Beyond
this there was no apparent struggle.
this there was no apparent struggle.
Warner - World's Best Literature - v18 - Mom to Old
To him all riddles are solved.
By the magic of the
imagination he can unite all ages and all worlds. Miracles disappear,
and everything transforms itself into miracles. " And so throughout
the tale the marvels advance by gigantic strides, until at the end it
only dimly stirs us to learn that "Heinrich plucks the Blue Flower
and releases Matilda from her enchantment, but she is again lost to
him. He becomes insensible through pain, and turns into a stone.
Edda (the Blue Flower, the Eastern Maiden, Matilda) sacrifices her-
self upon the stone, which is then transformed into a melodious tree.
Cyane hews down the tree and burns it, and herself with it. He
now becomes a golden ram which Edda - that is, Matilda-must sac-
rifice, when he again becomes man," etc.
'Heinrich von Ofterdingen' as a romance is unworthy of the place
assigned it by contemporary critics. Although full of passages of
rare beauties, and ideas which outstrip their time, it is nevertheless
vague, obscure, and chaotic. Its importance lies in its effect as the
leaven of the new literature just springing into being. It embodies
all the beauties, as well as all the faults and extravagances, of the old
Romantic school, before time had pruned its growth and developed it
into a fruitful maturity.
HYMNS TO THE NIGHT
WHAT
HAT living, feeling being loves not the gorgeous hues which
proclaim the dawn of day?
The ever-moving stars, as they whirl in boundless.
ether, hail the dawn-bright herald of the day, the glistening
rocks hail its rays, the tender growing plants raise their pure
eyes rejoicing, and the wild animal joins in the happy chorus.
which welcomes another day.
More than all these rejoices the glorious Being, the Monarch
of the Earth. His deep, thoughtful eyes survey his creation.
His melodious voice summons nature to resume her magic works.
He binds or looses a million ties, and stamps all earthly life with
## p. 10728 (#608) ##########################################
10728
NOVALIS
some impress of his power. His presence reveals the marvels
of the Kingdom of Earth.
But sacred Night, with her unspoken mysteries, draws me to
her. The world is far, far away, buried in a deep and lonely
grave. My heart is full of sadness. Let me dissolve in drops
of dew, and join the beloved dust. Long past memories, youth-
ful ambitions, childhood's dreams, a long life of brief joys and
blighted hopes, pass before me-dusky forms, like evening mist.
In another region merry day returns triumphant. Will it
never return to us, its children, who await its coming in child-
like trust?
What stirs this weary heart, and banishes my sorrow? Dost
thou feel pity for us, O holy Night?
What soothing influence pervades my being? What hand
sheds costly opiate on my throbbing heart? The wings of fancy
no longer droop, fresh energy arises within me. In joyful sur-
prise I see a calm, grave face bend lovingly over me; the face
of a tender mother, beaming with eternal youth. How poor and
childish in comparison are the joys of day, how blessed and con-
soling the return of night!
The active work of day is over; the boundless ocean of space,
with its lustrous spheres, proclaims Night's eternal power and
presence.
The eyes of the Night are countless hosts of glittering orbs,
a glory far exceeding that of Day. They see far beyond the
most distant of those countless hosts; they need no light to
perceive the unfathomable depth of that loving Spirit who fills
boundless space with happiness.
All hail, Queen of the Earth! thou herald of holier worlds,
thou revealer of holy love! Much-loved sun of the night, thou
art her gift.
My whole being awakes. I am thine, and thou art mine.
Night has aroused me to life and manhood. Consume my earthly
frame, draw me into deeper and closer union, and may our
bridal night endure for ever.
MUST Day return again? Will earthly influences never cease?
Unholy toil desecrates the heavenly calm of Night. When shall
the mystic sacrifice of love burn for ever? Light has its own
fixed limits, but Night has a boundless unfathomable dominion;
the reign of Sleep has no end. Holy Sleep! shed thy blest balm
## p. 10729 (#609) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10729
on the hallowed Night of this earthly sphere. Only fools fail
to understand thee, and know of no other sleep than the shades
which the actual night casts over us in kindly pity. They see
thee not in the purple blood of the grape, in the golden oil of
the almond, in the dusty sap of the poppy. They guess not that
it is thou who hoverest around the tender maiden, making her
heart the temple of Heaven; nor dream that it is thou, heavenly
messenger, who bearest the key which opens the dwellings of the
Blessed.
I KNOW when the last day shall come when Light no longer
shall be scared by Night and Love: then slumber shall not cease,
and existence shall become an endless dream. Heavenly weari-
ness oppresses me, long and dreamy was my pilgrimage to the
Holy Grave, crushing was the cross I bore. He who has drunk
of the crystal wave which wells forth from the gloomy grave
on which earth's billows break, he who has stood on earth's
border-land and perceived that new country, the dwelling of
Night, returns not to the tumult of life, to the land where light
reigns amid ceaseless unrest.
