a lightly soothing, indifferent tone, admirably assumed. "Let him explain it as he pleases and when he pleases, or let him leave it unexplained. There are circumstances in which curiosity is dangerous and a tremendous blunder, especially on the part of us girls. u are a dear little girl, Jane, and are not supposed to know anything of the world -no more am I, though I am older, and have been out for two seasons. All I know is, that we must be careful to preserve unimpaired the charming bloom of our ignorance.' Jane Douglas was not a fool. She understood that Rica implied that Jane's brother Archie had some secret which it would be no credit any more than it would be a satisfaction for him to divulge. Jane's heart burnt hotly within her. She was sufficiently trained and tutored not to say straight out to Rica Wyndham that she, Jane, hated Rica for her speech; but Jane did hate Rica at the moment, when, with grave youthful dignity, not unbecoming, she attempted to rebuke her companion. as far He at "You are quite mistaken, Rica, so my brother Archie is concerned. has no secrets from mamma and me least," for there smote upon Jane the recollection that Archie had certainly had a secret from his family within the last few months, but she managed to finish with unabated confidence and sisterly pride, "I am sure there is no act of Archie's which he might not proclaim before the whole world." "I am glad to hear it," said Rica Wyndham, with a little additional curl of the fine lips that curled so naturally; "but I think you might be satisfied with having such a paragon of a brother, and not seek to quarrel with me on his behalf. Poor me I confess I have not very much faith in paragons, perhaps less than in ordinary mortals like my brother Tom, who is good enough as brothers go, but who is certainly not calculated to diminish my unbelief." From Macmillan's Magazine. CORRESPONDENCE BETWEEN SCHILLER AND THE DUKE OF SCHLESWIG-HOL STEIN. Edited for the First Time from the Ducal Family Archives. IF, in the noisy, deafening hurry of the times in which we live, we are able now and then to win for ourselves a few quiet hours to turn over the pages of the journals of our fathers and grandfathers of about a century back, we find ourselves in a world which seems more like poetry thar. reality. Not only do the men and women appear to be of a different race, but a different spirit animates their life, their feelings, their thoughts, their deeds. Just as the Greeks talked of a golden age, to distinguish it from the iron present, so we feel that the men of a hundred years since were made of very different stuff from us, Souls like Goethe and Schiller could hardly breathe in our atmosphere - things which were possible in that time are scarcely conceivable to us. The world has become hard and iron-then it was soft and golden. Men had wings, and faith in the ideal, and, borne aloft on these pinions, they soared above the rugged path of life, their eyes fixed on the clear sky, the superterrestial, the eternal. We plod on foot through thick and thin, along the straight, dusty highway of our business and calling, and our eyes can scarcely perceive the old bridge over which at length, whether we will or no, we pass into the clear sky, the superterrestrial, the eternal. If any one wishes vividly to realize what a beautiful world lies buried there, how little, yet how great, is the golden age of a hundred years back, let him go, after a crowded party in one of our largest cities, where we have everything which money can buy, everything but true men- let him go for once to the old fairy town of Weimar. Remembering the magic pictures of its youth, such as he had drawn from Goethe's and Schiller's own descrip tion, let him look for the palaces and villas, the bright windows, the flights of steps, with their niches and pillars, for the art-treasures, weapons, natural curiosities, and books, - let him descend into the vault, the richest on earth, where the Duke Karl August rests, with Goethe and Schiller on either side, and he will be filled with astonishment and dismay when he perceives the smallness and poverty of the stage on which those heroes once, acted their part. In this small room Schiller lived, in that bed Goethe slept. Now, no servant would be satisfied with such accommodation. And yet here, where burg. Eingeleiten und herausgegeben von F. Max rich Christian von Schleswig-Holstein-AugustenMüller. Berlin, 1875.. Duke Friedrich Christian was the grandfather of the and it was chiefly due to the exertions of H.R. H. that prince Christian of Schleswig-Holstein-Augustenburg, Schiller's letters, long supposed to be lost, were dis* Schiller's Briefwechsel mit dem Herzog Fried-covered in the family archives, everything now seems so small, so quiet, so dull, at one time the waves of thought foamed and sparkled till their dancing motion, in ever-widening circles, beat on the remotest shores of the earth. Here glowed that beautiful and divine spark, delight in life; here high spirits raged; here love revelled; here genius careered, till everyday spirits closed their eyes in alarm, and stood aside; and yet bere everything before the sun reached its meridian height, became clear and calm a" wide, still sea, a happy, glorious sail." Yes, life was there and then as rich, and sunny, and heavenly as men ever can make it, through themselves, through genius, and art, and love. Shadows and darkness were not wanting even then, for great men cannot always be great, and when they fall, "great is the fall thereof." Herder was proud, often discontented, perhaps not altogether free from that worst of all human passions, envy; but the old giant mind always breaks through; and where have we now a