived here, the honourable Ilcrrvon Scholl left him in a 
 private room, and soon returned with a posse of official Ma- 
 jors and Aintmcn, the chief of whom advanced to Schubart, 
 and declared him — an arrested man ! The hapless Schubart 
 thought it was a jest ; but alas here was no jesting! Schubart 
 then said with a composure scarcely to be looked for, that 
 4 he hoped the Duke would not condemn him unheard!' In 
 this too he was deceived ; the men of office made him mount 
 a carriage with them, and si t oil' without delay for Hohenas- 
 |i<rg. The Duke himself was there with his Duchess, when 
 these blood-hounds and their prey arrived: the princely couple 
 /( d from a window as the group went past them, and a 
 fellow creature took his farewell look of sun and sky I 
 
 If hitherto tli<- follii ] of this man have east an air of farce 
 
 upon his raftering*, even when in pan unmerited, such senti« 
 Bents must now ghre place to that of indignation at his cruel 
 and cold-blooded peraecutoi - hubart, who never had the 
 
 heM to hurt a fly, and with all hi I null I iviiou , had been no
 
 320 APPENDIX. 
 
 man's enemy but his own, was conducted to a narrow subter- 
 raneous dungeon, and left, without book or pen, or any sort of 
 occupation or society, to chew the cud of bitter thought, and 
 count the leaden months as they passed over him, and brought 
 no mitigation of his misery. His Serene Transparency of 
 Wiirtemburg, nay, the heroic General himself, might have 
 been satisfied, could they have seen him : physical squalor, 
 combined with moral agony, were at work on Schubart ; at 
 the end of a year, he was grown so weak, that he could not 
 stand, except by leaning on the walls of his cell. A little 
 while, and he bade fair to get beyond tne reach of all his ty- 
 rants. This, however, was not what they wanted. The 
 prisoner was removed to a wholesome upper room ; allowed 
 the use of certain books, the sight of certain company, and 
 had, at least, the privilege to think and breathe without ob- 
 struction. He was farther gratified by hearing that his wife 
 and children had been treated kindly : the boys had been ad- 
 mitted to the Stuttgard school, where Schiller was now study- 
 ing ; to their mother there had been assigned a pension of two 
 hundred gulden. Charles of Wiirtemberg was undoubtedly 
 a weak and heartless man, but we know not that he was a sa- 
 vage one: in the punishment of Schubart, it is possible enough 
 that he believed himself to be discharging an important duty 
 to the world. The only subject of regret is that any duty to 
 the world, beyond the duty of existing inoffensively, should 
 be committed to such hands ; that men like Charles and Rietl, 
 endowed with so very small a fraction of the commonest 
 faculties of manhood, should have the destiny of any living 
 thine at their controul. 
 
 Another mitigating circumstance in Schubart's lot, was the 
 character of his gaoler. This humane person had himself 
 tasted the tender mercies of ' paternal' government ; he knew 
 the nature of a dungeon better even than his prisoner. ' For 
 four years' we are told, ' he had seen no human face ; his scanty 
 food had been lowered to him through a trap-door ; neither
 
 Mill *. 
 
 321 
 
 chair nor table were allowed liim, his cell was never swept, 
 his beard and nails were left to grow, the humblest conveni- 
 
 encea of civilized humanity were denied him!'* On this man, 
 affliction had produced its softening not its hardening influ- 
 ence : he had grown religious, and merciful in heart ; he stu- 
 died to alleviate Schuhart's hard fate hy every means within 
 his power. He spoke comfortingly to him ; ministered to his 
 infirmities; and. in spite of orders, lent him all his hooks. 
 These it is true were only treatises on thcosophy and mystical 
 devotion: hut they were the best he had ; and to Schuhart in 
 bia Brat lonely dungeon, they allbrded occupation and solace. 
 
 Human nature will accommodate itself to any thing. The 
 King of Pontus taught himself to eat poison: Schubart, cut 
 out from intemperance and jollity, did not pine away in con- 
 finement and abstemiousness ; he had lost Voltaire and gay 
 company, he found delight in solitude and Jacob Bdhm. Na- 
 ture had been too good to him, to let his misery in any case 
 be unalloyed. The vague unguided ebullience of spirit, which 
 had so often set the table in a roar, and made him the most 
 fascinating of dehauchecs, was now mellowed into a cloudy en- 
 thusiasm, the sable of which was still copiously blended with 
 rainbow colours. His hrainhad received a slight though incura- 
 ble Ciack ; there was a certain exasperation mixed with his 
 unsettled fervour ; but he was not wretched, often even not 
 uncomfortable. His religion was not real ; but it had reality 
 enough for present purposea ; he wa at once a sceptic and a 
 mystic, a true disciple of Bdhm as well aa of Voltaire. For 
 afflicu il, irresolute, imaginative men like Schubart, this is not 
 
 a rare or alio >. tin r ineffectual resource : at the bottom of their 
 
 minds they doubt or disbelieve, but their hearts exclaim 
 
 • tad yet Mi l" i reported to have -uiil . '/'Inn muonewnzi Go 
 i • i uim ni <m ill' Continent, and that om mu Wiirtemberg. Thej nadt 
 
 |..uii.iur 1,1 tod ' tin. hk- the English, — So much i"i pap i i on
 
 322 APPENDIX. 
 
 against the slightest whisper of it ; they dare not look into the 
 fathomless abyss of Infidelity, so they cover it over with the 
 dense and strangely-tinted smoke of Theosophy. Schubart 
 henceforth now and then employed the phrases and figures of 
 religion ; but its principles had made no change in his theory 
 of human duties : it was not food to strengthen the weakness 
 of his spirit, but an opiate to stay its craving. 
 
 Schubart had still farther resources: like other great men in 
 captivity, he set about composing the history of his life. It 
 is true, he had no pens or paper ; but this could not deter him. 
 A fellow prisoner, to whom as he one day saw him pass by the 
 grating of his window, he had communicated his desire, en- 
 tered eagerly into the scheme : the two contrived to unfasten 
 a stone in a wall that divided their apartments ; when the pri- 
 son doors were bolted for the night, this volunteer amanuensis 
 took his place ; Schubart trailed his mattress to the friendly 
 orifice, and there lay down, and dictated in whispers the record 
 of his fitful story. These memoirs have been preserved ; they 
 were published and completed by a son of Schubart's : we 
 have often wished to see them, but in vain. 
 
 By day, Schubart had liberty to speak with certain visitors. 
 One of these, as we have said above, was Schiller. That 
 Schubart, in their single interview, was pleased with the enthu- 
 siastic friendly boy, we could have conjectured, and he has 
 himself informed us. • Excepting Schiller,' said the veteran 
 garretteer, in writing afterwards to Rheim, ' I scarcely know 
 of any German youth, in whom the sacred spark of genius 
 has mounted up within the soul like flame upon the altar of a 
 Deity. We are fallen into the shameful times, when women 
 bear rule over men ; and make the toilette a tribunal before 
 which the most gigantic minds must plead. Hence the stunted 
 spirit of our poets ; hence the dwarf products of their imagi- 
 nation; hence the frivolous witticism, the heartless sentiment, 
 crippled ant 1 ricketted by soups, ragouts and sweetmeats, 
 which you find in fashionable balladmongers.'
 
