LUTHER'S PSALM. [FRASER'S MAGAZINE, 1831.] AMONG Luther's Spiritual Songs, of which various collections have appeared of late years, the one entitled Eine feste Burg ist unser Gott is universally regarded as the best; and indeed still retains its place and devotional use in the Psalmodies of Protestant Germany. Of the Tune, which also is by Luther, we have no copy, and only a second-hand knowledge: to the original Words, probably never before printed in England, we subjoin the following translation; which, if it possesses the only merit it can pretend to, that of literal adherence to the sense, will not prove unacceptable to our readers. Luther's music is heard daily in our churches, several of our finest Psalm-tunes being of his composition. Luther's sentiments, also, are, or should be, present in many an English heart; the more interesting to us is any the smallest articulate expression of these. The great Reformer's love of music, of poetry, it has often been remarked, is one of the most significant features in his character. But, indeed, if every great man, Napoleon himself, is intrinsically a poet, an idealist, with more or less completeness of utterance, which of all our great men, in these modern ages, had such an endowment in that kind as Luther? He it was, emphatically, who stood based on the Spiritual World of man, and only by the footing and miraculous power he had obtained there, could work such changes in the Material World. As a participant and dispenser of divine influences, he shows himself among human affairs a true connecting medium and visible Messenger between Heaven and Earth; a man, therefore, not only permitted to enter the sphere of Poetry, but to dwell in the purest centre thereof: perhaps the most inspired of all Teachers since the first apostles of his faith; and thus not a poet only but a Prophet and God-ordained Priest, which is the highest form of that dignity, and of all dignity. Unhappily, or happily, Luther's poetic feeling did not so much learn to express itself in fit Words that take captive every ear, as in fit Actions, wherein truly, under still more impressive manifestation, the spirit of spheral Melody resides, and still audibly addresses us. In his written Poems we find little, save that Strength of one "whose words," it has been said, "were half-battles;" little of that still Harmony and blending softness of union which is the last perfection of Strength; less of it than even his conduct often manifested. With words he had not learned to make pure music; it was by deeds of Love, or heroic Valour, that he spoke freely; in tones, only through his Flute, amid tears, could the sigh of that strong soul find utterance. For example: Luther's geistliche Lieder nebst dessen Gedanken über die musica, (Berlin, 1817): Die Lieder Luther's gesammelt von Kosegarten und Rambach, &c. Nevertheless, though in imperfect articulation, the same voice, if we will listen well, is to be heard also in his writings, in his Poems. The following, for example, jars upon our ears; yet is there something in it like the sound of Alpine avalanches, or the first murmur of Earthquakes; in the very vastness of which dissonance a higher unison is revealed to us. Luther wrote this Song in a time of blackest threatenings, which, however, could in no wise become a time of Despair. In those tones, rugged, broken as they are, do we not recognise the accent of that summoned man, (summoned not by Charles the Fifth, but by God Almighty also,) who answered his friend's warning not to enter Worms in this wise: "Were there as many devils in Worms as there are roof-tiles, I would on "-of him who, alone in that assemblage, before all emperors, and principali ties, and powers, spoke forth these final and for ever memorable words: "It is neither safe nor prudent to do aught against conscience. Here stand I, I cannot otherwise. God assist me. Amen!"* It is evident enough that to this man all Popes' conclaves, and imperial Diets, and hosts and nations were but weak; weak as the forest, with all its strong Trees, may be to the smallest spark of electric Fire. Das Wort sie sollen lassen stahn Mit seinen Geist und Gaben. Gut', Ehr', Kind und Weib, Sie haben's kein Gewinn, Das Reich Gottes muss uns bleiben. A safe stronghold our God is still, With force of arms we nothing can, Ask ye, Who is this same? Shall conquer in the battle. And were this world all Devils o'er A word shall quickly slay him. God's Word, for all their craft and force, But spite of Hell, shall have its course, And though they take our life, SCHILLER.