general-superintendent so ready to recognize the divine afflatus in all poetry, the heavenly spirit of religion, the Godlike in everything human? No doubt there are still many "beautiful souls" as well as mischievous ladiesin-waiting; but where shall we find a gnome like Mlle. Göchhausen ? or where a soul formed of such fine-grained marble as Frau von Stein? German thrones are not wanting in brave and gifted princesses; but where is there an Amalia or Louisa? We have princes who would be more than princes; but where is the robust strength, the life, the truth, the honesty of a Karl August? pos Goethe had his cold, repellent hours. Men dared much in those days. Why? He could play the privy counsellor even Because they trusted themselves, and, towards Schiller. But who could triumph still more, others. They created the greatmore nobly over his own weaknesses than est from the smallest. The soul still Goethe, when he recognized in the long-sessed the magic power which raises avoided Schiller the long-sought-for equal everything earthly to heavenly, which feels and friend? life to be the most beautiful gift of God, that cannot be enough loved and prized, or, as long as it lasts, be enough enjoyed in all its fulness. Schiller, too, suffered from attacks of narrow-mindedness. Sometimes he longs for Goethe; then, again, he is miserable when near him. At times he rejoiced in the halo of the court; then, again, he mourned over the self-deception which made him see ordinary things in a false radiance. Schiller's mind suffered from Schiller's body; and how truly and touchingly he expresses the consciousness of his own weakness, the sufferings and struggles of his genius, when he says, "How difficult it is for a suffering man to be a good man!" It is true that Wieland in youth, as in old age, was full of weaknesses; but where do we find now such a delightful old man as he was, bearing everything, ready to forgive even unmerited blame, prizing and praising the old and the past, but at the same time hoping all that was beautiful for the future? How characteristic of him, the favorite of the grandmother, when in his seventy-second year he exclaimed, on the arrival of the grand duchess Maria Paulowna, the bride of her grandson, the hereditary prince of Weimar, "I thank heaven that I have been allowed to live long enough to enjoy the blessed vision of such an angel in human form. With her a new epoch will surely begin for Weimar; she will, through her powerful influence, carry on, and bring to higher perfection, the work which Amalia began more than forty years ago." In order to estimate this heroic past of the German people at its full value, it is not necessary to depreciate the present more than it really deserves. It is only necessary for the historian to establish the fact that those heroes were of other mould and grain than we are. Our life has become more quiet, but at the same time more earnest; harder, but also more enduring; we have less kindly light, but also fewer false meteors; less laughter and enjoyment, but perhaps also fewer tears and sighs. Not only the old people, but even the young, and possibly these latter, even more than the former, are grown old with the century. Still, let us hope, in spite of all this, as old Wieland did, for a new youth for German genius, more beautiful even than that which dazzles us in the works of our classic writers. And if we ourselves long for youthful courage and vigor, let us draw refreshment, even in these barren days, from the living fountain of history, which revives us as does the memory of the beautiful dreams of youth, and transports all who desire it into a world where weary souls may find rest and cheerfulness and strength. It is not a hundred years ago since the Danish poet Baggesen got up a festival, the description of which, whenever we 1 SOLO. come across it in the numerous accounts | bushes, joined in; and, in conclusion, of Schiller's life, always appears as a mere Baggesen added the following two vermyth. The enthusiastic Dane had, in the ses:year 1790, on his way home from Switzerland, made a pilgrimage to Jena, in order to make personal acquaintance with Professor Schiller. Schiller himself was unwell, and somewhat cold towards his overpoweringly enthusiastic Danish vis itor. All Take, dead friend, this friendly greeting! Lift your hearts and hands in union, Thou art ours, and we are thine. Baggesen, however, formed a close friendship with Reinhold, and from him learnt the narrow circumstances of Schiller and his young wife. On his return to Copenhagen, Baggesen preached of Schiller, and nothing but Schiller. How he did it we may picture to ourselves when we read how he jumbled up together "our philosophical Messiahs, Christ and Kant, and Schiller and Reinhold." Still, however, he preached on, and found listeners, whom he soon converted to his own faith, and among them the Danish minister of Does not this sound like Greek mytholstate, Count Schimmelmann, and his wife; ogy? And yet it is only eighty years ago but above all others, Duke Frederick since ministers of state and their friends Christian of Schleswig-Holstein-Augusten- could celebrate such a fête in the open burg. Baggesen was not content to read air. This festival was much ridiculed, Scheller's works aloud; he bethought him and yet we owe to it the most perfect, the of a Schiller festival, which should be cel-richest fruits of Schiller's genius. Schilebrated in June at Hellebek, a beautifully ler was indeed dangerously ill at that time, situated sea-place, a few miles north of and even when he recovered his mind was Copenhagen," by the thundering ocean.' weary to death. He was nearly dying of There the "Ode to Joy" should be sung, starvation in the