―――
He builds himself a refuge far from the tumult-a peaceful
home, and awaits the welcome hour when he too shall be drawn
into the crystal wave. All that savors of earth floats on the
surface, and is driven back by tempests; but what love has hal-
lowed flows in hidden channels, to another region where it min-
gles- a fragrant essence—with those loved ones who have fallen
asleep.
Ah! merry Light, thou still arousest the weary to their task,
and strivest to inspire me too with cheerful life; but thou hast
no charm to tempt me from my cherished memories. With
joy I watch the busy hands, and look around to fulfill my own
duty; I praise thy glorious works, admire the matchless blending
of thy cunning designs, watch the varied workings of the busy
hours, and seek to discover the symmetry and laws which rule
the marvels of endless space and measureless ages.
But my heart remains ever true to Night and her daughter,
creative Love. Canst thou show me one ever-faithful heart?
Has thy sun a friendly glance for me? Do thy stars hold out a
welcoming hand? Do they return the gentle pressure and the
caressing word? Hast thou clothed them in color and beauty?
What joys or pleasure can life offer to outweigh the charm of
## p. 10730 (#610) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10730
death? Does not all that inspires us bear the colors of Night?
Night bears thee gently like a mother; to her thou owest all thy
glory. Thou wouldst have sunk into endless space had not Night
upheld thee, and bound thee, till earth arose. Truly I existed
long ere thou wert: I and my sisters were sent to dwell in thy
world, and hallow it with love, to make it an enduring memorial;
to plant it with unfading flowers. Not yet have these blossoms
opened, few are the traces which mark our way. But the end
of time is at hand; then thou wilt rejoin us, and gently fade
away, full of longing and fervent desire. All thy busy restless-
ness will end in heavenly freedom, a blessed home-coming. With
bitter grief I acknowledge thy forsaking of our home, thine un-
conquered hatred to the old glorious heaven.
But in vain is thy wrath and fury. The Cross stands firm
for ever, the banner of our race.
souls.
THE many scattered races of mankind lay bound for ages in
the grasp of an iron fate. Light was hidden from their weary
The eternal world was the home and dwelling of the
Gods. Its mysterious form had existed from eternity. Over
the glowing mountains of the East abode the Sun, with its all-
pervading heat and light. An aged Giant bore the Earth on his
shoulders. The Titans, the first children of Mother Earth,- who
had waged impious war against the new glorious race of Gods
and their kinsfolk, the merry race of men,-lay fast bound under
the mountains. The dark green depths of Ocean was the lap of
a Goddess. A gay, luxurious race dwelt in the crystal grottoes.
Beasts, trees, flowers, and animals had the gift of speech. Richer
was the flavor of the grapes, for a God dwelt in the luxuriant
vine; the golden sheaves took their birth from a loving motherly
Goddess; and love was the sweet service rendered to the dei-
ties. Age followed age, a ceaseless spring; and the happy life
of Earth's children was ever enlivened by celestial presences.
All races honored the flashing, many-hued flame, as the highest
manifestation in life.
Only one shadow obscured the common joy-the cruel spectre
of Death. This mysterious decree-separation from all that
was loved and lovely-weighed heavy on the hearts of all; even
the Gods could find no remedy for this evil. Unable to over-
come the menacing fate, man strove to cast a glamour of beauty
over the ghastly phantom, and pictured him as a lovely youth
## p. 10731 (#611) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10731
extinguishing a torch, and sinking to rest. Still the cruel
enigma remained unsolved, and spoke of the irresistible might
of some unknown power.
The old world waned; the flowers of the first Paradise faded
away; and the race of men, casting off their early innocence,
strayed into a wild, uncultivated desert. The Gods and their
retinues vanished from earth. Nature stood lonely and lifeless,
bound in the iron chains of custom and laws. The bloom was
brushed from life. Faith took flight from the dreary scene; and
with her fled her heavenly companion Fancy, who could cast
over all things her magic vesture. A cruel north wind swept over
the barren waste, and the devastated wonder-home was blown
into space.
Heaven's blue ocean showed new dazzling spheres,
and the Spirit of the World withdrew to higher regions to
await the dawn of a renewed earth. Light ceased to be the
abode and the symbol of the Gods; they covered themselves
with the veil of Night. Night was the cradle of the coming age;
in it the Gods took refuge, and sleep came upon them, until a
new era should call them forth in new and more glorious forms.