 NOTE A. 32.' J 
 
 Time and hours wear out the roughest day. The world 
 began to feel an interest in Schubart, and 10 take some pity on 
 
 him: his songs and poems were collected and published ; their 
 merit and their author's misery exhibited a shocking contrast. 
 His Highness of Wvirtemberg at length condescended to 
 remember that a mortal, of wants and feelings like his own, 
 had been forced by him to spend, in sorrow and inaction, the 
 third part of an ordinary lifetime ; to waste, and worse than 
 waste, ten years of precious time ; time, of which not all the 
 dukes and princes in the universe could give him back one in- 
 stant. He commanded Schubart to be liberated ; and the 
 rejoicing Editor (unacquitted, unjudged, unaccused !) once 
 more beheld the blue zenith and the full ring of the hori- 
 zon. He joined his wife at Stuttgard, and recommenced 
 Ins newspaper. The Dcutchc Chromic was again popular ; 
 the notoriety of its conductor made amends for the decay, 
 which critics did not fail to notice in his faculties. Schubart's 
 sufferings had in fact permanently injured him ; his mind was 
 warped and weakened by theosophy and solitude ; bleak north- 
 ern vapours often flitted over it, and chilled its tropical luxu- 
 riance. Yet he wrote and rhymed ; discoursed on the corruption 
 of the times, and on the means of their improvement. He 
 published tin Brst portion of his life, and often talked ama- 
 zingly about the Wandering .lew, and a romance of which he 
 wis to form the subject. The idea of making "Id Joannes a 
 /. mporibtu, tin- ' Wandering,' or as Schubart's countrymen de- 
 nominate hiiii. tin- ' Eternal .lew,' into a novel hero, was a 
 mighty favourite with him. In this antique cordwainer, as on 
 
 a raft at anchor in the stream of time, he would survey the 
 
 changes and wonders of two thousand year.-,: the Roman and 
 the Aral) m re to figure there ; the Crusader and the Circumna- 
 ! '.' •! 'I and the 1 ae. 
 
 I., hum . him i \f, the Man ' : i nd Space, 
 
 Joanne . the unre ting and an be a d< • 
 
 pel Schubart warmed : i with this idea; and
 
 324 APPENDIX. 
 
 talked about it in his cups, to the astonishment of simple souls. 
 He even wrote a certain rhapsody connected with it, which is 
 published in his poems. But here he rested ; and the pi'oject 
 of the Wandering Jew, which Goethe likewise meditated in his 
 youth, is still unexecuted. Goethe turned to other objects : and 
 poor Schubart was surprised by death, in the midst of his 
 schemes, on the 10th of October, 1791. 
 
 Of Schubart's character as a man, this record of his life 
 leaves but a mean impression. Unstable in his goings, with- 
 out principle or plan, he flickered through existence like an 
 ignis-fatuus ; now shooting into momentary gleams of happi- 
 ness and generosity, now quenched in the mephitic marshes 
 over which his zig-zag path conducted him. He had many 
 amiable qualities, but scarcely any moral worth. From first 
 to last, his circumstances were against him ; his education was 
 unfortunate, his fluctuating aimless wanderings enhanced its 
 ill effects. The thrall of the passing moment, he had no will ; 
 the fine endowments of his heart were left to riot in chaotic 
 turbulence, and their forces cancelled one another. With bet- 
 ter models and advisers, with more rigid habits, and a happier 
 fortune, he might have been an admirable man : as it is, he is 
 far from admirable. 
 
 The same defects have told with equal influence on his cha- 
 racter as a writer. Schubart had a quick sense of the beauti- 
 ful, the moving, and the true ; his nature was susceptible and 
 fervid ; he had a keen intellect, a fiery imagination ; and his 
 ' iron memory' secured for ever the various produce of so 
 many gifts. But he had no diligence, no power of self-denial. 
 His knowledge lay around him like the plunder of a sacked 
 city. Like this too, it was squandered in pursuit of casual 
 objects. He wrote in gusts; the labor limce et mora was a 
 thing he did not know. Yet his writings have great merit. 
 His newspaper essays abound in happy illustration and brilliant 
 careless thought. His songs, excluding those of a devotional
 
 NOTE A. 325 
 
 and theosophic cast, arc often full of nature, heartiness, and 
 
 true simplicity. ' From his youth upwards/ we arc told, ' he 
 ' studied the true old-german oolkstied; be watched the arti- 
 
 ' aan on the street, the craftsman in his workshop, the soldier 
 • in his guardhouse, the maid by the spinning-wheel ; and trans- 
 
 1 ferred the genuine spirit of primeval Germanism, which he 
 ' found, in them, to his own songs.' Hence their popularity, 
 which many of them still retain. ' In his larger lyrical pieces, 
 oIi-miw B i lu same not injudicious critic, ' we discover fearless 
 ' singularity ; wild imagination, dwelling rather on the grand 
 ' and frightful, than on the beautiful and soft ; deep, but sel- 
 ' dom long-continued feeling ; at times far-darting thoughts, 
 ' original images, stormy vehemence ; and generally a glowing 
 ' self-created, figurative diction. He never wrote to show his 
 ' art; but poured forth from the inward call of his nature, the 
 ' thought or feeling which happened for the hour to have do- 
 ' minion in him.'* 
 
 Such wire Schubai t and his works and fortunes ; the 
 disjecta membra of a richly-gifted but ill-starred and infatu- 
 ated p'> t t ! The image of his persecutions added speed to 
 Schiller's Might from Stuttgard ; may the image of his wasted 
 talents and ineffectual life add strength to our resolves of living 
 otherwise ! 
 
 • Jordau Lexicon j from which most part of th< above details are taken.
 
 326 APPENDIX, 
 
 Note B. Page 42. 
 
 LETTERS OF SCHILLER. 
 
 A few Extracts from Schiller's correspondence may be 
 gratifying to some readers. The Letters to Dalberg, which 
 constitute the chief part of it as yet before the public, are on 
 the whole less interesting than might have been expected, if 
 we did not recollect that the writer of them was still an 
 inexperienced youth, overawed by his idea of Dalberg, to 
 whom he could communicate with freedom only on a single 
 topic ; and besides oppressed with grievances, which of them- 
 selves would have weighed down his spirit, and prevented any 
 frank or cordial exposition of its feelings. 
 
 Of the Reichsfreiherr von Dalberg himself, this correspon- 
 dence gives us little information, and we have gleaned little 
 elsewhere. He is mentioned incidentally in almost every lite- 
 rary history connected with his time ; and generally as a mild 
 gentlemanly person, a judicious critic, and a warm lover of 
 the arts and their cultivators. The following notice of his 
 death is extracted from the Conversations-Lexicon, Part III, 
 'page 12: 'Died at Manheim, on the 27th of December, 
 ' 180G, in his 85th year, Wolfgang Heribert, Reichsfreyherr 
 ' von Dalberg ; knighted by the Emperor Leopold on his coro- 
 ' nation at Frankfort. A warm friend and patron of the 
 ' arts and sciences ; while the German Society flourished, at 
 ' Manheim, he was its first President ; and the theatre of that 
 ' town, the school of the best actors in Germany, of Irfland, 
 ' Beck, Beil, and many others, owes him its foundation, and its 
 ' maintenance throughout his long Intendancy, which he held
 
 NOTE B. 387 
 
 • nil 1803. As i writer and a poet] he ia no lesa favourably 
 ' known. We need only refer to Ins Cm a, a musical drama, 
 
 • and to the Moncli MM Camel.' — These letters of Schiller 
 were found among liis papers at his death; resetted from 
 
 destruction l>v two of his executors, and published at Carls- 
 
 ruhe, in a small duodecimo, in the year 1819. There is a ver- 
 bose preface, but no note or comment, though some such aid 
 is now and then a little wanted. 
 