desert of life. It is true and scenes from Schiller's works read and that he returned to Jena, strengthened acted; every one should revel in nature by the Karlsbad, as he calls it; but his and poetry, as they knew how in those days, sky was overcast with heavy clouds of not only in Germany, but in Denmark. care, and it seemed as if "Don Carlos " would be the last effort of his genius. Just at this moment arrived a letter from Baggesen to Reinhold, describing the funeral feast of the yet living poet. The letter was shown to Schiller, and convinced him that he, the unfortunate, the self-desponding, was honored and loved far and near. "I doubt," writes Reinhold, "whether any medicine could have done him so much good." But suddenly, just as they were starting, the news reached Copenhagen that Schiller was dead, a report which was widely circulated throughout Germany at the same time. Baggesen, overpowered with grief, threw himself into the arms of his wife. But the friends would not console themselves at home, they must reach the "thundering ocean." All the preparations for the festival were made, and, though the skies seemed lowering, and a storm raged, they all started for Hellebek to transform the festival into a funeral feast. But yet more beautiful and fresh "blossoms as of nectar were to bloom for Schiller on the distant Danish shore. The sky cleared whilst they were on Baggesen told the minister all that he the road, the sea sparkled in the sunshine, had heard of Schiller's miserable circumthe lofty Kullen rose majestically on the stances, the minister mentioned it to Swedish coast, and the friends sat down the duke of Schleswig-Holstein-Augustento feast with sad and solemn feelings. burg, and on the 27th of November, 1791, They gradually recovered from their a joint letter was sent to Schiller, which calamity-ministers and poets, with their whenever we read it fills us with admirawives and friends, warmed over the spar- tion, not only for the generous liberality, kling wine, and when the right moment but still more the exalted, noble minds, arrived, Baggesen rose and recited the lost the refined tact, and the warm love of man poet's "Ode to Joy"—"Joy, thou beaute-shown by these two men. ous divine spark" - to the assembled There are plenty of men now who in friends; musical choirs, hidden in the private make the same use of their wealth. C A large sum was once intrusted to me, in "the lofty flight of your genius, which But here is the whole letter: Letter from the DUKE and COUNT SCHIM- (From a transcript of the rough draft in the duke's the least abundant among the great number of good men who know and love him. This vivid interest with which you have inspired us, noble and honored man, will save us from appearing to you as indiscreetly obtrusive. May it also prevent any mistake as to the intention of this letter. We draw it up with respectful hesitation, inspired by your delicate sensibility. This would frighten us, did we not know that a certain limit is prescribed even to this virtue of noble and cultivated souls, which it may not overstep without offence to reason. efforts and work, requires, so we are told, perYour health, injured by all-too-hurried fect rest for a while, if it is to be restored and life-but your situation, your circumstances, the danger averted, which now threatens your prevent you from giving yourself this rest. Will you allow us the pleasure of aiding you in the enjoyment of this? We offer you, for this purpose, for three years, an annual present of one thousand thaler.* Accept this offer, noble man! Do not let the sight of our titles move you to refuse, only pride ourselves on being men, citizens of the great republic, whose boundaries embrace more than the life of single generations, more than the boundaries of one globe. You are only dealing here with men, your brothers, not with haughty grandees, who in making such use of their wealth indulge in a higher kind of pride. We know what value to set on them. We Where you will enjoy this rest must de pend on yourself. Here, with us, you would not fail in finding what you need for the reis the seat of government and also a great quirements of your mind, in a capital which commercial city, and which possesses very val uable libraries. Esteem and friendship would strive on many sides to make the stay in Denmark agreeable to you, for we are not the only ones who know and love you. And if when your health is restored you should wish to enbe difficult for us to gratify such a wish. ter the service of our country, it would not But we are not so selfish and narrow minded as to make a condition of such a change of abode. We leave this entirely to your free choice. We wish to preserve to mankind one of its teachers, and to this wish every other consideration must be subor dinate. Two friends bound together simply as brothers and citizens of the same world, ad- Schiller accepted the offer, and any one dress this writing to you, noble man. They are who carefully notices Schiller's spirits be both of them unknown to you, but they both of fore and after the receipt of this letter them honor and love you. They both admire must see clearly that we owe his recovery, the lofty flight of your genius, which stamps his renewed vigor, the fresh development many of your more recent works as among the most eminent of all human works. They found of his creative activity, entirely to the in these works, the disposition of mind, the duke of Schleswig-Holstein-Augustenburg feeling, the enthusiasm which was the founda- and Count Schimmelmann. tion of their own friendship, and they soon by this mean to reflect in the least on the accustomed themselves to the idea of looking conduct of the duke of Weimar or