* [FRASER'S MAGAZINE, 1831.] To the student of German Literature, or of Literature in general, these volumes, purporting to lay open the private intercourse of two men eminent beyond all others of their time in, that department, will doubtless be a welcome appearance. Neither Schiller nor Goethe has ever, that we have hitherto seen, written worthlessly on any subject, and the writings here offered us are confidential Letters, relating moreover to a highly important period in the spiritual history, not of the parties themselves, but of their country likewise; full of topics, high and low, on which far meaner talents than theirs might prove interesting. We have heard and known so much of both these venerated persons; of their friendship, and true co-operation in so many noble endeavours, the fruit of which has long been plain to every one: and now are we to look into the secret constitution and conditions of all this; to trace the public result, which is Ideal, down to its roots in the Common; how Poets may live and work poetically among the Prose things of this world, and Fausts and Tells be written on rag-paper, and with goose-quills, like mere Minerva Novels, and songs by a Person of Quality! Virtuosos have glass bee-hives, which they curiously peep into; but here truly were a far stranger sort of honey-making. Nay, apart from virtuosoship, or any technical object, what a hold have such things on our universal curiosity as men! If the sympathy we feel with one another is infinite, or nearly so,-in proof of which, do but consider the boundless ocean of Gossip (im. perfect, undistilled Biography) which is emitted and imbibed by the human species daily ;— if every secret-history, every closed-door's conversation, how trivial soever, has an interest for us, then might the conversation of a Schiller with a Goethe, so rarely do Schillers meet with Goethes among us, tempt Honesty itself into eaves-dropping. Unhappily the conversation flits away for ever with the hour that witnessed it; and the Letter and Answer, frank, lively, genial as they may be, are only a poor emblem and epitome of it. The living dramatic movement is gone; nothing but the cold historical net-product remains for us. It is true, in every confidential Letter, the writer will, in some measure, more or less directly depict himself: but nowhere is Painting, by pen or pencil, so inadequate as in delineating spiritual Nature. The Py ramid can be measured in geometric feet, and the draughtsman represents it, with all its environment, on canvas, accurately to the eye, nay Mont-Blanc is embossed in coloured stucco; and we have his very type, and miniature fac-simile, in our museums. But for great Men, let him who would know such, pray that he may see them daily face to face: for, in the dim distance, and by the eye of the imagination, our vision, do what we may, will be too imperfect. How pale, thin, ineffectual do the great figures we would fain summon from History rise before us! Scarcely as palpable men does our utmost effort body them forth; oftenest only like Ossian's ghosts, in *Briefwechsel zwischen Schiller und Goethe, in den jah-hazy twilight, with "stars dim twinkling ren 1794 bis 1805, (Correspondence between Schiller and Goethe in the years 1794-1805.) 1st-3d Volumes through their forms." Our Socrates, our Lu(1794-1797.) Stuttgart and Tübingen, 1828, 1829. ther, after all that we have talked and argued view, the "Correspondence of Schiller and Goethe" may have, we shall not attempt determining here; the rather as only a portion of the work, and to judge by the space of time included in it, only a small portion, is yet be become apparent till a future age, when the persons and concerns it treats of shall have assumed their proper relative magnitude and stand disencumbered, and for ever separated from contemporary trivialities, which, for the present, with their hollow, transient bulk, so mar our estimate. Two centuries ago, Leicester and Essex might be the wonders of England; their Kenilworth festivities and Cadiz Expeditions seemed the great occurrences of that day; but what should we now give, were these all forgotten and some "Correspondence between Shakspeare and Ben Jonson" suddenly brought to light! of them, are to most of us quite invisible; the Sage of Athens, the Monk of Eisleben: not Persons but Titles. Yet such men, far more than any Alps or Coliseums, are the true world-wonders, which it concerns us to behold clearly, and imprint for ever on our remem-fore us. Nay, perhaps its full worth will not brance. Great men are the Fire-pillars in this dark pilgrimage of mankind; they stand as heavenly Signs, ever-living witnesses of what has been, prophetic tokens of what may still be, the revealed, imbodied Possibilities of human nature; which greatness he who has never seen, or rationally conceived of, and with his whole heart passionately loved and reverenced, is himself for ever doomed to be little. How many weighty reasons, how many innocent allurements attract our curiosity to such men! We would know them, see them visibly, even as we know and see our like: no hint, no notice that concerns them is superfluous or too small for us. Were Gulliver's conjurer but here, to recall and sensibly bring back the brave Past, that we might look into it, and scrutinize it at will! But, alas, in Nature there is no such conjuring: the great spirits that have gone before us can survive only as disembodied Voices; their form and distinctive aspect, outward and even in many respects inward, all whereby they were known as living, breathing men, has passed into another sphere; from which only History, in scanty memorials, can evoke some faint resemblance of it. The more precious, in spite of all imperfections, is such History, are such memorials, that still in some degree preserve what had otherwise been lost without reco very. One valuable quality these letters of Schiller and Goethe everywhere exhibit, that of truth: whatever we do learn from them, whether in the shape of fact or of opinion, may be relied on as genuine. There is a tone of entire sincerity in that style: a constant natural courtesy nowhere obstructs the right