 The letters most worthy of our notice are those relating to 
 the exhibition of the Robbers on the Manhcim stage, anil to 
 Schiller's consequent embarrassments and flight. From these, 
 accordingly, the most of our selections shall be taken. It is 
 curious to see with what timidity the intercourse on Schiller's 
 part commences ; and how this awkward shyness gradually 
 - place to some degree of confidence, as he becomes 
 acquainted with his patron, or is called to treat of subjects, 
 where he feels that he himself has a dignity, and rights of his 
 own, forlorn and humble as he is. At first he never mentions 
 Dalberg but with all his titles, some of which to our uncere- 
 monious cars seem ludicrous enough. Thus in the full style 
 of German reverence, he avoids directly naming his corres- 
 pondent, but uses thcoblique designation of ' your Excellency^ 
 or something equally exalted : and he begins his two earliest 
 letters with an address, which, literally interpreted, rims thus : 
 ■ Empire-free, Highly-wellborn, Particularly-niuch-to-be-ve- 
 nerated, Lord Privj Counsellor I 1 Such sounding phrases 
 
 maki 08 Miiilc: but tin v entirely depend on custom fur their 
 import, and the smile which tluy excite is not by any mean 
 
 a philosophic one. It is but fair that in our version we omit 
 
 them, "i it nder them by Bom< more grave equivalent. 
 The lii it letter is aa followa : 
 
 I tint,-. ] 
 
 ' In. proud judgment, passed upon me in the flattering 
 h-tti r. which I had the honoiu i<> n.<iv. from youi I
 
 328 APPENDIX. 
 
 ' lency, is enough to set the prudence of an Author on a very- 
 slippery eminence. The authority of the quarter it proceeds 
 ' from, would almost communicate to that sentence the stamp 
 ' of infallibility, if I could regard it as any thing but a mere 
 1 encouragement of my Muse. More than this a deep feeling 
 ' of my weakness will not let me think it ; but if my strength 
 ' shall ever climb to the height of a master-piece, I certainly 
 ' shall have this warm approval of your Excellency alone to 
 ' thank for it, and so will the world. For several years I have 
 ' had the happiness to know you from the public papers : long 
 ' ago the splendour of the Manheim theatre attracted my 
 ' attention. And, 1 confess, ever since I felt any touch of 
 ' dramatic talent in myself, it has been among my darling 
 ' projects some time or other to remove to Manheim, the true 
 ' temple of Thalia ; a project, however, which my closer con- 
 ' nection with Wiirtemburg might possibly impede. 
 
 ' Your Excellency's very kind proposal on the subject of the 
 ' Robbers, and such other pieces as I may produce in future, is 
 ' infinitely precious to me ; the maturing of it well deserves a 
 ' narrower investigation of your Excellency's theatre, its special 
 ' mode of management, its actors, the non plus ultra of its 
 ' machinery ; in a word, a full conception of it, such as I shall 
 ' never get while my only scale of estimation is this Stuttgard 
 ' theatre of ours, an establishment still in its minority. Un- 
 ' happily my economical circumstances render it impossible for 
 ' me to travel much ; though I could travel now with the 
 ' greater happiness and confidence, as I have still some 2ireg- 
 1 nant ideas for the Manheim theatre, which I could wish to 
 ' have the honour of communicating to your Excellency. For 
 ' the rest, I remain, &c.' 
 
 From the second letter we learn that Schiller had engaged 
 to theatralize his original edition of the Robbers, and still 
 wished much to be connected in some shape with Manheim. 
 The third explains itself:
 
 NOTE B. 321) 
 
 'Stuttgmrd, Stk October, 1 7S1. 
 
 ' Heir then at last returns the luckless prodigal, the 
 remodelled Robbers I I am sorry that 1 have not kept the 
 time, appointed by myself: hut a transitory glance at the 
 Dumber and extent of the changes I have made, will, I trust, 
 be sufficient to excuse me. Add to this, that a contagious 
 epidemic ^as at work in our military Hospital, which, of 
 course, interfered very often with my otia poctica. After 
 finishing my work, I may assure you that I coidd engage 
 with less effort of mind, and certainly with far more con- 
 tentment, to compose a new piece, than to undergo the labour 
 I have just concluded. The task was complicated and tedious. 
 Here I had to correct an error, which naturally was rooted in 
 the very ground-work of the play ; there, perhaps, to sacri- 
 fice a beauty to the limits of the stage, the humour of the 
 pit, the stupidity of the gallery, or some such sorrowful con- 
 vention; and I need not tell you, that as in nature, so on 
 the Stage, an idea, an emotion, can have only one suitable 
 expression, one proper tone. A single alteration in a trait of 
 character may give a new tendency to the whole personage, 
 and, consequently, to his actions, and the mechanism of the 
 piece which depends on them. 
 ' In the original, the Rohhers are exhibited in strong con- 
 trast with each other ; and I dare maintain that it is difficult 
 to draw half a dozen robbers in strong contrast, without in 
 some of them offending the delicacy of the stage. In my 
 Brat conception of the piece, I excluded the idea of its ever 
 being represented in a theatre; hence came it thai Franz 
 irai planned as a reasoning villain; a plan which, though it 
 may content the thinking Reader, cannot fail to vex and weary 
 the Spectator, who dues not come to think, and who wants 
 not philosophy hut action. 
 
 ■ In tin I,, m i dition, I could not overturn tins arrangement 
 without breaking down the whole economy of die piece. A< -
 
 330 APPENDIX. 
 
 ' cordingly I can predict, with tolerable certainty, that Franz 
 ' when he appears on the stage, will not play the part 
 ' which he has played with the reader. And, at all events, 
 ' the rushing stream of the action will hurry the spectator 
 ' over all the finer shadings, and rob him of a third part of the 
 ' whole character. 
 
 ' Karl von Moor might chance to form an era on the 
 ' stage ; except a few speculations, which, however, work as 
 ' indispensable colours in the general picture, he is all action, 
 ' all visible life. Spiegelberg, Schweitzer, Hermann, are in 
 ' the strictest sense, personages for the stage; in a less 
 ' degree Amelia and the Father. 
 
 ' Written and oral criticisms I have endeavoured to turn to 
 ' advantage. The alterations are important ; certain scenes 
 ' are altogether new. Of this number, are Hermann's coun- 
 ' ter-plots to undermine the schemes of Franz ; his interview 
 ' with that personage, which in the first composition of the 
 ' work, was entirely and very unhappily forgotten. His inter- 
 ' view with Amelia in the garden has been postponed to the 
 ' succeeding act ; and my friends tell me that I could have 
 ' fixed upon no better act than this, no better time than a few 
 ' moments prior to the meeting of Amelia with Moor. Franz 
 ' is brought a little nearer human nature ; but the mode of 
 ' it is rather strange. A scene like his condemnation in the 
 ' fifth act has never, to my knowledge, been exhibited on any 
 ' stage ; and the same may be said of the scene where Amelia 
 ' is sacrificed by her lover. 
 
 ' If the piece should be too long, it stands at the discretion 
 < of the manager to abbreviate the speculative parts of it, or 
 ' here and there, without prejudice to the general impression, 
 ' to omit them entirely. But in the printing, I use the freedom 
 ' humbly to protest against the leaving out of any thing. I 
 ' had satisfactory reasons of my own for all that I allowed to 
 ' pass ; and my submission to the stage does not extend so far,
 
 MiTE B. 331 
 
 • thai I ewa have hoie* in my work, and mutilate the charac- 
 ra of men fox the eonvi oience of actors. 
 
 • In regard to the selection of costume, without wishing to 
 
 1 praaeribe any rules, 1 may be permitted to remark, that 
 ' though iii nature die:-* is unimportant, on the gtage it is 
 1 never so. In this particular, the taste of my Robber Moor 
 ' will not be difficult to hit. He wears a plume; tor this is 
 ' mentioned expressly in the play, at the time when he abdi- 
 
 itea his office. I have also given him a baton. His dress 
 ' should always be noble without ornament, unstudied but not 
 ' negligent 
 
 ' A young but excellent composer is working at a symphony 
 ' for my unhappy prodigal : I know, it will be masterly. So 
 
 Don as it i>> finished, 1 shall take the liberty of offering it 
 4 to you. 
 
 ' 1 must also beg you to excuse the irregular state of the 
 ' manuscript, the incorrectness of the penmanship. I was in 
 ' haste to get the piece ready for you ; hence the double sort 
 •of hand-writing in it; hence also my forbearing to corn t t 
 ' it. My copyist, according to the custom of all reforming 
 ' eaUigraphers, I find, has wofully abused the spelling. To 
 
 • ■in hide, I recommend myself and my endeavours to the 
 • kindness of an honoured judge. I am,' &c. 
 