The new era arose at last amidst a nation scorned and
despised, a people who had cast off their native innocence. In
poverty was born the son of the first Virgin Mother, myste-
rious offspring of heavenly origin. The wise sons of the East
were first to acknowledge the commencement of the strange new
epoch, and humbly bent their way to worship the King in his
lowly cradle; a mystic star guided their wandering steps. They
did him homage, offering him the sweetness and brightness of
the earth, the gold and the perfume, both miracles of nature.
The Heavenly Heart unfolded slowly-a flower chalice of Al-
mighty love, with eyes upturned to a Divine Father, while his
head rested on the tender bosom of a loving earthly mother.
With prophetic eye and godlike zeal, the blooming Child, despis-
ing the cruel days of earthly conflict before him, looked far ahead
to the future of his beloved race, the offshoots of a divine root.
Soon he gathered around him a loving band of childlike hearts.
A strange new life arose, like that of the flowers of the field;
unceasing words of wisdom and utterances of deepest love fell
from his lips, like sparks of divine fire.
From the far shores of Hellas and her sunny skies, a poet
came to Palestine, and laid his heart at the feet of the Wonder-
Child.
## p. 10732 (#612) ##########################################
10732
NOVALIS
Oh! thou art he who from unending years
Hast looked with pity on our earthly tomb;
Thou gav'st a sign of life in deepest night,
And thou wilt bring our higher manhood home.
Thou hast upheld us here, mid grief and tears.
Lead thou our nobler longings up to heaven:
In death alone eternal life is found,
For thou art death, and thou our life hast given.
Full of joy, his heart beating with new love and hope, the
singer bent his way to Hindustan, pouring out under its cloud-
less sky such burning songs that myriads of hearts turned to
him, and the joyful news spread far and near. Soon after the
poet left, the precious Life fell a sacrifice to fallen man: he
died young, torn away from the much-loved earth, his weeping
mother, and his faint-hearted friends. The moment of anguish,
the birth of the new world was at hand. He fought with the
old dreaded form of death; struggled hard to shake off the clutch
of the old world; his sweet lips drained the bitter chalice of
unspeakable anguish. Once more he cast a loving glance at his
mother; then came the delivering hand of Mighty Love, and
he fell asleep. For many days a thick mist lay on the raging
waters and the quaking earth; countless were the tears shed by
those who loved him; the secret of the grave was made clear,
and heavenly spirits rolled away the heavy stone from the tomb.
Angels watched by the slumbering Form: rising in new godlike
glory, he soared to the heights of the newly made world, buried
the old earthly shape in the depths of a cavern, and laid his
mighty hand on it, so that no power might ever move it.
The loving ones still wept by his grave, but they wept tears
of emotion and gratitude. Again they see thee and rejoice at
thy resurrection; they see thee weeping on thy mother's sacred
bosom; they walk once more as friends, listening to words like
leaves fluttering from the Tree of Life; they behold thee hasten
with untold longing to the Father's arms, bearing aloft the new
manhood and the victorious chalice. The mother soon hastened
to join thy triumph; she was the first to enter the New Home.
Long years have passed since then, and thy new creation soars to
higher powers; thousands and thousands drawn by thee from
bitter grief and pain now roam with thee and the heavenly
Virgin in the Kingdom of Love, serve in the Temple of Divine
Death, and are thine eternally.
## p. 10733 (#613) ##########################################
10733
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
(1828-1862)
F THAT company of brilliant if not always prosperous fellows
who kept the echoes of "Bohemia" busy with the laughter
and the sighs of spendthrift wit in the New York of the
decade of '50, Fitz-James O'Brien was a fascinating and admired com-
rade. This restless Gaelic spirit was like the Irish river beside which
he was born: sometimes turbulent in flashing cascades, beating and
bullying the stolid rocks; again spreading under the sun through
bright and placid lakes, or dancing gayly by the low and rose-
perfumed meadows. In the power of this lad from Shannon side,
Thomond's bardic birthright infused its bold and tender soul into a
facile pen, and with drama, song, and story lifted up the weary soul
of the workaday world.
O'Brien was of that strangely endowed race which furnished Lever
with the heroes of his military novels,- the Englished Irishmen. He
was born in the County Limerick, Ireland, about the year 1828.
Educated at Dublin University, he went to London, where he amused
himself for a time with the easy task of making "ducks and drakes"
of a comfortable patrimony. About 1851 he sought relief from the
importunities of declining fortune in a sea voyage, which landed him
in New York with a few purse-burning shillings and some letters of
introduction to distinguished Americans in his pocket. He soon be-
came a favorite with the gay and gifted autocrats of the New World
Grub Street, and strolled along the fashionable side of Broadway,
and about the nooks of Printing-House Square, with the confidence
of vested rights. From 1853 to 1858 O'Brien was one of the most
valued contributors to Harper's Magazine and Harper's Weekly. He
wrote for the stage several pretty comediettas, which are numbered
in that exclusive list called the Standard Drama.
