Men, who are born for business, for action, cannot too soon contemplate for themselves and animate all things. They must themselves grapple with and pa.s.s through many relations, must harden their whole being against the influence of new situations, and the dissipation which a mult.i.tude and variety of objects engenders; and they must accustom themselves, even in the urgency of great occasions to hold fast to the thread of their object. They should not yield to the invitations of inactive contemplation. Their soul must not be gazing at self; it must be ceaselessly directed to outward things, a handmaid to the understanding, active and prompt in discrimination. They are heroes; and events press about them which must be fulfilled, and their problems solved. By their influence all occurrences of chance become history, and their life is an unbroken chain of remarkable and splendid, intricate and singular events.

Far otherwise is it with those quiet, unknown men, whose world is their own mind, whose activity the action of the contemplative intellect, and whose life a gentle development of their inner powers. No desquietude drives them to outward things. A tranquil possession satisfies them; and the immense drama without does not entice them to engage in it themselves; but they regard it as significant and wonderful, a source of contemplation for their leisure moments. Longings for the spirit hold them in the distance; and it is this spirit that destines them to act the mysterious part of the mind in this human worlds while others represent the outer limbs and senses, the mind's projected powers. They would be disturbed by great and various events. A simple life is their lot, and they become acquainted with the rich subject-matter and countless phenomena of the world from relations and writings alone. But seldom in the course of their lives does any occurrence draw them along with it in its sudden vortex, in order to acquaint them by a few experiences more accurately with the situation and character of active men. On the contrary, their susceptible minds are already sufficiently busied with near and insignificant phenomena, which represent the great world as it were renewed; and they will advance no step, without making the most surprising discoveries in themselves, concerning the nature and significance of these phenomena. They are poets, those men of rare inspiration, who at times wander through our dwelling-place, and everywhere renew the ancient, venerable, service of humanity, and of its first G.o.ds,--the stars, spring, love, happiness, fertility, health, and the joyous heart; they, who are already here in possession of heavenly rest, and, driven about by no foolish desires, breathe only the fragrance of earthly fruits, without devouring them, then to be irrevocably chained to the lower world. They are free guests whose golden feet tread softly, and whose presence involuntarily outspreads its wings around. A poet may be known, like a good king, by cheerful and bright faces, and he alone justly bears the name of sage. If you compare him with heroes, you will find that the songs of the poets frequently awake heroic courage in youthful hearts; but heroic deeds have probably never awakened the spirit of poesy in any mind whatever.

Henry was a poet by nature. Many events seemed to conspire to aid his development, and as yet nothing had disturbed the elasticity of his soul. All that he saw and heard seemed only to remove new bars within him, and to open new windows for his spirit. The world, with its great and changing relations, lay before him. But as yet it was silent; and its soul, its language was not yet awakened. Soon did a poet approach, holding a lovely girl by the hand, that by the sound of the mother tongue, and by the movement of a sweet and tender mouth; the soft lips might unlock and the simple harmony unfold in unending melodies.

The journey was now ended. It was towards evening when our travellers, in safety and good spirits, arrived at the far-famed city of Augsburg, and, full of expectation, rode through the high streets to the s.p.a.cious mansion of the old Swaning.

The surrounding country had already appeared delightful to the eyes of Henry. The animated bustle of the city, and the great houses of stone affected him strangely, yet agreeably. He experienced a real pleasure in thinking of his future abode. His mother was very much pleased to see herself in her native city after her wearisome journey, soon to embrace again her father and old acquaintances, to introduce Henry to them, and for once be able quietly to forget all household cares in the cordial remembrances of her youth. The merchants hoped by the pleasures there to indemnify themselves for the discomforts of their journey, and to do a profitable business.

Lights gleamed from the house of the old Swaning, and joyous music swelled towards them. "What will you bet," said the merchants, "that your grandfather is not giving a merry party? We came as if invited.

How much his uninvited guests will astonish him. He is not dreaming that now the true festivity is about to commence." Henry felt embarra.s.sed, and his mother was only anxious about their dress. They alighted; the merchants remained with the horses, and Henry and his mother entered the splendid mansion. Not a soul belonging to the house was to be seen below. They were obliged to ascend the lofty stairs.

Some servants ran past them; they asked them to inform the old Swaning of the arrival of some strangers who wished to speak with him. The servants made some objection at first, for the travellers did not appear in very good condition as to dress, yet finally they announced them to the master of the house. The old Swaning came out. He did not know them at first, and asked them their names and business. Henry's mother wept and fell upon his neck.