 1 Sluttgard, \ul, December, L781, 
 
 With the change projected by your Excellency, in regard 
 
 th< publishing <>i my play, 1 feel entirely contented, espe- 
 
 • ciallyas 1 perceive that by this means two interests that had 
 
 ry alien, are again made one, without, as I hope, 
 
 prejudice t<> the result! and the success of my work. 
 
 i r 1 •!!' iiiv, ho touch* a on .cum ciln r 1 1 ru 
 
 which tin putt has mult i;<uu limn your 
 
 hands ; and th< le, in n ipt c( ol mj u If, i Gw 1 to be bo im-
 
 332 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 ' portant, that I shall beg to explain my mind at some length 
 • regarding them. At the outset, then, I must honestly con- 
 ' fess to you, I hold the projected transference of the action 
 ' represented in my play, to the epoch of the Landfried, and 
 ' the suppression of Private Wars, with the whole accompani- 
 ' ment which it gains by this new position, as infinitely better 
 ' than mine ; and must hold it so, although the whole piece 
 ' should go to ruin by it. Doubtless it is an objection, that in 
 1 our enlightened century, with our watchful police and fixed- 
 ' ness of statute, such a reckless gang should have arisen in 
 ' the very bosom of the laws, and still more, have taken root 
 ' and subsisted for years : doubtless the objection is well 
 1 founded, and I have nothing to allege against it, but the li- 
 ' cence of Poetry to raise the probabilities of the real world 
 ' to the rank of true, and its possibilities to the rank of pro- 
 ' bable. 
 
 ' This excuse, it must be owned, is little adequate to the 
 
 • objection it opposes. But when I grant your Excellency so 
 ' much (and I grant it honestly, and with Complete conviction), 
 ' what will follow? Simply that my play has got an ugly fault 
 ' at its birth, which fault, if I may say so, it must carry with it 
 ' to its grave, that fault being interwoven with its very nature, 
 
 • and not to be removed without destruction of the whole. 
 
 ' In the first place, all my personages speak in a style too 
 ' modern, too enlightened for that ancient time. The dialect is 
 ' not the right one. That simplicity so vividly presented to 
 ' us by die author of Gotz von Berlichingen, is altogether 
 ' wanting. Many long tirades, touches great and small, nay, 
 ' entire characters, are taken from the aspect of the present 
 ' world, and would not answer for the age of Maximilian. 
 1 In a word, this change would reduce the piece into something 
 ' like a certain wood-cut which I remember meeting with in 
 ' an edition of Virgil. The Trojans wore hussar boots, and 
 ' King Agamemnon had a pair of pistols in his belt. I should
 
 NOTE B. 333 
 
 ' commit ;i t rime against the ago of Maximilian, to avoid an 
 or against the iiu'c of Frederick the Second. 
 
 ' \_ mi. my whole episode of Amelia's love would make a 
 ' frightful contrast with the simple chivalry attachment of 
 ' that period. Amelia would, at all hasards, need to be 
 1 re-moulded into a chivalry maiden ; and I need not tell you 
 ' that this character, and the sort of love which reigns in my 
 ' work, are so deeply and broadly tinted into the whole picture 
 
 • of the Robber Moor, nay, into the whole piece, that every 
 ' part of the delineation would require to be re-painted, before 
 ' those tints could be removed. So likewise is it with the 
 1 character of Franz, that speculative, metaphysico-refming 
 ' knave. 
 
 ' In a word, I think I may affirm, that this projected trans- 
 1 position of my work, which, prior to the commencement, 
 ' would have lent it the highest splendour and completeness, 
 ' could not fail now, when the piece is planned and finished, 
 4 to change it into a defective quodlibet, a crow with peacock's 
 
 • leathers. 
 
 ' Your Excellency will forgive a father this earnest pleading 
 ' in behalf of his son. These are but words, and in the long 
 1 run every theatre can make of any piece what they think 
 'proper; the author must content himself. In the present 
 ' case, he looks upon it as a happiness that he has fallen into 
 ' such hands. With Heir Schwann, however, I will make it 
 ' a condition that, at least, he print the piece according to the 
 ' first plan. In the theatre, I pretend to no vote whatever. 
 
 ' I li.it other change relating to Amelia's death, was, pci- 
 
 ( hapa even more interesting to me. Believe me, your Excel- 
 
 • lency, this was the portion of iu\ play which cost me the 
 
 • ■_' 1 1 ;i!i ii t Hurt and deliberation, of all which the result was 
 
 ' nothing elie than this, that Moor mutt kill his Amelia, and 
 
 'that the action is even a potitivi b auty, in bia character ; on 
 'the one hand painting the aid, hi lover, on the other, the 
 
 • Bandit Captain, with the liveliest colours. But the vindica-
 
 334 APPENDIX. 
 
 tion of this part is not to be exhausted in a single letter. 
 For the rest, the few words which you propose to substitute 
 in place of this scene, are truly exquisite, and altogether 
 worthy of the situation. I should be proud of having writ- 
 ten them. 
 
 ' As Herr Schwann informs me that the piece, with the 
 music and indispensably necessary pauses, will last about five 
 hours (too long for any piece !), a second curtailment of it 
 will be called for. I should not wish that any but myself 
 undertook this task, and I myself, without the sight of a re- 
 hearsal, or of the first representation, cannot undertake it. 
 
 ' If it were possible that your Excellency could fix the 
 general rehearsal of the piece, some time between the 
 twentieth and the thirtieth of this month ; and make good 
 tome the main expenses of a journey to you, I should hope, 
 in some few days, I might unite the interest of the stage 
 with my own, and give the piece that proper rounding-off, 
 which, without an actual view of the representation, cannot 
 well be given it. On this point, may I request the favour of 
 your Excellency's decision soon, that I may be prepared for 
 the event. 
 
 ' Herr Schwann writes me that a Baron von Gemmingen 
 has given himself the trouble, and done me the honour, to 
 read my piece. This Herr von Gemmingen, I also hear, 
 is author of the Deutsche Hausvater. I long to have the 
 honour of assuring him that I liked his Hausvater uncom- 
 monly, and admired in it the traces of a most accomplished 
 man and writer. But what does the author of the Deutsche 
 Hausvater care about the babble of a young apprentice ? If 
 I should ever have the honour of meeting Dalberg at 
 Manheim, and testifying the affection and reverence I bear 
 him, I will then also press into the arms of that other, and 
 tell him how dear to me such souls are as Dalberg and 
 Gemmingen. 
 
 ' Your thought about the small Advertisement, before our 

 
 NOTE 11. 386 
 
 ■ production of the piece, 1 exceedingly approve of; along 
 ' with Uiiv 1 have enclosed a sketch of one. For the vest, 1 
 
 ' have the honour, with perfect respect, to be always,' fire. 
 
 This is the inclosed schemcof an Advertisement ; which was 
 
 afterwards adopted : 
 
 ' THE ROBBERS, 
 
 1 A PLAY. 
 
 ' The picture of a great, misguided soul, furnished with 
 rery gift for excellence, and lost in spite of all its gifts: 
 
 'unchecked ardour and had companionship contaminate his 
 ' heart ; hurry him from vice to vice, till at last he stands 
 ' at the head of a gang of murderers, heaps horror upon 
 ' horror, plunges from abyss to abyss into all the depths of 
 'desperation. Gnat and majestic in misfortune; and by 
 i misfortune improved, led back to virtue. Such a man in the 
 Robfo i Moor you shall bewail and hate, abhor and love. A 
 ' hypocritical, malicious deceiver, you shall likewise see un- 
 ' masked, and blown to pieces in his own mines. A feeble 
 
 • fond and too indulgent father. The sorrows of enthusiastic 
 1 love, and the torture of ungovcrned passion. Here also, not 
 
 • without abhorrence, you shall east a look into the interior 
 ' economy of vice ; and from the stage he taught how all the 
 
 plding of fortune cannot kill the inward worm; how terror, 
 aguish, n morse, and despair follow close upon the heels ofthe 
 
 ■ iricked. Let the spectator weep to-day before our Bcene, and 
 
 • mudder, and learn to bend his passions under the laws of 
 
 ■ n Hon and religion. Let the youth behold with affright the 
 
 • i nd of unbridled extravagance ; nor let the man depart firora 
 
 ' our theatre, without a feeling that Providence makes even 
 
 ' nHains instruments of His purposes and judgments, andean 
 ' marvellously unravel the most intricate perplexities of rate. 1 
 