of upon the author as a member of their friendly Schiller's friends, and especially of Körner. league. Great therefore was their sorrow at the news of his death, and their tears were not * 150%. We do not of its author. They did what they could, Körner even | tiveness, which might have made the decision more than he could. But in everything difficult to me, that he allows me to obtain they did for him Schiller felt the burden this important amelioration of my circum of obligation. Here the rescue came as stances without any struggle with myself, infrom heaven; nay, better than from creases my gratitude immensely, and makes heaven, it came from men who loved and me at the same time rejoice at the kind heart honored him, who were personally strangers to him, but from men who were just what he, the poet, had imagined in his Marquis Posa. The gift made him rich, not poor. The burden of gratitude did not oppress him, it only roused and incited him to prove himself by fresh work the more worthy of the love of his unknown friends. "I have to, show my gratitude," he wrote, "not to you but to mankind. This is the common altar on which you lay your gift and I my thanks." What Schiller himself felt at this turningpoint of his life we hitherto knew principally from his letter to Baggesen, and this, for the sake of completeness, must be reprinted here. It is dated December 16, 1791. II. Letter from SCHILLER to BAGGESEN. JENA, Dec. 16, 1791. How shall I succeed, my dear and highly valued friend, in describing the feelings which have arisen in me since I received that letter? Astonished and overwhelmed as I am by its contents, do not expect anything collected from me. My heart alone is still able to speak, and even it will be but badly aided by a head as weak as mine now is. I cannot better reward a heart like yours for the loving interest it takes in the state of my mind, than by raising the proud satisfaction, which the noble and unique action of your admirable friends must have afforded you, to the purest joy, by the agreeable conviction that their benevolent 'intention is perfectly fulfilled. Yes, my dear friend, I accept the offer of the Prince of H. and Count S. with a thankful heart, not because the graceful manner in which it was made overpowers all other considerations, but because a duty which is above all other considerations impels me to do so. To do and to be that which, according to the measure of power given me, I can do and be, is to me the highest and most indispensable of all duties. But hitherto my outward circumstances have made this altogether impossible, and only a distant and still uncertain future inspires me with better hopes. The generous assistance of your exalted friends suddenly places me in a position to develop all that lies in me, to make myself all that I can become. therefore no choice remains to me. That the excellent prince, while deciding of his own accord to amend that for me which fate left to be desired, yet by the noble manner in which he does it spares me all sensi A morally admirable act like the one which suggested that letter does not derive its worth only from its results; even if it failed entirely in its aim, it would itself remain what it was. But if the act of a large-minded heart is at the same time the needed link in a chain of events, if it alone was wanting in order to make some good possible, if it, the fair offspring of freelong been destined by Providence for this very dom, settles a tangled fate as though it had purpose, then it belongs to the fairest phenomena that can touch a feeling heart. I must and will tell you how much that was the case here. From the birth of my mind, up to the moment when I write this, I have struggled with fate, and ever since I knew how to value freedom of thought I have been doomed to live without it. A rash step ten years ago de-. prived me forever of the means of living except by literary labor. I had adopted this calling before I understood all it entailed, or perceived all its difficulties. The necessity of pursuing this path was laid upon me before I was fit for it in knowledge or ripeness of mind. That I felt this, that my ideal of literary duties was not restricted within the same narrow bounds in which I was myself confined, I ac knowledge as a favor from heaven, which thus kept open to me the possibility of higher, progress, and yet in my circumstances it only increased my misery. I saw that all that I gave to the world was unripe and far beneath the ideal that lived in me; notwithstanding all presentiment of possible perfection, I had to hurry before the eyes of the public with immature fruit; in need of teaching myself, I had against my will to put myself forward as a teacher of mankind. Under these miserable circumstances, each only moderately successful product made me feel more painfully how many germs fate had smothered in me. The masterworks of other writers made me miserable, because I renounced the hope of ever sharing their happy leisure, through which alone works of genius can come to perfection. What would I not have given for two or three quiet years, free from all literary work, which I might have devoted to study only, to the cultivation of my mind, to the maturing of my ideas. It is impossible in our German literary world, as I now know, to satisfy the strict requirements of art, and at the same time to provide the necessary support for one's literary industry. For two years I have exerted my self to combine both, but doing so even in an imperfect degree has cost me my health. Interest in my work, and some sweet flowers of life, which fate strewed on my path, concealed this loss from me, till early in this year, I was -you know how?—aroused from my dream. |