"Do you not know your own daughter?" she exclaimed weeping. "I bring you my son."

The aged father was extremely moved. He pressed her long to his bosom.

Henry sank upon his knee and tenderly kissed his hand. He raised him to himself and held both mother and son in his embrace.

"Come right in," said Swaning, "I have only my friends and acquaintances here, who will rejoice with me." Henry's mother hesitated, but had no time to consider. The father led them both into the lighted hall.

"Here I bring my daughter and grandson from Eisenach," cried Swaning, in the merry crowd of gaily dressed guests.

All eyes were turned towards the door; all ran to it; the music ceased, and the two travellers stood bewildered and dazzled in their dusty dresses, in the midst of the motley throng. A thousand joyful exclamations pa.s.sed from mouth to mouth. All her acquaintances pressed around the mother. Innumerable were the questions which were asked.

Each one wished to be recognised and welcomed first. Whilst the elder part of the company were attending to the mother, the attention of the younger portion was directed to the strange youth, who was standing with downcast eyes, not daring to look again upon the unknown faces.

His grandfather introduced him to the company, and inquired after his father and about the occurrences of his journey.

The mother thought of the merchants, who out of politeness had remained below by the horses. She told her father, who sent down for them immediately, and invited them to ascend. The horses were led into the stable, and the merchants appeared.

Swaning thanked them heartily for the friendly escort they had afforded his daughter. They were acquainted with many who were present, and exchanged friendly greetings. The mother asked permission to change her dress. Swaning led her to her chamber, and Henry followed for the same purpose.

The appearance of one man was very striking to Henry, who thought that he had seen him in that book. His n.o.ble bearing distinguished him from all the rest. His face wore an expression of serene gravity, an open, finely arched forehead, large, black, penetrating, and tranquil eyes, a humorous expression about his pleasant mouth, and his full manly proportions, gave to him a meaning and fascinating appearance. He was strongly built, his movements quiet and expressive, and where he stood he seemed about to stay forever. Henry asked his grandfather about him.

"I am glad," said the old man, "that you noticed him. It is my excellent friend Klingsohr, the poet. You should be prouder of his acquaintance than of the emperor's. But how is your heart? He has a beautiful daughter, who perhaps will surpa.s.s the father in your eyes.

It would be strange if you had not noticed her."

Henry blushed; "my mind has been distracted, dear grandfather. The company is numerous, and I was looking only at your friend."

"We see that you came from the North," replied Swaning; "we shall soon thaw you out here. You shall learn soon to look after pretty faces."

They were now ready, and returned to the hall, where in the mean time preparations for supper had been made. The old Swaning led Henry to Klingsohr, and told him that Henry had noticed him particularly, and ardently desired to become acquainted with him.

Henry was confused. Klingsohr spoke kindly to him of his fatherland and of his journey. There was so much to inspire confidence in his voice, that Henry soon gained courage and conversed with him freely. After a little while Swaning came to them again, bringing with him the beautiful Matilda.

"You must receive my grandson kindly, and pardon him that he has noticed your father before you. Your bright eyes will awaken his youth within him. In his native land Spring comes too late."

Henry and Matilda blushed. They gazed admiringly upon each other. She asked him, with scarcely audible words, whether he was fond of dancing.

While he was answering in the affirmative, the merry music struck up.

He silently offered her his hand; she accepted it, and they mingled among the rows of waltzers. Swaning and Klingsohr looked on. The mother and the merchants were delighted with Henry's grace and with his lovely partner. The mother had enough to converse about with the friends of her youth, who wished her much happiness from so well educated and hopeful a son.

Klingsohr said to Swaning,--"Your grandson has an attractive countenance; it indicates a clear and comprehensive mind, and his voice comes deep from his heart."

"I hope," replied Swaning, "that he will become your docile pupil. It seems to me that he is born for a poet. May your spirit fall upon him.

He looks like his father, only he seems more ardent and excitable. The former was a youth of superior talents. He was wanting, however, in a certain liberality of mind. He might hare become something more than an industrious and able mechanic."

Henry wished that the dance would never end. With heartfelt pleasure his eyes rested on the roses of his partner. Her innocent eye did not avoid his. She appeared like the spirit of her father in the most lovely disguise. Eternal youth spoke from her full and quiet eyes. Upon a light blue ground lay the mild splendor of the brown stars. Her forehead and nose were beautifully formed. Her face was like a lily inclined towards the rising sun, and from her slender white neck, the blue veins clung round her tender cheeks in gentle curves. Her voice was like a distant echo, and her small head with its brown tresses seemed but to hover over her airy form.