 Whatever rev< rence Schiller i nt< rtai d ,; >r Dalh 
 critic and tron, and howi i ad< »pl hi 
 
 when the\ I judicious, it 1, plain, from variOU 
 
 of i li> nil to v i iting, he had all o firm
 
 336 APPENDIX. 
 
 persuasions of his own, and conscientiousness enough to adhere 
 to them while they continued such. In regard to the conduct- 
 ing of his life, his views as yet were far less clear. The follow- 
 ing fragments serve to trace him from the first exhibition of 
 his play at Manheim, to his flight from Stuttgard : 
 
 ' Stuttgard, \7th January, 1782. 
 ' I here in writing repeat my warmest thanks for the cour- 
 ' tesies received from your Excellency, for your attention to 
 ' my slender efforts, for the dignity and splendour you 
 ' bestowed upon my piece, for all your Excellency did to exalt 
 ' its little merits, and hide its weaknesses by the greatest out- 
 ' lay of theatric art. The shortness of my stay at Manheim 
 ' would not allow me to go into details respecting the play or 
 ' its representation ; and as I could not say all, my time being 
 ' meted out to me so sparingly, I thought it better to say abso- 
 ' lutely nothing. I observed much, I learned much ; and I 
 ' believe, if Germany shall ever find in me a true dramatic 
 ' poet, I must reckon the date of my commencement from the 
 ' past week.' * * * 
 
 ' Stuttgard, 24>thMay, 1782. 
 * * * < My impatient wish to see the piece played a se- 
 ' concl time, and the absence of my sovereign favouring that 
 ' purpose, have induced me, with some ladies and male friends, 
 ' as full of curiosity respecting Dalberg's theatre and Robbers 
 1 as myself, to undertake a little journey to Manheim, which 
 ' we are to set about to-morrow. As this is the principal aim 
 ' of our journey, and to mc a more perfect enjoyment of my 
 4 play is an exceedingly important object, especially since this 
 ' would put it in my power to set about Fiesco under better 
 ' auspices, I make it my earnest request of your Excellency, 
 ' if possible, to procure me this enjoyment on Tuesday, the 
 ' 28th current. * * *'
 
 NOTE U. 337 
 
 ShUtgard, \th June, 1788. 
 
 • The satisfaction I enjoyed at Manheim in such copious 
 fulness, I have paid, since my return, by this epidemical dis- 
 order, which lias made me till to-day entirely unfit to thank 
 your Excellency for so much regard and kindness. And yet 
 
 I am forced almost to repent the happiest journey of my life: 
 for by a truly mortifying contrast of Manheim with my native 
 country, it lias pained me so much, that Stuttgard and all 
 Swabian scenes are become intolerable to me. Unhappier 
 than 1 am can no one be. I have feeling enough of my bad 
 condition, pel haps also feeling enough of my meriting a bet- 
 ter ; and in both points of view but one prospect of relief. 
 
 • May I dare to cast myself into your arms, my generous 
 In nefactor ? I know how soon your noble heart inflames when 
 sympathy and humanity appeal to it ; I know how strong 
 your courage is to undertake a noble action, and how warm 
 your zeal to finish it. My new friends in Manheim, whose 
 
 I I spi Ct for you is boundless, told me this : but their assurance 
 w;h not necessary ; I myself in that hour of your time, which 
 I had the happiness exclusively to enjoy, read in your coun- 
 tenance far more than they had told me. It is this which 
 makes me hold togive myself without reserve to you, to put 
 my whole fate into your hands, and look to you for the hap- 
 piness of my life. As yet I am little or nothing. In this 
 Arctic Zone of taste, 1 shall never grow to any thing, unless 
 happier stars and a Grecian climate warm me into genuine 
 
 Need 1 say more, to expect from Dalbert all 
 lupport ' 
 
 • \ our Excellency gave me every hope to this effect ; the 
 Squeeze of the hand, that sealed yout promise, I shall for ( \i i 
 
 !■ 1 1 It your Bxcellencj will adopt the two or three hints 
 I have subjoined, and use them in a letter to the Duke, I 
 
 have no \<iv "i < .it misgivings as to the result. 
 
 • \nd now with a burning heart, I repeat tin- request, the 
 1 soul of all this letter. Could you look into tin- inter! t
 
 338 APPENDIX. 
 
 • my soul, could you see what feelings agitate it, could I paint 
 ' to you in proper colours how my spirit strains against the 
 " grievances of my condition, you would not, I know you 
 ' would not, delay one hour the aid which an application from 
 ' you to the Duke might procure me. 
 
 1 Again I throw myself into your arms, and wish nothing 
 ' more than soon, very soon, to have it in my power to show 
 1 by personal exertions in your service, the reverence with 
 ' which I could devote to you myself and all that I am.' 
 
 The ' hints' above alluded to, are given in a separate inclo- 
 sure, the main part of which is this r 
 
 ' I earnestly desire that you could secure my union with the 
 ' Manheim Theatre for a specified period (which at your re~ 
 ' quest might be lengthened), at the end of which I might 
 ■ again belong to the Duke. It will thus have the air rather 
 ' of an excursion than a final abdication of my country, and 
 ' will not strike them so ungraciously.* In this case, how- 
 ' ever, it would be useful to suggest that means of practising 
 ' and studying medicine might be afforded me at Manheim. 
 ' This will be peculiarly necessary, lest they sham, and higgle 
 ' about letting me away.' 
 
 Stuttgard, 15th July, 1782. 
 ' My long silence must have almost drawn upon me the re- 
 ' proach of folly from your Excellency, especially as I have 
 ' not only delayed answering your last kind letter, but also 
 ' retained the two books by me. All this was occasioned by 
 ' a harrassing affair which I have had to do with here. Your 
 ' Excellency will doubtless be surprised when you learn that, for 
 ' my last journey to you, I have been confined a fortnight un- 
 ' der arrest. Every thing was punctually communicated to
 
 NOTE B. 339 
 
 'the Duke. On this matter I have liatl an interview with 
 ' him. 
 
 • It' your Excellency think my prospects of coming to yoi 
 
 • anywise attainable! my only prayer is to accelerate the j'u/jil- 
 
 • steal nf thou. The reason why I now wish this with double 
 
 • earnestness, is one which I dare trust no whisper of to paper. 
 
 • This alone I can declare for certain, that within a month or 
 
 • two, if I have not the happiness of being with you, there will 
 remain no further hone o\' my ever being there. Ere that 
 
 , time, I shall be forced to take a step, which will render it im- 
 ■ possible for me to stay at Manheim.' * * * 
 
 The next two extracts are from letters to another corres- 
 pondent. Doering quotes them without name or date: their 
 purport sufficiently points out their place. 
 
 ' I must haste to get away from this : in the end they might 
 ' find mean apartment in the Hohenasperg, as they have found 
 ' the honest and ill-fated Schubart. They talk of better cul- 
 1 ture that I need. It is possible enough, they might culti- 
 
 • vats mc differently in Hohenasperg: but I had rather try to 
 ' make a shift with what culture I have got, or may still get, by 
 
 • my unassisted (Hints. This at least 1 owe to no one but my 
 ' own free choice, ami volition thai disdains constraint.' 
 
 ' In r< gard to those affairs, concerning which they wish to 
 
 ' [nit my spirit under wardship, I have long reckoned my mi- 
 ' nority to he concluded. The best of it is, that one can cast 
 
 ' away tuch clumsy manacles i me at li ast they shall not 
 ' cramp. 
 
