HERMANN AND DOROTHEA, 279 when he himself had nothing; but now, when he is old and well to do in the world, this idea of beginning life upon no solid foundation of fortune is alarming to him. He paints the difficulties of keeping house, the advantages of fortune, and concludes with a decisive intimation to Hermann that he expects a rich hot faces with their handkerchiefs. They narrate what they have seen; and mine host, sighing, hopes his son will overtake the emigrants, and give them what has been sent. But the heat suggests to him that they should retire into the cool back parlour, and, out of the way of the flies, refresh themselves with a bottle of Rhinewine. There, over the wine, mine host ex-daughter-in-law to be brought into the house. presses his wish to see his son married. This is the whole of the first canto; and yet, slight as the material is, the wonderful objective treatment gives it substance. The fresh air of the country breathes from the verse. In the second canto Hermann appears before his father and friends. The pastor's quick eye detects that he is returned an altered man. Hermann relates how he accomplished his mission. Overtaking the emigrants, he fell in with a cart drawn by oxen, wherein lay a poor woman beside the infant to which she had just given birth. Leading the oxen was a maiden, who came towards him with the calm confidence of a generous soul, and begged his aid for the poor woman whom she had just assisted in her travail. Touched with pity, and feeling at once that this maiden was the best person to distribute justly the aid he had brought, Hermann gave it all into her hands. They parted, she gratefully pursuing her sad journey, he thoughtfully returning home. Love has leaped into his heart, and, by the light of his smile, the pastor sees he is an altered man. This He indicates the daughters of a rich neighbour, and wishes Hermann to select one. But Hermann has not only a new love in his heart, he has an old repugnance to these rich neighbours, who mocked his simplicity, and ridiculed him because he was not as familiar with the personages of an opera as they were. enrages his father, who upbraids him for being a mere peasant without culture, and who angrily declares he will have no peasant-girl brought into the house as his daughter-in-law, but a girl who can play the piano, and who can draw around her the finest people of the town. Hermann, in silence, quits the room; and thus closes the second canto. We " The third canto carries on the story. Mine host continues his angry eloquence. It is his opinion that the son should always rise higher in the social scale than the father: for what would become of the house, or the nation, without this constant progress? "You are always unjust to your son," replies the mother, "and thus frustrate your own wishes. must not hope to form children after our On hearing his tale, the apothecary hugs notions. As God has given them us, so must himself with the consolation of not having wife we have them and love them, bring them up and children to make him anxious in these as best we can, and let them have their own anxious times; "the single man cscapes the disposition. For some have this and others easiest." But Hermann reproves him, asking, that gift. One is happy in one way, another "Is it well that a man should feel himself in another. I won't have my Hermann abused. alone in joy and sorrow, not understanding He is an excellent creature. But with daily how to share these joys and sorrows? I never snubbing and blame you crush his spirit.' was so willing to marry as to-day; for many a And away she goes to seck her son. "A won good maiden needs the protection of a husband, derful race the women," says the host, smiling, and many a man needs the bright consolation as his wife departs, "just like children. They of a wife, in the shadow of misfortune." all want to live after their own fashion, and Hereupon the father, smiling, exclaims, "I yet be praised and caressed!" The old apothehear you with pleasure; such a sensible word cary, carrying out the host's argument respectyou have seldom uttered." And his mothering the continual improvement of one's station, also applauds him, referring to her marriage as an example. Memory travels back complacently to the day of her betrothal. It was in the midst of misfortune-a fire had destroyed all their property- but in that hour of misfortune their union was decided. The father here breaks in, and says the story is true, but evidently wishes to warn his son from any imitation of his own venture. With admirable art and humour his fatherly anxiety is depicted. He married a girl who had nothing | son. happily displays his character by a speech of 280 HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. ing specimen of Goethe's descriptive poetry, being a series of pictures without a metaphor, without an image, without any of the picturesque aids which most poets employ; and yet it is vivid and picturesque in the highest degree. I wish I dared quote it. But the reader of German can seek it in the original; and translation is more than ever unjust to a poet, where style is in question. Hermann needs no inquiry-but neither does he shirk it. He urges the apothecary to set off, and take the pastor with him, two such experienced men being certain to detect the truth. For himself he is sure of the result. Mine host, finding wife and friends against him, consents, on a worthy report being brought by pastor and apothecary, to call Dorothea his daughter. The two commissioners seat themselves in the cart, and Hermann, mounting the box, drives them swiftly to the village. Arriving there, they get out. Hermann describes Dorothea, that they may recognize her; and