freedom of word or thought; indeed, no ends but honourable ones, and generally of a mutual interest, are before either party; thus neither needs to veil, still less to mask himself from the other; the two self-portraits, so far as they are filled up, may be looked upon as real likenesses. Perhaps, to most readers, some larger intermixture of what we should call domestic interest, of ordinary human concerns, and the hopes, fears, and other feelings these excite, For the rest, as to the maxim, often enough in- would have improved the work; which as it is, culcated on us, that close inspection will abate not indeed without pleasant exceptions, turns our admiration, that only the obscure can be sub- mostly on compositions, and publications, and lime, let us put small faith in it. Here, as in other philosophies, and other such high matters. provinces, it is not knowledge, but a little know- This, we believe, is a rare fault in modern ledge, that puffeth up, and for wonder at the Correspondences; where generally the oppothing known substitutes mere wonder at the site fault is complained of, and except mere knower thereof: to a sciolist, the starry hea- temporalities, good and evil hap of the correvens revolving in dead mechanism, may be sponding parties, their state of purse, heart, less than a Jacob's vision; but to the Newton and nervous system, and the moods' and huthey are more; for the same God still dwells mours these give rise to,-little stands recordenthroned there, and holy Influences, like An-ed for us. It may be too that native readers gels, still ascend and descend; and this clearer will feel such a want less than foreigners do, vision of a little but renders the remaining whose curiosity in this instance is equally mimystery the deeper and more divine. So like-nute, and to whom so many details, familiar wise is it with true spiritual greatness. On the whole, that theory of "no man being a hero to his valet," carries us but a little way into the real nature of the case. With a superficial meaning which is plain enough, it essentially holds good only of such heroes as are false, or else of such valets as are too genuine, as are shoulder-knotted and brass-lackered in soul as well as in body: of other sorts it does not hold. Milton was still a hero to the good Elwood. But we dwell not on that mean doctrine, which, true or false, may be left to itself the more safely, as in practice it is of little or no immediate import. For were it never so true, yet, unless we preferred huge bug-bears to small realities, our practical course were still the same: to inquire, to investigate by all methods, till we saw clearly. What worth in this biographical point of enough in the country itself, must be unknown. At all events, it is to be remembered that Schiller and Goethe are, in strict speech, Literary Men; for whom their social life is only as the dwelling-place and outward tabernacle of their spiritual life; which latter is the one thing needful; the other, except in subserviency to this, meriting no attention, or the least possible. Besides, as cultivated men, perhaps even by natural temper, they are not in the habit of yielding to violent emotions of any kind, still less of unfolding and depicting such, by letter, even to closest intimates; a turn of mind which, if it diminished the warmth of their epistolary intercourse, must have increased their private happiness, and so, by their friends, can hardly be regretted. He who wears his heart on his sleeve, will often have to lament aloud that daws peck at it: he who does not, will spare himself such lamenting. Of Rousseau's Confessions, whatever value we assign that sort of ware, there is no vestige in this Correspondence. Meanwhile, many cheerful, honest little domestic touches are given here and there; which we can accept gladly, with no worse censure than wishing that there had been more. But this Correspondence has another and more proper aspect, under which, if rightly considered, it possesses a far higher interest than most domestic delineations could have impart ed. It shows us two high, creative, truly poetic minds, unweariedly cultivating themselves, unweariedly advancing from one measure of strength and clearness to another; whereby to such as travel, we say not on the same road, for this few can do, but in the same direction, as all should do, the richest psychological and practical lesson is laid out; from which men of every intellectual degree may learn something, and he that is of the highest degree will probably learn the most. What value lies in this lesson, moreover, may be expected to increase in an increasing ratio as the Correspondence proceeds, and a larger space, with broader differences of advancement, comes into view; especially as respects Schiller, the younger and more susceptive of the two; for whom, in particular, these eleven years may be said to comprise the most important era of his culture; indeed, the whole history of his progress therein, from the time when he first found the right path, and properly became progressive. now. But to enter farther on the merits and special qualities of these Letters, which, on all hands, will be regarded as a publication of real value, both intrinsic and extrinsic, is not our task Of the frank, kind, mutually-respectful relation that manifests itself between the two Correspondents; of