Essays. Aesthetical and Philosophical Essays

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Presented to the

UNIVERSITY OF TORONTO LIBRARY by the

ONTARIO LEGISLATIVE LIBRARY 1980

INCLUDING THE

DISSERTATION ON THE "CONNEXION BET\VEE� THE ANIMAL AND SPIRITUAL IN l\IAN,,

BY

FRIEDRICH SCHILLER

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LO NDO N

GEORGE BELL AND SONS 1910

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CONTENTS. l'.lGB

INTRODUCTION

1 1

VOCABULARY OF '1 ERMINOLOGY .,

21 25

LETTERS UPON THE lESTHETICAL EDUCATION OF MAN THE MORAL UTILITY OF .lESTHETIC MANNERS

119

ON THE SUBLIME

128

ON THE PATHETIC

•. 142

ON GRACE AND DIGNITY

•• 1C8

ON THE NECESSARY LIMITATIONS IN THE UsE OF BEAUTY oF FORM

.223

REFLECTIONS oN THE

UsE

OF THE VULGAR

ELEMENTS IN WORKS OF ART DETACHED

REFLECTIONS

.lESTHETICS •,

ON

DIFFERENT

A.ND

QUESTIOXS

Low

•• 24:7

OF 254: •• 262

ON SIMPLE A.ND SENTIMENTAL POETRY THE STAGE A.S A. MORAL lliSTITUTION

333

ON THE TRAGIC ART

•• 339

ON THE CA.USE OF THE PLEA.SURE WE DERIVE FROM TnA.GIO OBJECTS

.. 360

PIIILOSOPHICAL LETTERS., ON THE CONNECTION

BET\VEEN

SPIRITUAL NATURE rn MAS

., 373 TIIE

ANDIAL

AND

THE •• 400

INTRODUCTION TO

SCHILLER'S .LESTHETIC.A.L LETTERS .A.ND ESSAYS. 'l'HE special subject of the greater part of the letters and essays of Schiller contained in this volume is .lEsthetics; and before passing to any remarks on his treatment of the subject it will be useful to offer a few observations on the nature of this topic, and on its treat­ ment by the philosophical spirit of different ages. First, then, resthetics has for its object the vast realm of the beautiful, and it may be most adequately defined as the philosophy of art or of the fine arts. 'l'o some the definition may seem arhi­ trary, as excluding the beautiful in nature; but it will cease to appear so if it is remarked that the beauty which is the work of art is higher than natural beauty, because it is the offspring of the mind. l\foreover, if, in conformity with a certain school of modern philo­ sophy, the mind be viewed as the true being, inclnding all iu itself, it must be admitted that beauty is only truly beautiful when it shares in the nature of mind and is mind's offspring. Viewed in this light, the beauty of nature is only a reflection 0f the beauty of the mind, only an imperfect beauty, which as to its essence is included in that of the mind. Nor has it ever entered into the mind of any thinker to develop the beautiful in natural objects, so as to convert it into a science and a system. The field of natural beauty is too uncertain and too fluctuating for this purpose. More­ over, the relation of beauty in nature and beauty in art forms a part of the science of rusthetics, and finds again its proper place. But it may be urged that art is not worthy of a scientific treat­ ment. Art is no doubt an ornament of our life and a charm to the fancy; but has it a more serious side? When compared with the absorhing necessities of human existence, it might seem a lnxury, a superfluity, calculated to enfeeble the heart by the assiduous worship of beauty, and thus to be actually prejudicial to the trne interest of B