With his story
'The Diamond Lens,' published in the Atlantic Monthly in 1858–9, a
new and dashing pace was set in the fiction of the period.
O'Brien was neither prosperous nor thrifty, and lived with splen-
did and careless irregularity, sometimes in great want and hardship;
but keeping always a seemingly exhaustless buoyancy of heart. The
Civil War sent him, in April 1861, with the ranks of the New York
Seventh Regiment, to the defense of Washington. The war spirit
took possession of him; and after his term of enlistment with that
## p. 10734 (#614) ##########################################
10734
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
regiment had expired, he sought eagerly for a chance to return to
the army.
He was appointed to the staff of General Lander in Jan-
uary 1862, and immediately thereafter went through a gallant action
at Bloomery Gap. In a skirmish on the morning of February 16th,
1862, he was in a desperate hand-to-hand encounter with the Confed-
erate Colonel Ashley, and received a shot in the left shoulder. He
rode twenty-four miles with a shattered scapular, and lay two months
in battle for life at the house of George A. Thurston, in Cumberland,
Maryland. Unskillful surgery, rather than the original wound, was
the cause of his death. It was not until the 20th of March, too late,
that he came into the charge of an able surgeon. In spite of a suc-
cessful operation, by which the arm was removed at the shoulder, he
succumbed to lockjaw, and died suddenly on the morning of Sunday,
the 6th of April, 1862. His ashes were laid in the earth of Green-
wood in November 1874. O'Brien's only real monument is a limited
edition, now scarce, of his collected works, edited by William Winter,
and published in 1881 at Boston.
THE GREAT DIAMOND IS OBTAINED AND USED
From The Diamond Lens, with other Stories. ' Copyright 1881, by James R.
Osgood & Co. ; 1885, by Charles Scribner's Sons
ITH
WITH
an uneasy look in his eyes, and hands unsteady with
drink and nervousness, Simon drew a small case from his
breast and opened it. Heavens! how the mild lamp-
light was shivered into a thousand prismatic arrows, as it fell
upon a vast rose diamond that glittered in the case! I was no
judge of diamonds, but I saw at a glance that this was a gem
of rare size and purity. I looked at Simon with wonder, and—
must I confess it? -with envy. How could he have obtained
this treasure? In reply to my questions, I could just gather
from his drunken statements (of which, I fancy, half the inco-
herence was affected) that he had been superintending a gang
of slaves engaged in diamond-washing in Brazil; that he had
seen one of them secrete a diamond, but instead of informing
his employers, had quietly watched the negro until he saw him
bury his treasure; that he had dug it up and fled with it, but
that as yet he was afraid to attempt to dispose of it publicly,— so
valuable a gem being almost certain to attract too much atten-
tion to its owner's antecedents,- and he had not been able to dis-
cover any of those obscure channels by which such matters are
## p. 10735 (#615) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10735
conveyed away safely. He added that in accordance with Ori-
ental practice, he had named his diamond with the fanciful title
of "The Eye of Morning. "
While Simon was relating this to me, I regarded the great
diamond attentively. Never had I beheld anything so beautiful.
All the glories of light ever imagined or described seemed to
pulsate in its crystalline chambers. Its weight, as I learned
from Simon, was exactly one hundred and forty carats. Here
was an amazing coincidence. The hand of destiny seemed in it.
On the very evening when the spirit of Leeuwenhoek communi-
cates to me the great secret of the microscope, the priceless means
which he directs me to employ start up within my easy reach!
I determined, with the most perfect deliberation, to possess myself
of Simon's diamond.
I sat opposite to him while he nodded over his glass, and
calmly revolved the whole affair. I did not for an instant con-
template so foolish an act as a common theft, which would of
course be discovered, or at least necessitate flight and conceal-
ment, all of which must interfere with my scientific plans. There
was but one step to be taken,- to kill Simon. After all, what
was the life of a little peddling Jew in comparison with the in-
terests of science? Human beings are taken every day from the
condemned prisons to be experimented on by surgeons. This
man Simon was by his own confession a criminal, a robber, and
I believed on my soul a murderer. He deserved death quite as
much as any felon condemned by the laws: why should I not,
like government, contrive that his punishment should contribute
to the progress of human knowledge?
The means for accomplishing everything I desired lay within.
my reach. There stood upon the mantelpiece a bottle half full
of French laudanum. Simon was so occupied with his diamond,
which I had just restored to him, that it was an affair of no dif-
ficulty to drug his glass. In a quarter of an hour he was in a
profound sleep.
I now opened his waistcoat, took the diamond from the inner
pocket in which he had placed it, and removed him to the bed,
on which I laid him so that his feet hung down over the edge.