awaits their return. Very graphic is the picture of this village, where the In the stable she seeks him, expecting to find him with his favourite stallion; then she goes into the garden (not omitting to set up the tree-props and brush the caterpillars from the cabbages, like a careful housewife as she is!), then through the vineyard until she finds him seated under the pear-tree, in tears. A charm-wanderers are crowded in barns and gardens, ing scene takes place between them. Hermann declares his intention of setting off in defence of fatherland; he is eloquent on the duties of citizens to give their blood for their country. But the mother knows very well it is no political enthusiasm thus suddenly moving him to quit his home; she has divined his love for Dorothea, the maiden whom he met among the emigrants; she questions him, and receives his confidence. Yes, it is because he loves Dorothea, and because his father has forbidden him to think of any but a rich bride, that he is about to depart. His father has always been unjust to him. Here interposes the mother; persuades Hermann to make the first advances to his father, certain that the paternal anger is mere hasty words, and that the dearest wish of Hermann's heart will not be disregarded. She brings him back with these hopes. In the fifth canto the friends are still sipping from green glasses the cool Rhine-wine, and arguing the old question. To them enter mother and son. She reminds her husband how often they have looked forward to the day when Hermann should make choice of a bride. That day has arrived. He has chosen the Emigrant maiden. Mine host hears this in ominous stillness. The pastor rises, and heartily backs Hermann in his prayer. He looks upon this choice as an inspiration from above, and knows Hermann well enough to trust him in such a choice. The father is still silent. The apothecary, cautious ever, suggests a middle course. He does not trust implicitly in these inspirations from above. He proposes to inquire into the character of the maiden, and as he is not easily to be deceived, he undertakes to bring back a true report. I need scarcely point out the superiority of this treatment of the old story, wherein the lover first inquires into the character of the maiden, and then makes up his mind to have her. the streets blocked up with carts, men noisily attending to the lowing cows and horses, women busily washing and drying on every hedge, while the children dabble in the stream. Through this crowd the two friends wander, and witness a quarrel, which is silenced by an old magistrate, who afterwards gives them satisfactory details about Dorothea. This episode is full of happy touches and thoughtful poetry. The friends return joyful to Hermann, and tell him he may take Dorothea home. But while they have been inquiring about her, he, here on the threshold of his fate, has been torturing himself with doubts as to whether Dorothea will accept him. She may love another; what is more probable? She may refuse to come with them into a strange house. He begs them to drive home without him. He will alone ask Dorothea, and return on foot with her if she consent. The pastor takes the reins, but the cautious apothecary, willing enough to entrust the pastor with the care of his soul, has misgivings about his power of saving his body. The pastor reassures him, and they disappear in a cloud of dust, leaving Hermann to gaze after them motionless, fixed in thought. The next two cantos are exquisitely poetical. As Hermann stands by the spring, he sees Dorothea coming with a water jug in each hand. He approaches her, and she smiles a friendly smile at his approach. He asks why she comes so far from the village to fetch water. She answers that her trouble is well repaid if only because it enables her to see and thank him for the kindness he has shown to the sufferers; but also adds that the improvident men have allowed oxen and horses to walk into the streams, and so disturb all the water of the village. They then pass to the well, and sit upon the wall which protects it. She stoops, and dips a jug in the water; he takes HERMANN AND DOROTHEA. the other jug and dips it also, and they see the image of themselves mirrored in the wavering blue of the reflected heavens, and they nod and greet each other in the friendly mirror. "Let me drink," says the joyous youth. And she holds the jug for him. Then they rest leaning upon the jugs in sweet confidence. She then asks him what has brought him here. He looks into her eyes and feels happy, but dares not trust himself with the avowal. He endeavours to make her understand it in an indirect recital of the need there is at home for a young and active woman to look after the house and his parents. She thinks he means to ask her to come as servant in his house, and, being alone in the world, gladly consents. When he perceives her mistake he is afraid to undeceive her, and thinks it better to take her home and gain her affection there. "But let us go," she exclaims, "girls are always blamed who stay long at the fountain in gossip." They stand up, and once more look back into the well to see their images meeting in its water, and "sweet desires possess them." He accompanies her to the village, and witnesses, in the affection all bear to Dorothea, the best sign that his heart has judged aright. She takes leave of them all, and sets forth with Hermann, followed by the blessings and handkerchief-wavings of the emigrants. In silence they walk towards the setting sun, which tinges the storm-clouds threatening in the distance. On the way she asks him to describe the characters of those she is going to serve. He sketches father and mother. "And how am I to treat you, you the