their several epistolary styles, and the worth of each, and whatever else characterizes this work as a series of biographical documents, or of philosophical views, we may at some future period have occasion to speak; certain detached speculations and indications will of themselves come before us in the course of our present undertaking. Meanwhile to British readers, the chief object is not the Letters, but the writers of them. Of Goethe the public already know something: of Schiller, less is known, and our wish is to bring him into closer approximation with our readers. tion for him is of old standing, and has not abated, as it ripened into calm, loving estimation. But to English expositors of Foreign Literature, at this epoch, there will be many more pressing duties than that of expounding Schiller. To a considerable extent, Schiller may be said to expound himself. His greatness is of a simple kind; his manner of displaying it is, for most part, apprehensible to every one.-Besides, of all German Writers, ranking in any such class as his, Klopstock scarcely excepted, he has the least nationality: his character indeed is German, if German mean true, earnest, nobly-humane; but his mode of thought, and mode of utterance, all but the mere vocables of it, are European. Accordingly, it is to be observed, no German Writer has had such acceptance with foreigners; has been so instantaneously admitted into favour, at least any favour which proved permanent. Among the French, for example, Schiller is almost naturalized; translated, commented upon, by men of whom Constant is one; even brought upon the stage, and by a large class of critics vehemently extolled there. Indeed, to the Romanticist class, in all countries, Schiller is naturally the pattern man and great master; as it were a sort of ambassador and mediator, were mediation possible, between the Old School and the New; pointing to his own Works, as to a glittering bridge, that will lead pleasantly from the Versailles gardening and artificial hydraulics of the one, into the true Ginnistan and wonderland of the other. With ourselves too, who are troubled with no controversies on Romanticism_and Classicism,-the Bowles controversy on Pope having long since evaporated without result, and all critical guild-brethren now working diligently with one accord, in the calmer sphere of Vapidism, or even Nullism,-Schiller is no less universally esteemed by persons of any feeling for poetry. To readers of German, and these are increasing everywhere a hundred fold, he is one of the earliest studies; and the dullest cannot study him without some perception of his beauties. For the un-German, again, we have Translations in abundance and supera bundance; through which, under whatever distortion, however shorn of his beams, some image of this poetical sun must force itself; and in susceptive hearts, awaken love, and a desire for more immediate insight. So that now, we suppose, anywhere in England, a man who denied that Schiller was a Poet would himself be, from every side, declared a Prosa. ist, and thereby summarily enough put to silence. Indeed, had we considered only his importance in German, or we may now say, in European Literature, Schiller might well have demanded an earlier notice in our Journal. As All which being so, the weightiest part of our a man of true poetical and philosophical ge- duty, that of preliminary pleading for Schiller. nius, who proved this high endowment both in of asserting rank and excellence for him while his conduct, and by a long series of Writings a stranger, and to judges suspicious of counwhich manifest it to all; nay, even as a man terfeits, is taken off our hands. The knowledge so eminently admired by his nation, while of his works is silently and rapidly proceeding; he lived, and whose fame, there and abroad, in the only way by which true knowledge can during the twenty-five years since his decease, has been constantly expanding and confirming itself, he appears with such claims as can belong only to a small number of men. If we have seemed negligent of Schiller, want of affection was nowise the cause. Our admira be attained, by loving study of them, in many an inquiring, candid mind. Moreover, as remarked above, Schiller's works, generally speaking, require little commentary: for a man of such excellence, for a true Poet we should say that his worth lies singularly open; nay, in great part of his writings, beyond such open universally recognisable worth, there is no other to be sought. For any thorough or final answer to such questions, it is evident enough, neither our own means, nor the present situation of our readers, in regard to this matter, are in any measure adequate. Nevertheless, the imperfect beginning must be made, before the perfect result can appear. Some slight far-off glance over the character of the man, as he looked and lived, in Action and in Poetry, will not, perhaps, be unacceptable from us: for such as know little of Schiller, it may be an opening of the way to better knowledge; for such as are already familiar with him, it may be a stating in words of what they themselves have often thought; and welcome, therefore, as the confirming testimony of a second witness. Of Schiller's personal history there are accounts in various accessible publications; so that, we suppose, no formal Narrative of his Life, which