I had possessed myself of the Malay creese, which I held in my
right hand, while with the other I discovered as accurately as I
could by pulsation the exact locality of the heart. It was essen-
tial that all the aspects of his death should lead to the surmise
## p. 10736 (#616) ##########################################
10736
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
of self-murder. I calculated the exact angle at which it was
probable that the weapon, if leveled by Simon's own hand, would
enter his breast; then with one powerful blow I thrust it up to
the hilt in the very spot which I desired to penetrate. A con-
vulsive thrill ran through Simon's limbs. I heard a smothered
sound issue from his throat, precisely like the bursting of a large
air bubble sent up by a diver when it reaches the surface of the
water; he turned half round on his side, and as if to assist
my plans more effectually, his right hand, moved by some mere
spasmodic impulse, clasped the handle of the creese, which it
remained holding with extraordinary muscular tenacity.
Beyond
this there was no apparent struggle. The laudanum, I presume,
paralyzed the usual nervous action. He must have died instantly.
There was yet something to be done. To make it certain
that all suspicion of the act should be diverted from any inhab
itant of the house to Simon himself, it was necessary that the
door should be found in the morning locked on the inside. How
to do this, and afterwards escape myself? Not by the window:
that was a physical impossibility. Besides, I was determined
that the windows also should be found bolted. The solution
was simple enough. I descended softly to my own room for
a peculiar instrument, which I had used for holding small slip-
pery substances, such as minute spheres of glass, etc. This
instrument was nothing more than a long slender hand-vise,
with a very powerful grip, and a considerable leverage, which
last was accidentally owing to the shape of the handle. Nothing
was simpler than, when the key was in the lock, to seize the end
of its stem in this vise, through the keyhole, from the outside,
and so lock the door. Previously, however, to doing this, I
burned a number of papers on Simon's hearth. Suicides almost
always burn papers before they destroy themselves. I also
emptied some more laudanum into Simon's glass,- having first
removed from it all traces of wine,- cleaned the other wine-
glass, and brought the bottles away with me. If traces of two
persons drinking had been found in the room, the question
naturally would have arisen, Who was the second? Besides, the
wine-bottles might have been identified as belonging to me. The
laudanum I poured out to account for its presence in his stomach,
in case of a post-mortem examination. The theory naturally would
be, that he first intended to poison himself; but after swallowing
a little of the drug, was either disgusted with its taste, or changed
## p. 10737 (#617) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10737
These
his mind from other motives, and chose the dagger.
arrangements made, I walked out leaving the gas burning, locked
the door with my vise, and went to bed.
Simon's death was not discovered until nearly three in the
afternoon. The servant, astonished at seeing the gas burning,—
the light streaming on the dark landing from under the door,-
peeped through the keyhole and saw Simon on the bed. She
gave the alarm. The door was burst open, and the neighbor-
hood was in a fever of excitement.
Every one in the house was arrested, myself included. There
was an inquest; but no clew to his death beyond that of sui-
cide could be obtained. Curiously enough, he had made several
speeches to his friends the preceding week that seemed to point
to self-destruction. One gentleman swore that Simon had said
in his presence that "he was tired of life. " His landlord affirmed
that Simon, when paying him his last month's rent, remarked that
"he should not pay him rent much longer. " All the other evi-
dence corresponded, the door locked inside, the position of the
corpse, the burnt papers. As I anticipated, no one knew of the
possession of the diamond by Simon, so that no motive was sug-
gested for his murder. The jury, after a prolonged examination,
brought in the usual verdict, and the neighborhood once more
settled down into its accustomed quiet.
THE three months succeeding Simon's catastrophe I devoted
night and day to my diamond lens. I had constructed a vast
galvanic battery, composed of nearly two thousand pairs of plates,
a higher power I dared not use, lest the diamond should be
calcined. By means of this enormous engine, I was enabled to
send a powerful current of electricity continually through my
great diamond, which it seemed to me gained in lustre every
day. At the expiration of a month I commenced the grinding
and polishing of the lens, a work of intense toil and exquisite
delicacy. The great density of the stone, and the care required.
to be taken with the curvatures of the surface of the lens, ren-
dered the labor the severest and most harassing that I had yet
undergone.
At last the eventful moment came; the lens was completed.
I stood trembling on the threshold of new worlds. I had the
realization of Alexander's famous wish before me. The lens lay
on the table, ready to be placed upon its platform. My hand
XVIII-672
## p. 10738 (#618) ##########################################
10738
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
fairly shook as I enveloped a drop of water with a thin coating
of oil of turpentine, preparatory to its examination,-a process
necessary in order to prevent the rapid evaporation of the water.