 / 2
 
 340 APPENDIX. 
 
 [No date.] 
 ' Your Excellency will have learned from my friends at 
 Manheim, what the history of my affairs was up to your arri- 
 val, which unhappily I could not wait for. When I tell you 
 that I am flying my country, I have painted my whole for- 
 tune. But the worst is yet behind. I have not the necessary 
 means of setting my mishap at defiance. For the sake of 
 safety, I had to withdraw from Stuttgard with the utmost 
 speed, at the time of the Prince's arrival. Thus were my 
 economical arrangements suddenly snapped asunder : I could 
 not even pay my debts. My hopes had been set on a remo- 
 val to Manheim; there I trusted by your Excellency's assist- 
 ance, that my new play might not only have cleared me of 
 debt, but have permanently put me into better circumstances. 
 All this was frustrated by the necessity for hastening my re- 
 moval. I went empty away ; empty in purse and hope. I 
 blush at being forced to make such disclosures to you ; 
 though I know they do not disgrace -me. Sad enough for 
 me to see realized in myself the hateful saying, that mental 
 growth and full stature are things denied to every Swabian! 
 ' If my former conduct, if all that your Excellency knows of 
 my character, inspires you with confidence in my love of 
 honour, permit me frankly to ask your assistance. Pressingly 
 as I now need the profit I expect from my Fiesco, it will be 
 impossible for me to have the piece in readiness before three 
 weeks : my heart was oppressed ; the feeling of my own 
 situation drove me back from my poetic dreams. But if at 
 the specified period, I could make the play not only ready, 
 but as I also hope, worthy, I take courage from that persua- 
 sion, respectfully to ask that your Excellency would be so 
 obliging as advance for me the price that will then become 
 due. I need it now, perhaps more than I shall ever do 
 again throughout my life. I had near 200 florins of debt 
 in Stuttgard, which I could not pay. I may confess to you, 
 that this gives me more uneasiness, than any thing about my
 
 sort b. 341 
 
 1 future destiny I shall have no rest, till I am free on that 
 1 side. 
 
 • In eight days, too, my travelling purse will be exhausted. 
 ' It is yet utterly impossible tor me to labour with my mind. 
 
 • In my hand therefore are at present no resourees. 
 
 * * -K- 
 
 ' My actual situation being clear enough from what I have 
 ' already said. I hold it needless to afflict your Excellency with 
 ' any importuning picture of my want. Speedy aid is all that 
 ' I can now think of or wish. Herr Meyer has been requested 
 ' to communicate your Excellency's resolution to me, and to 
 ' save you from the ta.sk of writing to me in person at all. 
 
 • With peculiar respect, I call myself,' &c. 
 
 It is pleasing to record that the humble aid so earnestly and 
 modestly solicited by Schiller, was afforded him ; and that he 
 never forgot to love the man who had afforded it ; who had 
 assisted him, when assistance was of such essential value. In 
 the first fervour of his gratitude, for this and other favours, 
 the poet warmly declared that ' he owed all, all to Dalberg'; 
 and in a state of society when Patronage, as Miss Edgeworth 
 has observed, directly the antipodes of Mercy, is in general 
 ' twice cursed,' cursing him that gives and him that takes, it 
 says not a little for the character both of the obliged and the 
 obligl i in the present instance, that neither of them ever 
 ceased to remember their connexion with pleasure. Schiller's 
 
 first play had been introduced to the Stage by Dalberg, and 
 
 his last ua> dedicated to him. The venerable critic, in his 
 bty-third year, must have received with a calm joy the 
 
 tragedy of '/<//, sccompanied by an address bo full of kind- 
 i i ■. it must have gratified him to think that the 
 
 youth who »;i^ once his, and had now heroine the world's, 
 
 could, alter long expei ience, -till say of him : 
 
 And f< .11 1< Ij to tfa ill i>< ihoi 
 
 v aobli feel in ii iby own.
 
 34'2 
 
 APPENDIX. 
 
 Except this early correspondence, very few of Schiller's 
 letters, have been given to the world. In Doering's Appen- 
 dix, we have found one, written six years after the poet's 
 voluntary exile, and agreeably contrasted in its purport with 
 the agitation and despondency of that unhappy period. We 
 translate it for the sake of those who, along with us, regret 
 that while the world is deluged with insipid correspondences, 
 and ' pictures of mind' that were not worth drawing, the 
 correspondence of a man who never wrote unwisely should lie 
 mouldering in private repositories, ere long to be irretrievably 
 destroyed ; that the ' picture of a mind' who was among the 
 conscript fathers of the human race, should still be left so 
 vague and dim. This letter is addressed to Schwann, during 
 Schiller's first residence in Weimar : it has already been re- 
 ferred to in the Text. 
 
 Weimar, May 2, 1788. 
 1 You apologise for your long silence to spare me the pain 
 ' of an apology. I feel this kindness, and thank you for it. 
 
 • You do not impute my silence to decay of friendship ; a 
 1 proof that you have read my heart more justly, than my evil 
 ' conscience let me hope. Continue to believe that the me- 
 ' mory of you lives ineflfaceably in my mind, and needs not to 
 4 be brightened up by the routine of visits, or letters of assur- 
 ' ance. So no more of this. 
 
 ' The peace and calmness of existence, which breathes 
 ' throughout your letter gives me joy ; I who am yet drifting 
 ' to and fro between wind and waves, am forced to envy you 
 ' that uniformity, that health of soul and body. To me also 
 ' in time it will be granted, as a recompense for labours I have 
 
 * yet to undergo. 
 
 ' I have now been in Weimar nearly three quarters of a 
 ' year: after finishing my Carlos, I at last accomplished this 
 ' long-projected journey. To speak honestly, I cannot say
 
 NOTE B. 343 
 
 • but th.it 1 am exceedingly contented with the place; and mv 
 ' reasons air Dot difficult to see. 
 
 ' The utmost political undisturbedness and freedom, a very 
 ■ tolerable disposition in the people, little constraint in social 
 
 • intercourse, a select circle of interesting persons and think- 
 
 • ing heads, the respect paid to literary diligence: add to this 
 ' the imexpensiveness to me of such a town as Weimar. 
 ' Why should I not be satisfied ? 
 
 ' W ith W teland I am pretty intimate, and to him I must at- 
 ' tribute no small influence on my present happiness ; fori 
 1 like him, and have reason to believe that he likes me in 
 ' return. My intercourse with Herder is more limited, though 
 I i >tcem him highly as a writer and a man. It is the caprice 
 ' of chance alone which causes this ; for we opened our ac- 
 ' quaintance under happy enough onions. Besides, I have not 
 
 • always time to act according to my likings. With Bode no 
 ' one can be very friendly. I know not whether you think 
 ' here as I do. Goethe is still but expected out of Italy. 
 ' The Duchess Dowager is a lady of sense and talent, in whose 
 ' society one does not feci constrained. 
 
 ' I thank you for your tidings of the fate of Carlos on 
 ' your stage. To speak candidly, my hopes of its success on 
 ' any stage were not high ; and I know my reasons. It is 
 ' but fair that the Goddess of the Theatre avenge herself on 
 . for the little gallantry, with which I was inspired in 
 ' writing. In the mean time, though Carlos prove a never so 
 
 • decided failure on the Stage, I engage for it, our public shall 
 1 see it ten times acted, before they understand and fully esti- 
 
 ' mate the merit thai should counterbalance its defects. When 
 1 one has sei n the beauty of a work, and not till then, I think 
 
 • one is entitled to pronounce on its deformity. I hear, bow- 
 
 er, that the -cuin! representation succeeded better than 
 
 ' the first. i'hi ' i'Ii. r from tin- changes made upon 
 
 • tin- piece bj Dalberg, or from the fact, that on a lecond
 
 344 APPENDIX. 
 
 ' view, the public comprehended certain things, which on a 
 ' first, they — did not comprehend. 
 
 ' For the rest, no one can be more satisfied than I am that 
 ' Carlos, from causes honourable as well as causes dishonour- 
 ' able for it, is no speculation for the stage. Its very length 
 ' were enough to banish it. Nor was it out of confidence or 
 ' self-love that I forced the piece on such a trial ; perhaps, out 
 ' of self-interest rather. If in the affair my vanity played 
 ' any part, it was in this, that I thought the work had solid stuff 
 ' in it sufficient to outweigh its sorry fortune on the boards. 
 