only son to my future master?" she asks. By this time they have reached the pear-tree, and the moon is shining overhead. He takes her hand, answering, "Ask your heart, and follow all it tells you." But he can go no further in his declaration, fearing to draw upon himself a refusal. In silence they sit awhile and look upon the moon. She sees a window-it is Hermann's, who hopes it will soon be hers. They rise to continue their course, her foot slips, she falls into his arms; breast against breast, cheek against cheek, they remain a moment, he not daring to press her to him, merely supporting her. In a few minutes more they enter the house. The charm of these cantos, as indeed of the whole poem, cannot of course be divined from the analysis I am making; the perfume of a violet is not to be found in the description of the violet. But with all drawbacks, the analysis enables a reader of imagination to 281 form a better conception of the poem than he would form from an aesthetical discussion such as philosophical criticism indulges in. With this caveat let our analysis proceed. The mother is uneasy at this long absence of Hermann; comes in and out, noting the appearances of the storm, and is rather sharp in her blame of the two friends for leaving him without securing the maiden. The apothecary narrates how he was taught patience in youth; and, the door opening, presents the young couple to their glad eyes. Hermann introduces her, but tells the pastor aside that as yet there has been no talk of marriage; she only sup poses her place to be that of servant. The host, wishing to be gallant, goes at once to the point, treats her as his daughter, and compli ments her on her taste in having chosen his She blushes, is pained, and replics with some reproach that for such a greeting she was unprepared. With tears in her eyes she paints her forlorn condition, and the secret escapes her, that, touched by Hermann's generosity and noble bearing, she really has begun to feel the love for him they twit her with; but having made that confession, of course she can no longer stay; and she is departing with grief in her heart when the mistake is cleared up; she is accepted, dowerless, by them all, and Hermann, in pressing her to his heart, feels prepared for the noble struggle of life. son. Such is the story of Hermann und Dorothea, which is written in Homeric hexameters, with Homeric simplicity. In the ordinary course of things, I should be called upon to give some verdict on the much-vexed question as to whether, properly speaking, this poem is an epic or an idyll, or, by way of compromise, an idyllic epic. The critics are copious in distinctions and classifications. They tell us in what consists the epos proper, which they distinguish from the romantic epos, and from the bourgeois epos; and then these heavy batteries are brought to bear on Hermann und Dorothea. Well! if these discussions gratify the mind, and further any of the purposes of literature, let those whose bent lies that way occupy themselves therewith. To me it seems idle to trouble oneself whether Hermann und Dorothea is or is not an epic, or what kind of epic it should be called. It is a poem. One cannot say more for it. If it be unlike all other poems, there is no harm in that; if it resemble some other poems, the resemblance does not enhance its charm. Let us accept it for what it is, a poem full of life, character, and beauty; simple in its materials, astonish 282: "NIGHT TEACHETH KNOWLEDGE." ingly simple in its handling; written in obvious imitation of Homer, and yet preserving throughout the most modern colour and sentiment. Of all idylls, it is the most truly idyllic. Of all poems describing country life and country people, it is the most truthful; and on comparing it with Theocritus or Virgil, with Guarini or Tasso, with Florian or Delille, with Gesner or Thomson, the critic will note with interest its absence of poetic ornamentation, its freedom from all "idealization." Its peasants are not such as have been fashioned in Dresden china, or have solicited the palette of Lancret and Watteau; but are as true as poetry can represent them. The characters are wonderfully drawn, with a few decisive unobtrusive touches. Shakspeare himself is not more dramatic in the presentation of character. The host, his wife, the pastor, the old cautious apothecary, stand before us in all their humours. Hermann, the stalwart peasant, frank, simple, and shy, and Dorothea, the healthy, affectionate, robust, simple peasant girl, are ideal characters in the best sense, viz. in the purity of nature. Those "ideal peasants" with Grecian features and irreproachable linen, so loved of bad painters and poor poets, were not at all the figures Goethe cared to draw; he had faith in nature, which would not allow him to idealize. Very noteworthy is it that he, like Walter Scott, could find a real pleasure in talking with the common people, such as astonished his daughter-in-law (from whom, among others, I learned the fact), who could not comprehend what pleasure this great intellect found in conversation with an old woman baking her bread, or an old carpenter planing a fir-plank. He would talk with his coachman, pointing out to him the peculiarities of the scenery, and delighting in his remarks. Stately and silent as he often was to travelling bores, and to literary men with no ideas beyond the circle of books, he was loquacious and interested whenever one of the people came in his way; and the secret of this was his abiding interest in every individuality. A carpenter, who was a carpenter, interested him; but the carpenter in Sunday clothes, aping the bourgeois, would have found him as silent and stately as every other pretender found