2

IXTRODlTCTIO.N TO SCHIJ,LER'S

practical life. This view seems to be largely countenanced by a domi11an t party in modern times, and practical men, as they are styled, are Oil ly too ready to take this superficial view of the office of art. Many have indeed undertaken to defend art on this score, and to show that, far from being a mere luxury, it has serious and solid advantages. It bas been even apparently exaggerated in this re­ spect, and represented as a kind of mediator between reason and sense, between inclination and duty, having as its mission the work of reconcilmg the conflicting elements in the human heart. A strong trace of this view will be found in Schiller, especially in all that he sa,ys about the play-instinct in his '�sthetical Letters.' Nevertheless, art is worthy of science, resthetics is a trne science, and the office of art is as high as that assigned to it iu trt pages of Schiller. We admit that art viewed. only as an ornament and a ch:irm is no longer free, but a slave. But this is a pervnaion of its proper end. Science has to be considered a� free in its aim and in its means, and it is only free when liberated from all other cvnsiderations; it rises up to truth, which is its only real object, and c'l.11 alone fnlly satisfy it. Art in like manner is alone truly art when it is free and independent, when it solves the problem of its high destination-that problem whether it has to be placed beside religion and philosophy as being nothing else than a particular morie or a spt:cial form of revealing God to consciousness, and of expressing the deepest interests of human nature and the widest tmtbs of the human mind. For it is in their works of art that the nations have imprinted their favourite thoughts anre of legends derived from ecclesiastical ground. One of the best German writers on the history of German literature remarks: "If the aim and nature of all poetry is to let yourself be filled by a subject and to become penetrated with it, if the simple representation of unartificial, true., and glowing feelings belongs to its most beautiful adornments, if the faithful direction of the heart to the invisible and eternal is the ground on which at all times the most lovely flowers of poetry have sprouted forth, ihese legendary poems of early Germany, in their lovely heartiness, in their unambitious limitation, and their pious sense, deserve a friendly acknowledgement. What man has considered the pious images in the prayer-books of the Middle Ages, the unadorned innocence, the piety and purity, the patience of the martyrs, the calm, heavenly transparency of the figures of the holy angels-with­ .mt being attracted by the simple innocence and humility of these forms, the creation of pious artists' hands? 'Who has beheld them without tranquil joy at the soft splendour, poured. over them, with­ out deep sym1,athy, nay, without a certain emotion and tenderness? And the same spirit that creat.,d these images also produced thoso poetical effusions, the same spirit of pious belief, of deep devotion, of heavenly longing. If we make a present reality of the heroio

�THF.TlCAL LETTERS A�n ESSAYS.

11

aongs of the early German popular poetry, md the chivalrous evics of the art poetry, the military expeditions and dress of the Crusades, this legendary poetry appears as the invention of humble pilgrimSi who wander slowly on the weary way to Jerusalem, with scollop and pilgrim's staff, engaged in quiet prayer, till they are all to kneel at the Saviour's sepulchre, and thus contented, after touching the holy earth with their lips, they return, poor as they were, but full of holy comfort, to their distant home. "While the knightly poetry is the poetry of the splen.:'\D ESSAYS.

yet thinking of a reconstrnction. The sixteenth century was the nwgnard of the eighteenth. At all times the North had fretted nnf this essr1y. Tho opinions that are offered in these letters can onlJ· be true and false relatively, and iu the form in which the world is mirrored in the soul of the correspondent, and of him only. But the course of the correspondence will show that the one-sided, often exaggerated and contradictory, opinions at length issue in a general, purified, and well established truth. 8cepticism and free-thinking are the feverish paroxysms of the human mind,and must needs at length confirm the health of well-organised souls, by the unnatural convubion which they occasion. In proportion to the dazzling and seducing uatnre of error will be the greatness of the triumphs of truth: the demand for conviction and firm belief will be strong and pressing in proportion to the torment occasioned by I he pangs of doubt. But doubt was neccs:-ary to elicit these errors; the knowledge of the disease had to precede its cure. 'l1ruth suffers no los" if a vehement yonth fails in fi11ding it, in the same way that virtue and religion suffer no detriment if a criminal denies them. It was necessary to offer these prefatory remarks to throw a proper light on the point of view from which \he following correspondence has to be read and judged. LETTER

I.

Julius to Raphael.

October. You are gone, Raphael,-and the beauty of naturb rleparts: the sere and yellow leaves fall from the trees, while a thick autumn fog hangs suspended like a bier over the lifeless field:-:. Solitary, l wander thrnugh the melan-