may now be considered generally known, is necessary here. Such as are curious on the subject, and still uninformed, may find some satisfaction in the Life of Schil ler, (London, 1824;) in the Vie de Schuller, (prefixed to the French Translation of his Dramatic Works ;) in the Account of Schiller, (prefixed to the English Translation of his Thirty-Years' War, Edinburgh, 1828;) and, doubtless, in many other Essays, known to us only by title. Nay, in the survey we propose to make of his character, practical as well as speculative, the main facts of his outward history will of themselves come to light. Yet doubtless if he is a Poet, a genuine interpreter of the Invisible, Criticism will have a deeper duty to discharge for him. Every Poet, be his outward lot what it may, finds himself born in the midst of Prose; he has to struggle from the littleness and obstruction of an Actual world, into the freedom and infinitude of an Ideal; and the history of such struggle, which is the history of his life, cannot be other than instructive. His is a high, laborious, unrequited, or only self-requited endeavour, which, however, by the law of his being, he is compelled to undertake, and must prevail in, or be permanently wretched; nay the more wretched, the nobler his gifts are. For it is the deep, inborn claim of his whole spiritual nature, and will not and must not go unanswered. His youthful unrest, that "unrest of genius," often so wayward in its character, is the dim anticipation of this; the mysterious, all-powerful mandate, as from Heaven, to prepare himself, to purify himself, for the vocation wherewith he is called. And yet how few can fulfil this mandate, how few ever earnestly give heed to it! Of the thousand jingling dilettanti, whose jingle dies with the hour which it harmlessly or hurtfully amused, we say nothing here: to these, as to the mass of men, such calls for spiritual perfection speak only in whispers, drowned without difficulty in the din and dissipation of the world. But even for the Byron, Schiller's Life is emphatically a literary one; for the Burns, whose ear is quick for celestial that of a man existing only for Contemplation; messages, in whom "speaks the prophesying guided forward by the pursuit of ideal things, spirit," in awful prophetic voice, how hard is and seeking and finding his true welfare thereit to "take no counsel with flesh and blood," in. A singular simplicity characterizes it,—a and instead of living and writing for the Day remoteness from whatever is called business; that passes over them, live and write for the an aversion to the tumults of business, an inEternity that rests and abides over them; in- difference to its prizes, grows with him from stead of living commodiously in the Half, the year to year. He holds no office; scarcely for Reputable, the Plausible, "to live resolutely in a little while a University Professorship; he the Whole, the Good, the True!" Such Half- covets no promotion; has no stock of money; ness, such halting between two opinions, such and shows no discontent with these arrangepainful, altogether fruitless negotiating between ments. Nay, when permanent sickness, conTruth and Falsehood, has been the besetting tinual pain of body, is added to them, he still sin, and chief misery, of mankind in all ages. seems happy: these last fifteen years of his Nay, in our age, it has christened itself Moder-life are, spiritually considered, the clearest and ation, a prudent taking of the middle course; and passes current among us as a virtue. How virtuous it is, the withered condition of many a once ingenious nature that has lived by this method-the broken or breaking heart of many a noble nature that could not live by it-speak aloud, did we but listen. And now, when from among so many shipwrecks and misventures one goodly vessel comes to land, we joyfully survey its rich cargo, and hasten to question the crew on the fortunes of their voyage. Among the crowd of uncultivated and miscultivated writers, the high, pure Schiller stands before us with a like distinction. We ask, how was this man successful? From what peculiar point of view did he attempt penetrating the secret of spiritual Nature?-From what region of Prose rise into Poetry? Under what outward accidentswith what inward faculties-by what methods -with what result? * Im Ganzen, Guten, Wahren resolut zu leben.-Goethe. most productive of all. We might say, there is something priest-like in that Life of his: under quite another colour and environment, yet with aims differing in form rather than in essence, it has a priest-like stillness, a priestlike purity; nay, if for the Catholic Faith, we substitute the Ideal of Art, and for Convent Rules, Moral, Esthetic Laws, it has even something of a monastic character. By the three monastic vows he was not bound; yet vows of as high and difficult a kind, both to do and to forbear, he had taken on him; and his happiness and whole business lay in observing them. Thus immured, not in cloisters of stone and mortar, yet in cloisters of the mind, which separate him as impassably from the vulgar, he works and meditates only on what we may call Divine things; his familiar talk, his very recreations, the whole actings and fancyings of his daily existence, tend thither. As in the life of a Holy Man, too, so in that of Schiller, there is but one great epoch: that |