him. What Scott gathered from his intercourse with the people, everyone knows who has noticed the rich soil of humour on which Scott's antiquarian fancies are planted; what Goethe gathered from the same source may be read in most of his works, especially in Hermann und Dorothea, Faust, and Wilhelm Meister. "NIGHT TEACHETH KNOWLEDGE." When I survay the bright So rich with jewels hung, that night My soule her wings doth spread, And heaven-ward flies, The Almighty's mysteries to read In the large volumes of the skies. For the bright firmament Shootes forth no flame So silent, but is eloquent In speaking the Creator's name. No unregarded star Contracts its light Into so small a character, But if we stedfast looke We shall discerne In it, as in some holy booke, How man may heavenly knowledge learne. It tells the conqueror, That farre-stretcht powre, Which his proud dangers traffique for, Is but the triumph of an houre. That from the farthest North, Yet undiscovered, issue forth, Some nation yet shut in With hils of ice May be let out to scourge his sinne, Till they shall equall him in vice. And then they likewise shall For as your selves your empires fall, Thus those cœlestiall fires, Though seeming mute, The fallacie of our desires And all the pride of life confute. For they have watcht since first WILLIAM HABINGTON (1685) GUESSES AT TRUTH. GUESSES AT TRUTH. BY TWO BROTHERS. [Augustus William Hare, born in Rome, 17th November, 1792; died there, 18th February, 1834. Edu ated at Oxford; appointed in 1829 to the living of Alton Barnes, Wiltshire.—Sermons to a Country Congre gation. Julius Charles Hare, born near Vicenza, 13th September, 1795; died at Hurstmonceux, Sussex, 23d January, 1855. Educated at Cambridge, and became rector of Hurstmonceux and archdeacon of Lewes. He trans lated, in conjunction with Thirlwall, Niebuhr's History of Rome; he contributed to the principal reviews, and edited the Essays and Tales of John Sterling, who was his curate for a short time. His most successful works were his sermons and charges, and the Guesses at Truth, written in conjunction with his brother Angustus. This book maintains extensive popularity: the "Guesses" of the archdeacon are signed U. (Macmillan & Co., publishers.)] Were we merely the creatures of outward impulses, what would faces of joy be but so many glaciers, on which the seeming smile of happiness at sunrise is only a flinging back of the rays they appear to be greeting, from frozen and impassive heads? It is with flowers, as with moral qualities: the bright are sometimes poisonous; but, I believe, never the sweet. 283 The apparent and the real progress of human affairs are both well illustrated in a waterfall; where the same noisy, bubbling eddies continue for months and years, though the water which froths in them changes every moment. But as every drop in its passage tends to loosen and detach some particle of the channel, the stream is working a change all the time in the appearance of the fall, by altering its bed, and so subjecting the river during its descent to a new set of percussions and reverberations. And what, when at last effected, is the consequence of this change? The foam breaks the bubbling, and the eddies are just as violent into shapes somewhat different: but the noise, as before. Leaves are light, and useless, and idle, and wavering, and changeable: they even dance: yet God has made them part of the oak. In so doing he has given us a lesson not to deny the stout-heartedness within, because we see the lightsomeness without. How disproportionate are men's projects and means! To raise a single church to a single apostle, the monuments of antiquity were ransacked, and forgiveness of sins was doled out at a price. Yet its principal gate has been left unfinished; and its holy of holies is encrusted with stucco. Handsomeness is the more animal excellence, beauty the more imaginative. A handsome Madonna I cannot conceive, and never saw a handsome Venus: but I have seen many a handsome country girl, and a few very handsome ladies. Picturesqueness is that quality in objects which fits them for making a good picture; and it refers to the appearances of things in form and colour, more than to their accidental associations. Rembrandt would have been right in painting turbans and Spanish cloaks, though the Cid had been a scrivener, Cortez had sold sugar, and Mahomet had been notorious for setting up a drug-shop instead doing right, but for the frequent occurrence of a religion. It is a proof of our natural bias to evil, that gain is slower and harder than loss, in all things good: but, in all things bad, getting is quicker and casier than getting rid of. It is with great men as with high mountains. They oppress us with awe when we stand under them: they disappoint our insatiable imaginations when we are nigh, but not quite close to them: and then, the further we recede from them, the more astonishing they appear; until their bases being concealed by intervening objects, they at one moment seem miraculously lifted above the earth, and the next strike our fancies as let down from heaven. There would not be half the difficulty in of cases where the lesser virtues are on the side of wrong. Curiosity is little more than another name for hope. Since the generality of persons act from impulse, much more than from principle, men are neither so good nor so bad as we are apt to think them. You want to double your riches, and without gambling or stock-jobbing. Share it. Whether it be material or intellectual, its rapid increase will amaze you. What would the sun have been, had he folded himself up in darkness? Surely he would have gone out. So would Socrates. This road to wealth seems to have been dis |