SGIIILLER's Pllll.0::iUl't-1.lCAL LETTERS

375

choly country. I call aloud your name, and am irritated that my Raphael does not answer me. I had received your last embrace. The mournful sound of the carriage wheels that horn you away had at length died upon my ear. In happier moments I had just i-ucceeded in raising a tumulus over the joys of the past, but now again yon stand up Lefore me, as your departed i-pirit, in these regions, and you accompany me to each favourite haunt and plea,ant walk. These rock8 I have climbed hy your side; by your side have my eyes wandered over this imlllense landscape. 1n the dark sanctuary of this beech grove we first conceived the bold ideal of our friendship. It was here that we unfolded the genealogical tree of the soul, and that we found that Julius was so cl,,sely related to Raphael. Not a spring, not a thicket or a hill exiists in this region, where some memory of departed nappiness does not come to destroy my repose. All things combine to prevent my recovery. Wherever I go, I repeat the rainful scene of our separation. \\ hat have you done to me, Raphael? What am I become? l\1a,n 0£ dangerous power ! would that I had never known or never lost you! Hasten back ; come on the wings of friend:ship, or the tender pL-mt, your nursling, shall have perished. How could you, endowed with such tender feelings, venture to leave the work you had begun, but still :;o incomplete. The foundations that your proud wisdom tried to establish in my brain and heart are tottering; all the splendid palaces which you erected are crumbling, and the worm crushed to earth is writhing under the ruins. llappy, heavenly time, when I groped through life. with bandaged eyes, like a drunken man,-when all my knowledge and m.r wishes were confined to the narrow horizon of my childhood·s teachings! Blessed time; whe.a. a cheerful sunset raised no higher aspiration in my soul than tl1e wish of a fine ated. But also of the millions who exi.-'ted centuries ago. nothing more is now known, and yet men are wont to say, they are. On what do we found the right to gra11t the beginning and to deny the end? It is assumed that the cessation of thiuking beings contradicts Infinite GoodneFs. Did, then, Infinite Goodness come first into being at the creation of the world? If there was a period when there were no spirits, Infinite Goodness must have been imperative for a whole eternity. If the fabric of the universe is a perfection of the Creator, He, therefore. lacked a perfection before the creation of the world. But an assumption like this contra­ dicts the idea of perfect goodness, therefore there is no creation. To what have I arrived, Raphael? Terrible fallacy of my conclusions I I give up the Creator as soon as I believe in a God. Wherefore do I require a God, if I suffice without the Creator? You have robbed me of the thought tbat gave me peace. You have taught me to desphe where I prayed bf\fore. A thousand things we1 e venerable in my sight till your dismal wisdom stripped off the veil from them. I saw a crowd of people streaming to church, I heard their enthu­ :;iastic devotion poured forth in a common act of prayer and praise; twice did I stanuLlime this announcement sounds! What a field for my thirst or knowledge 1 Bnt­ unlucky contradiction of nature-this free and soaring spirit is woven together with the rigid, immovable clock­ work of a mortal body, mixed up with its little necessities,. and yoked to its fate-this god is banished into a world of worms. The immense space of nature is opened to his research, but he cannot think two ideas at the same time. ,vith his eyes he reaches up to the sunny focus of the Godhead, but he himself is obliged to creep after Him slowly and wearily through the elements of time. To absorb one enjoyment, he must give np all others: two nnlimited desires are too great for his little heart. Every fresh joy costs him the &um of all previous joys. The present moment is the sepulchre of all that went before it. An idyllic hour of love is an intermittent pulsation of friend::;hip. Wherever I look, Raphael, how limited man appears! How great the distance between bis aims and their fulfil­ ment !-yet do not begrudge him his soothing slumber. Wake him not! He was so happy before he began to inquire whither he was to go, and whence be came! Reason is a torch in a prison. The prisoner knew nothing of the light, but a dream of freedom appeared over him like a flash in the night which leaves the darkness deeper than before. Our philosophy is the unhappy curiosity of (Edi.pus, who did not cea�e to inquire till the dreadful oracle was unravelled. l\layest thou never learn who thou art! Docs your wisdom replace what it has set aside? If you had no key to open heaven, why did you lead me away from earth ? If you knew beforehand that the way to wisdom leads through the frightful abyss of doubt, why

SClllLLEP.'S PHILOSOPlllC.A.L LETTERS,

did you venture the innocence of your friend Julius on this desperate throw ?If to the goou, which I propose to do, Something ,·ery ba, I borders far too nt:ar, I prefer not to do this gooJ..

You have pulled down a shelter that was inhabited, and fonndt,d a spiendid but. lifeles.s palace on the spot. Ral'l1acl. I claim my s11u] from you! 1 am 1mhappy . .M y cuura;_!;e is gone. I de�pair uf my own strength. Write tu me soon !-your healing hand alone can pour balm on my burning wounds.

LETTER III. R�phael to Julius.

JuLius, happiness such as ours, if unbroken, would be too much fur human lot. This thought often haunted me even in the full enjoyment of our friendship. This thought, then darkening our happiness, was a salutary fnretaste, intended to mitigate the pain of my present position. Hardened in the stern school uf resign ation, I am still more susceptible of the comfort of seeing in our separation a slight sacrifice whose merit may win fi om fate the reward of our future re11nion. You did nut yet know what privation was. You snffer for the first time. And yet it is perhaps an advantage fur yon that I have been torn from you exactly at this tiwe. Y uu have tu endure a malady, from which you can only perfectly recover by your own energy, so as not to suffer a relapse. The more deserted you feel, the more you will stir up all healing power in your.self, and in propor1ion as you derive little or nu benefit from temporary an d decep­ tive palliati'"es, the more certainly will you succeed in eradicating the evil fondamentally. I do not repent that I rou::ied you from your dream, though yonr present position is painful. I have done nothing mo:·e than hasten a crisis, which every soul like yours has sooner or later to pass through, and where the e&ential thing is, at what time of life it is endured,

880

SCHILi.ER'S PHILOSOPHICAL LETTERS.

There are times and seasons when it is terrible to doubt truth and virtue. Woe to the man who has to fight through the quibbles of a self-sufficient reason while he il'I immersed in the storms of the passions. I have fdt in its fulness all that is expressed by this, and, to preserve you from similar troubles, I conld