 ' The present of your portrait gives me true pleasure. I 
 ' think it a striking likeness ; that of Schubart a little less so, 
 ' though this opinion may proceed from my faulty memory 
 ' as much as from the faultiness of Lobauer's drawing. The 
 ' engraver merits all attention and encouragement ; what I 
 ' can do for the extension of his good repute shall not be 
 ' wanting. 
 
 ' To your dear children present my warmest love. At Wie- 
 ' land's I hear much and often of your eldest daughter ; there 
 ' in a few days she has won no little estimation and affection. 
 ' Do I still hold any place in her remembrance ? Indeed, I 
 ' ought to blush that by my long silence I so ill deserve it. 
 
 ' That you are going to my dear native country, and will 
 ' not pass my Father without seeing him, was most welcome 
 ' news to me. The Swabians are a good people ; this I more 
 ' and more discover, the more I grow acquainted with the 
 ' other provinces of Germany. To my family you will be 
 ' cordially welcome. Will you take a pack of compliments 
 ' from me to them ? Salute my Father in my name; to my 
 ' Mother and my Sisters your daughter will take my kiss.' 
 
 ' And with these hearty words,' as Doering says, ' we shall 
 ' conclude this paper.'
 
 APPENDIX. 345 
 
 \,.ii. C. Paob 1 i:». 
 
 1 KIENDSHIP WITH (iOETHE. 
 
 Tin: history of Schiller's first intercourse with Goethe has 
 been recorded by the latter in a paper published a few years 
 ago in the Morphologic, a periodical work, which we helieve 
 he still occasionally continues or purposes to continue. The 
 paper is entitled Happy Incident ; and may be found in Part I, 
 Volume 1. (p. 90 — 96.) of the work referred to. The intro- 
 ductory portion of it we have inserted in the text at page 14.2; 
 the remainder, relating to certain scientific matters, and anti- 
 cipating some facts of our narrative, we judged it better to 
 reserve for the Appendix. After mentioning the publication 
 of Don Carlos, and adding that ' each continued to go on his 
 ' wav apart,' he proceeds : 
 
 ' His Essay on Grace and Dignity was yet less of a kind to 
 ' reconcile me. The philosophy of Kant, which exalts the 
 ' dignity of mind so highly, while appearing to restrict it, 
 
 • Schiller had joyfully embraced : it unfolded the extraordi- 
 ' nary qualities which Nature had implanted in him ; and in the 
 ' lively feeling of freedom and self-direction, he shewed hiin- 
 ' self unthankful to the Great Mother, who surely had not 
 ' acted like a step-dame towards him. Instead of viewing her 
 
 - self-subsisting, as producing with a living force, and ac- 
 
 irdingtfl appointed laws, alike the highest and the lowest of 
 
 ' her works, be took her up under the aspect of some empirical 
 
 ' native qualities of the human mind. Certain harsh passages I 
 
 1 could even directly apply to myself: they exhibited my con- 
 
 ii oftaitb in a false light; and I lilt that if written with- 
 
 • out particular attention to me, they were still worse ; ii>r in 
 1 that case, the ?ael chasm which lay between us, gaped bul so 
 ' much the more distinctly
 
 346 APPENDIX. 
 
 ' There was no union to be dreamed of. Even the mild 
 ' persuasion of Dalberg, who valued Schiller as he ought, 
 ' was fruitless: indeed the reasons I set forth against any pro- 
 ' ject of a union were difficult to contradict. No one could 
 ' deny that between two spiritual antipodes there was more 
 ' intervening than a simple diameter of the sphere: antipodes 
 • of that sort act as a sort of poles, and so can never coalesce. 
 ' But that some relation may exist between them, will appear 
 ' from what follows. 
 
 ' Schiller went to live at Jena, where I still continued unac- 
 ' quainted with him. About this time Batsch had set in motion a 
 ' Society for Natural History, aided by some handsome collec- 
 ' tions, and an extensive apparatus. I used to attend their peri- 
 ' odical meetings : one day I found Schiller there ; we happened 
 ' to go out together ; some discourse arose between us. He ap- 
 ' peared to take an interest in what had been exhibited ; but 
 ' observed, with great acuteness and good sense, and much to 
 ' my satisfaction, that such a disconnected way of treating Na- 
 ' ture was by no means grateful to the exoteric, who desired 
 ' to penetrate her mysteries. 
 
 ' I answered that perhaps the initiated themselves were 
 ' never rightly at their ease in it, and that there surely was 
 ' another way of representing Nature, not separated and dis- 
 ' united, but active and alive, and expanding from the whole 
 ' into the parts. On this point he requested explanations, but 
 ' did not hide his doubts ; he would not allow that such a 
 ' mode, as I was recommending, had been already pointed out 
 ' by experiment. 
 
 ' We reached his house ; the talk induced me to go in. I then 
 ' expounded to him, with as much vivacity as possible, the Me- 
 ' tamorphosis of Plants,* drawing out on paper, with many 
 
 *A curious physiologico-botanical theory by Goethe, which appears to be 
 entirely unknown in this country ; though several eminent continental 
 botanists have noticed it with commendation. It is explained at consider- 
 able length, in this same Morphologic
 
 NOTE I . 'Ml 
 
 • characteristic strokes, a symbolic Plant for him, as 1 pro- 
 
 1. He heard and saw all this, with much interest and 
 
 • distinct comprehension ; but when 1 had done, he shook his 
 
 • head and said : ' This is no experiment, this is an idea.' 1 
 
 • Mopt with some degree of irritation ; fur the point which 
 
 • separated us was most luminously marked by this expres- 
 
 00. The opinions in Dignity and Cinur, again occurred 
 me: the old grudge was just awakening; but I smothered 
 
 • it, and merely said I ' I Was happy to find that I had got 
 ' ideas without knowing it, nay that 1 saw them before my 
 
 Schiller had much more prudence and dexterity of ma- 
 ' nagement than I ; he was also thinking of his periodical the 
 
 • 1 1 ami, about this time, and of course rather wished to at- 
 1 tract than repel me. Accordingly he answered me like an 
 ' accomplished Kantite ; and as my stiff-necked Realism gave 
 ' occasion to many contradictions, much battling took place 
 
 • between us, and at last a truce, in which neither party would 
 1 consent to yield the victory, but each held himself invincible. 
 
 • Positions like the following grieved me to the very soul : 
 
 ■ 11, n van there ever /- on experiment, thai shall correspond 
 
 • a iilt an idea f The spt cific quality of an idea is, that noexpe- 
 rmeni can reach it <>r agree with it. Vet if he held as an 
 
 ■ idea, tin same tiling which 1 looked upon as an experiment ; 
 ' there must certainly, I thought, lie some community between 
 
 • us. Mime ground whereon both of us might meet! The first 
 
 ■ tep was now taken; Schiller's attractive power was great, 
 
 ' hi- kepi all close to him that came within his reach : I ex- 
 
 ■ pressed an interest in his purposes, and promised to give out 
 
 ' in the Horen many notion, that were lying in my head; his 
 ' wife, whom 1 had loved and \alued sine,- her childhood, did 
 
 ' her part to strength* n our reciprocal info Uig< nee ; all friends 
 1 on both sides rejoiced in it; and thus bj means of that 
 
 • mighty and interminable controver j between obji < I and tub- 
 
 lira concluded an alliance, which remained unbro- 
 
 • ken, luced much benefit to oui elv< andothei .
 
 348 APPENDIX. 
 
 The friendship of Schiller and Goethe forms so delightful 
 a chapter in their history, that we long for more and more de- 
 tails respecting it. Sincerity, true estimation of each other's 
 merit, true sympathy in each other's character and purposes 
 appear to have formed the basis of it, and maintained it unim- 
 paired to the end. Goethe, we are told, was minute and 
 sedulous in his attention to Schiller, whom he venerated as a 
 good man and sympathized with as an afflicted one : when in 
 mixed companies together, he constantly endeavoured to draw 
 out the stores of his modest and retiring friend; or to guard 
 his sick and sensitive mind from annoyances that might have 
 irritated it ; now softening, now exciting conversation, guiding 
 it with the address of a gifted and polished man, or lashing out 
 of it with the scorpion whip of his satire much that would 
 have vexed the more soft and simple spirit of the valetudina- 
 rian. These are things which it is good to think of: it is 
 good to know that there are literary men, who have other prin- 
 ciples besides vanity ; who can divide the approbation of their 
 fellow mortals, without quarrelling over the lots ; who in their 
 solicitude about their ' fame' do not forget the common chari- 
 ties of nature, in exchange for which the ' fame' of most au- 
 thors were but a poor bargain.
 