Refreshments were brought in, and the dances closed. The elder people seated themselves on one side, the younger on the other.

Henry remained with Matilda. A young relative seated herself at his left, and Klingsohr sat opposite him. If Matilda said but little, his other neighbor, Veronika, was so much the more talkative. She immediately played the familiar with him, and soon made him acquainted with all present. Henry lost much of her conversation. He was still with his partner, and wished to turn much oftener to the right.

Klingsohr made an end to their talking. He asked about the band with the strange devices, which Henry had fastened to his coat. He told him with much emotion of the girl from the holy land. Matilda wept; and now Henry could scarcely hide his tears. For this reason he entered into conversation with her. All were enjoying themselves, and Veronika joked and laughed with her acquaintances. Matilda described Hungary, where her father often dwelt, and the mode of life in Augsburg. The enjoyment was at its height. The music put all restraint to flight, and all the affections into a joyful play. Baskets of flowers in all their splendor exhaled their odors upon the table, and the wine danced about between the dishes and the flowers, shook its golden wings, and formed many varied pictures between the guests and the world. Henry now understood for the first time what was meant by a festival. A thousand happy spirits seemed to gambol around the table, and to live in silent sympathy with the joys of the happy people, and to intoxicate themselves with their pleasures. The enjoyment of life stood before him, like a tinkling tree full of golden fruits. Pain had vanished, and it seemed impossible that ever human inclination should have turned from this tree to the dangerous fruit of knowledge, the tree of strife.

He now learned what were wine and food. They tasted very richly to him.

A heavenly oil seasoned them for him, and from the beaker sparkled the splendor of earthly life. Some of the maidens brought a fresh garland to the old Swaning. He put it on, and kissing them, said, "You must bring one also to our friend Klingsohr, and for thanks he will teach you a couple of new songs. You shall have mine immediately. He beckoned for the music to commence, and sang with a clear voice:--

"Surely life is most distressing, And a mournful fate we meet!

Stress and need our only blessing, Practised only in deceit; And our bosoms never daring To unfold their soft despairing.

"What the elders all are telling, To the youthful heart is waste; Throes of longing are we feeling The forbidden fruit to taste; Would the gentle youths but deign us, And believe that they could gain us!

"Thinking so then are we sinning?

All our thoughts are duty-free.

What indeed to us remaining, Wretched wights, but fantasy?

Do we strive our dreams to banish, Never, never will they vanish.

"When in prayer at even bending Frightens us the loneliness, Favor and desire are wending Thitherward to our caress; How disdain the fair offender, Or resist the soft surrender?

"Mothers stern our charms concealing, Every day prescribe anew.

What availeth all our willing?

Spring they not again to view?

Warm desire is ever riving Closest fetters with its striving.

"Every impulse harshly spurning Hard and cold to be as stone, Never glances bright returning, Close to be and all alone, Heed to no entreaty giving,-- Call you that the flower of living?

"Ah, how great a maid's annoyance, Sick and chafed her bosom is,-- And to make her only joyance, Withered lips bestow a kiss!

Will the leaf be turning never, Elders' reign to end forever?"

Both old and young laughed. The girls blushed and smiled aside. Amidst a thousand railleries a second garland was brought and put upon Klingsohr. They begged him, however, very earnestly not to give them such a gay song. "No," said Klingsohr, "I will take good care not to speak so lightly of your secrets; say yourselves what kind of a song you would prefer."

"Anything but a love song," cried the girls; "let it be a drinking song if you like." Klingsohr sang:--

"On verdant mountain-side is growing The G.o.d, who heaven to us brings; The sun's own foster-child, and glowing With all the fire its favor flings.

"In Spring is he conceived with pleasure, The bud unfolds in silent joy, And mid the Autumn's harvest-treasure Forth springs to life the golden boy.

"Within his narrow cradle lying, In vaulted rooms beneath the ground, He dreams of feasts and banners flying And airy castles all around.

"Near to his dwelling none remaineth, When chafeth he in restless strife, And every hoop and fetter straineth In all the pride of youthful life.

"For viewless watchmen round are closing, Until his lordly dreams are o'er, With air-enveloped spears opposing The loiterer near the sacred door.

"So when unfold his sleeping pinions, With sparkling eyes he greets the day, Obeys in peace his priestly minions, And forth he cometh when they pray.