I now placed the drop on a thin slip of glass under the lens:
and throwing upon it, by the combined aid of a prism and at
mirror, a powerful stream of light, I approached my eye to the
minute hole drilled through the axis of the lens. For an instant
I saw nothing save what seemed to be an illuminated chaos, a
vast luminous abyss. A pure white light, cloudless and serene,
and seemingly limitless as space itself, was my first impression.
Gently, and with the greatest care, I depressed the lens a few
hair's-breadths. The wondrous illumination still continued; but as
the lens approached the object a scene of indescribable beauty
was unfolded to my view.
I seemed to gaze upon a vast space, the limits of which ex-
tended far beyond my vision. An atmosphere of magical lumi-
nousness permeated the entire field of view. I was amazed to
see no trace of animalculous life. Not a living thing, apparently,
inhabited that dazzling expanse. I comprehended instantly that
by the wondrous power of my lens, I had penetrated beyond the
grosser particles of aqueous matter, beyond the realms of infusoria
and protozoa, down to the original gaseous globule, into whose
luminous interior I was gazing, as into an almost boundless dome
filled with a supernatural radiance.
It was, however, no brilliant void into which I looked. On
every side I beheld beautiful inorganic forms, of unknown text-
ure, and colored with the most enchanting hues. These forms
presented the appearance of what might be called, for want of a
more specific definition, foliated clouds of the highest rarity; that
is, they undulated and broke into vegetable formations, and were
tinged with splendors compared with which the gilding of our
autumn woodlands is as dross compared with gold. Far away
into the illimitable distance stretched long avenues of these gas-
eous forests, dimly transparent, and painted with prismatic hues
of unimaginable brilliancy. The pendent branches waved along
the fluid glades until every vista seemed to break through half-
lucent ranks of many-colored drooping silken pennons. What
seemed to be either fruits or flowers, pied with a thousand hues,
lustrous and ever varying, bubbled from the crowns of this fairy
foliage. No hills, no lakes, no rivers, no forms animate or
inanimate, were to be seen, save those vast auroral copses that
## p. 10739 (#619) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10739
floated serenely in the luminous stillness, with leaves and fruits
and flowers gleaming with unknown fires, unrealizable by mere
imagination.
How strange, I thought, that this sphere should be thus con-
demned to solitude! I had hoped at least to discover some new
form of animal life,-perhaps of a lower class than any with
which we are at present acquainted, but still some living organ-
ism. I found my newly discovered world, if I may so speak, a
beautiful chromatic desert.
While I was speculating on the singular arrangements of the
internal economy of Nature, with which she so frequently splin-
ters into atoms our most compact theories, I thought I beheld a
form moving slowly through the glades of one of the prismatic
forests. I looked more attentively, and found that I was not
mistaken. Words cannot depict the anxiety with which I awaited
the nearer approach of this mysterious object. Was it merely
some inanimate substance, held in suspense in the attenuated
atmosphere of the globule? or was it an animal endowed with.
vitality and motion? It approached, flitting behind the gauzy,
colored veils of cloud-foliage, for seconds dimly revealed, then
vanishing. At last the violet pennons that trailed nearest to me
vibrated; they were gently pushed aside, and the form floated out
into the broad light.
It was a female human shape. When I say human, I mean
it possessed the outlines of humanity,- but there the analogy
ends. Its adorable beauty lifted it illimitable heights beyond the
loveliest daughter of Adam.
I cannot, I dare not, attempt to inventory the charms of this
divine revelation of perfect beauty. Those eyes of mystic violet,
dewy and serene, evade my words. Her long, lustrous hair fol-
lowing her glorious head in a golden wake, like the track sown
in heaven by a falling star, seems to quench my most burning
phrases with its splendors. If all the bees of Hybla nestled
upon my lips, they would still sing but hoarsely the wondrous
harmonies of outline that inclosed her form.
She swept out from between the rainbow curtains of the
cloud-trees into the broad sea of light that lay beyond. Her
motions were those of some graceful naiad, cleaving, by a mere
effort of her will, the clear unruffled waters that fill the cham-
bers of the sea. She floated forth with the serene grace of a
frail bubble ascending through the still atmosphere of a June
## p. 10740 (#620) ##########################################
10740
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
day. The perfect roundness of her limbs formed suave and
enchanting curves. It was like listening to the most spiritual
symphony of Beethoven the divine, to watch the harmonious flow
of lines. This indeed was a pleasure cheaply purchased at any
price. What cared I, if I had waded to the portal of this wonder
through another's blood? I would have given my own to enjoy
one such moment of intoxication and delight.
Breathless with gazing on this lovely wonder, and forgetful
for an instant of everything save her presence, I withdrew my
eye from the microscope eagerly. Alas! as my gaze fell on the
thin slide that lay beneath my instrument, the bright light from
mirror and from prism sparkled on a colorless drop of water!