 VI'PENDIX. 349 
 
 Note D. Page 163. 
 
 DEATH OF GUSTAVUS ADOLPHUS. 
 
 A^ a Bpecimen of Schiller's historical style, we have ex- 
 tracted a few scenes from his masterly description of the 
 Battle of Liitzen. The whole forms a picture, executed in 
 the spirit of Salvator ; and though this is but a fragment, the 
 importance of the figure represented in it will perhaps coun- 
 terbalance that deficiency. 
 
 ' At last the dreaded morning dawned ; but a thick fog, 
 ' which lay brooding over all the field, delayed the attack till 
 ' ooon. Kneeling in front of his lines, the King ottered up 
 ' his devotions ; the whole army, at the same moment, dropping 
 ' on their right knees, uplifted a moving hymn, and the field 
 ' music accompanied their singing- The King then mounted 
 ' his horse; dressed in a jerkin of buff, with a surtout (for a 
 ' late (round hindered lain from wearing armour), he rode 
 ' through the ranks, rousing the courage of his troops to a 
 ' cheerful confidence, which his own forecasting bosom con- 
 ' tradicted. God with us was the battle-word of the Swedes; 
 ' tliat of tin Imperialists was Jesus Maria. About eleven 
 ' o'clock, th< fog began to break, and \\ allenstein's lines be- 
 Une risible. At the same time, too, were seen the flames 
 • n! Lutzen, which the- Duke had ordered to be set on lire, 
 ' that lie might not hi- outflanked by means of it. At length 
 
 4 the signal pealed ; the bone dashed forward on the enemy ; 
 
 ' the infantry advanced against his trenches. 
 
 * * * 
 
 • Meanwhile the righi wing, led on by the King in person, 
 •had fallen upon tin left wing "i the Priedlanders. The
 
 350 APPENDIX. 
 
 ' first strong onset of the heavy Finland Cuirassiers scattered 
 ' the light-mounted Poles and Croats, who were stationed 
 ' here, and their tumultuous flight spread fear and disorder 
 • over the rest of the cavalry. At this moment notice 
 ' reached the King that his infantry were losing ground, and 
 ' likely to be driven back from the trenches they had 
 ' stormed ; and also that his left, exposed to a tremendous fire 
 ' from the Windmills behind Liitzen, could no longer keep their 
 ' place. With quick decision, he committed to von Horn the 
 1 task of pursuing the already beaten left wing of the enemy ; 
 ' and himself hastened, at the head of Steinbock's regiment, to 
 ' restore the confusion of his own. His gallant horse bore him 
 ' over the trenches, with the speed of lightning ; but the squa- 
 ' drons that came after him could not pass so rapidly ; and 
 ' none but a few horsemen, among whom Franz Albert, Duke 
 ' of Sachsen-Lauenburg is mentioned, were alert enough to 
 ' keep beside him. He gallopped right to the place where 
 ' his infantry was most oppressed ; and while looking round to 
 ' spy out some weak point, on which his attack might be 
 ' directed, his short-sightedness led him too near the enemy's 
 ' lines. An Imperial Gefreyter, observing that every one re- 
 ' spectfully made room for the advancing horseman, ordered 
 ' a musketeer to fire on him. ' Aim at him there,' cried he, 
 ' that must be a man of consequence.' The soldier drew his 
 ' trigger ; and the King's left arm was shattered by the ball. 
 ' At this instant, his cavalry came gallopping up, and a con- 
 ' fused cry of ' The King bleeds! The King is shot!' spread 
 ' horror and dismay through their ranks. ' It is nothing : 
 ' follow me!' exclaimed the King, collecting all his strength; 
 ' but overcome with pain, and on the point of fainting, he de- 
 ' sired the Duke of Lauenburg, in French, to take him with- 
 ' out notice from the tumult. The Duke then turned with 
 ' him to the right wing, making a wide circuit to conceal this 
 ' accident from the desponding infantry ; but as they rode 
 ' along, the King received a second bullet through the back,
 
 NOTE D. ,'J51 
 
 ' which took from bin the last remainder of his strength. ' I 
 
 • ha\ e MM enough, brother, 1 said he with a (.lying voice : ' haste, 
 
 .\ c thyself.' With these words he sank from his horse; ami 
 
 • here, struck hy several other hullets, far from his attendants, 
 ' he breathed out his life beneath the plundering hands of a 
 ' troop of Croats. Mis horse living on without it-; rider, and 
 ■ bathed in blood, soon announced to the Swedish cavalry the 
 ' tall of their King: with wild yells they rush to the spot, to 
 ' snatch that sacred spoil from the enemy. A deadly fight en- 
 
 • BQea around the corpse, and the mangled remains are buried 
 ' under a hill of slain men. 
 
 The dreadful tidings hasten in a few minutes over all the 
 redish army: but instead of deadening the courage of 
 1 these hardy troops, they rouse it to a fierce consuming fire. 
 ' Lite falls in value, since the holiest of all lives is gone; and 
 ' death has now no terror for the lowly, since it has not spared 
 ' the anointed head. With the grim fury of lions, the Up- 
 ' land, Bmaland, Finnish, Last and West Gothland regiments 
 ' dash a second time upon the left wing of the enemy, which 
 
 • already making but a feeble opposition to Von Horn, is 
 
 ' now utterly driven from the field.' 
 
 * * * 
 
 • lint how dear a victory, how sad a triumph ! Now first 
 
 ' when tin- rage ot battle is grown cold, do they feel the whole 
 
 of their loss, and the shout of the conqueror dies in 
 
 mute .nid gloomy despair. He who led them on to battle, 
 
 ' has not returned with them. Apart he lies, in his victo- 
 
 ' riona field, confounded with the common heaps of bumble 
 
 1 dead. Aft' i Long fruitless searching, they find the royal 
 
 irpse, not far from the great atone, which had already stood 
 
 4 for centuries hi tweet) LutM D and the M. -rscburg Canal, but 
 
 ' which, ever since tins memorable incid< at, has borne the 
 
 ' name of S, /,„,,/,,, I, in, tin- Stone of the >\\cdc. Defind 
 
 ' with wounds and blood carcelj to be recognised, trod- 
 
 ' den under the hoofi "t hones, stripped oi Ins ornament
 
 352 APPENDIX. 
 
 ' even of his clothes, he is drawn from beneath a heap of dead 
 ' bodies, brought to Weissenfels, and there delivered to the 
 ' lamentations of his troops and the last embraces of his 
 ' Queen. Vengeance had first required its tribute, and blood 
 ' must flow as an offering to the Monarch ; now Love assumes 
 ' its rights, and mild tears are shed for the Man. Individual 
 ' grief is lost in the universal sorrow. Astounded by this 
 ' overwhelming stroke, the generals in blank despondency 
 ' stand round his bier, and none yet ventures to conceive the 
 ' full extent of his loss.' 
 
 The descriptive powers of the Historian, though the most 
 popular, are among the lowest, of his endowments. That 
 Schiller was not wanting in the nobler requisites of his art, 
 might be proved from his reflexions on this very incident, 
 ' striking like a hand from the clouds into the calculated 
 horologe of men's affairs, and directing the considerate mind 
 to a higher plan of things.' But the limits of our Work, are 
 already reached. Of Schiller's histories and dramas we can 
 give no farther specimens : of his lyrical, didactic, moral 
 poems, we must take our leave without giving any. Perhaps 
 the time may come, when all his writings, transplanted to our 
 own soil, may be offered in their entire dimensions, to the 
 thinkers of these Islands ; a conquest by which our literature, 
 rich as it is, might be enriched still farther. 
 
 THE END. 
 
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