There, in that tiny bead of dew, this beautiful being was forever
imprisoned. The planet Neptune was not more distant from me
than she. I hastened once more to apply my eye to the micro-
scope.
Animula (let me now call her by that dear name which I
subsequently bestowed on her) had changed her position. She
had again approached the wondrous forest, and was gazing ear-
nestly upwards. Presently one of the trees - as I must call them
-unfolded a long ciliary process, with which it seized one of the
gleaming fruits that glittered on its summit, and sweeping slowly
down, held it within reach of Animula. The sylph took it in her
delicate hand and began to eat. My attention was so entirely
absorbed by her, that I could not apply myself to the task of
determining whether this singular plant was or was not instinct
with volition.
I watched her as she made her repast, with the most pro-
found attention. The suppleness of her motions sent a thrill of
delight through my frame; my heart beat madly as she turned.
her beautiful eyes in the direction of the spot in which I stood.
What would I not have given to have had the power to precipi-
tate myself into that luminous ocean, and float with her through
those groves of purple and gold! While I was thus breathlessly
following her every movement, she suddenly started, seemed to
listen for a moment, and then cleaving the brilliant ether in
which she was floating, like a flash of light, pierced through the
opaline forest, and disappeared.
Instantly a series of the most singular sensations attacked
me. It seemed as if I had suddenly gone blind. The luminous
sphere was still before me, but my daylight had vanished. What
## p. 10741 (#621) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10741
caused this sudden disappearance? Had she a lover or a hus-
band? Yes, that was the solution! Some signal from a happy
fellow-being had vibrated through the avenues of the forest, and
she had obeyed the summons.
The agony of my sensations, as I arrived at this conclusion,
startled me. I tried to reject the conviction that my reason
forced upon me. I battled against the fatal conclusion,- but
It was so. I had no escape from it. I loved an ani-
in vain.
malcule!
It is true that, thanks to the marvelous power of my micro-
scope, she appeared of human proportions. Instead of presenting
the revolting aspect of the coarser creatures that live and strug-
gle and die in the more easily resolvable portions of the water-
drop, she was fair and delicate and of surpassing beauty. But
of what account was all that? Every time that my eye was
withdrawn from the instrument, it fell on a miserable drop of
water, within which, I must be content to know, dwelt all that
could make my life lovely.
Could she but see me once! Could I for one moment pierce
the mystical walls that so inexorably rose to separate us, and
whisper all that filled my soul, I might consent to be satisfied
for the rest of my life with the knowledge of her remote sympa-
thy. It would be something to have established even the faint-
est personal link to bind us together, to know that at times,
when roaming through those enchanted glades, she might think
of the wonderful stranger who had broken the monotony of her
life with his presence, and left a gentle memory in her heart!
But it could not be. No invention of which human intel-
lect was capable could break down the barriers that nature had
erected. I might feast my soul upon her wondrous beauty, yet
she must always remain ignorant of the adoring eyes that day
and night gazed upon her, and even when closed, beheld her in
dreams. With a bitter cry of anguish I fled from the room,
and flinging myself on my bed, sobbed myself to sleep like a
child.
## p. 10742 (#622) ##########################################
10742
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
THE LOST STEAMSHIP
O, THERE! Fisherman, hold your hand!
Tell me, what is that far away,-
There, where over the isle of sand
Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray?
See! it rocks with a ghastly life,
Rising and rolling through clouds of spray,
Right in the midst of the breakers' strife:
Tell me what is it, fisherman, pray? »
"H
"That, good sir, was a steamer stout
As ever paddled around Cape Race;
And many's the wild and stormy bout
She had with the winds in that selfsame place:
But her time was come; and at ten o'clock
Last night she struck on that lonesome shore;
And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock,
And at dawn this morning she was no more. "
"Come, as you seem to know, good man,
The terrible fate of this gallant ship,
Tell me about her all that you can;
And here's my flask to moisten your lip.
Tell me how many she had aboard,—
Wives, and husbands, and lovers true,-
How did it fare with her human hoard?
Lost she many, or lost she few? »
"Master, I may not drink of your flask,
Already too moist I feel my lip;
But I'm ready to do what else you ask,
And spin you my yarn about the ship:
'Twas ten o'clock, as I said, last night,
When she struck the breakers and went ashore;
And scarce had broken the morning's light
Than she sank in twelve feet of water or more.
"But long ere this they knew her doom,
And the captain called all hands to prayer;
And solemnly over the ocean's boom
Their orisons wailed on the troublous air.
And round about the vessel there rose
Tall plumes of spray as white as snow,
## p. 10743 (#623) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10743
Like angels in their ascension clothes,
Waiting for those who prayed be ow.
So these three hundred people clung
As well as they could to spar and rope;
With a word of prayer upon every tongue,
Nor on any face a glimmer of hope.
But there was no blubbering weak and wild,-
Of tearful faces I saw but one:
A rough old salt, who cried like a child,
And not for himself, but the captain's son.
"The captain stood on the quarter-deck,
Firm, but pale, with trumpet in hand;
Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck,
Sometimes he sadly looked to land.
And often he smiled to cheer the crew
-
But, Lord! the smile was terrible grim
Till over the quarter a huge sea flew;
And that was the last they saw of him.
"I saw one young fellow with his bride,
Standing amidships upon the wreck;
His face was white as the boiling tide,
And she was clinging about his neck.
And I saw them try to say good-by,
But neither could hear the other speak;
So they floated away through the sea to die-
Shoulder to shoulder, and cheek to cheek.
"And there was a child, but eight at best,
Who went his way in a sea she shipped;
All the while holding upon his breast
A little pet parrot whose wings were clipped.
And as the boy and the bird went by,
Swinging away on a tall wave's crest,
They were gripped by a man, with a drowning cry,
And together the three went down to rest.
"And so the crew went one by one,
Some with gladness, and few with fear;
Cold and hardship such work had done,
That few seemed frightened when death was near.
Thus every soul on board went down,-
Sailor and passenger, little and great;
## p. 10744 (#624) ##########################################
10744
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
The last that sank was a man of my town,
A capital swimmer,- the second mate. "
"Now, lonely fisherman, who are you
That say you saw this terrible wreck?
How do I know what you say is true,
When every mortal was swept from the deck?
Where were you in that hour of death?
How did you learn what you relate? "
His answer came in an under-breath,—
"Master, I was the second mate! "
## p. 10745 (#625) ##########################################
10745
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
(1779-1850)
BY WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE
HE greatest of Danish poets was born in Copenhagen, Novem-
ber 14th, 1779, just a quarter of a century after the death
of Holberg. His ancestry was more German than Danish,
and his descent from four generations of organists may fairly be
reckoned as having some influence in the determination of his artistic
bent. His youth was careless and singularly happy; he applied him-
self indifferently to his studies, read a good
many books, and wrote boyish verses, tales,
and dramatic sketches. His interest in the
drama even impelled him to study for the
actor's profession, and during a year or two
he played minor parts on the stage of the
Royal Theatre. His youthful literary efforts
were of insignificant value, and there was
little that was stimulating in the literary
surroundings of his early years. Holberg
had left nothing that could be called a
school, and the classical tradition that he
had maintained was carried on feebly
enough by a few third-rate poets. This
tradition received its death-blow
hands of Wessel, the one poet contemporary with Ewald who was
a real literary force, and whose satirical play Kjærlighed uden
Strömper (Love without Stockings) had killed classical tragedy in
Denmark as effectively as 'Don Quijote' killed chivalrous romance
in Spain. The exquisite talent of Ewald had blossomed and passed
away, its seed to all seeming having fallen upon stony ground. Jens
Baggesen, a graceful poet and a master of both pathos and humor, a
typical transition figure, striving to escape from a past which he felt
to be outworn, but lacking the discernment of the pioneer, was the
most conspicuous writer of the closing years of the century; but it
was quite evident that no word of his was to be the "open sesame"
of the new treasure-house of the spirit.
at the
That word was soon to be spoken by the young Oehlenschläger,
who had tired of the play-actor's calling, and entered the University
OEHLENSCHLÄGER
## p. 10746 (#626) ##########################################
10746
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
as a law student. But he found jurisprudence less tempting than the
opportunity - offered soon after his entrance-of competing for a
prize by writing an essay on the subject of the desirability of substi-
tuting the Norse for the Greek mythology in Scandinavian literature.
It is hardly necessary to say which side of the argument he took;
and although his essay failed to win the prize, it shows us to what
extent the ideals that were to control his future creative activity
were already shaping themselves in his mind. Meanwhile, the events
were hastening that were to give his genius the needed impulse,
and help him to the discovery of his true self. After eighty years
of peace his country got a taste of warfare in the first year of the
present century. The French revolutionary movement and the Napo-
leonic wars suddenly drew Denmark within their vortex, and a wave
of passionate patriotism swept over the land when an English fleet
under Nelson attacked the Danes in the harbor of Copenhagen. This
event and its attendant surge of national feeling stimulated the young
law student to renewed poetical exertions; and although his work
was still amateurish and tentative, it struck a new note and gave
evidence of a new energy. But the influence that was to operate
most powerfully in shaping his poetical destiny was intellectual rather
than political. It was the great revolution in taste and sentiment
that had been creating a new literature in Germany, and that is
called, somewhat vaguely, the Romantic Movement.
Oehlenschläger's mental condition at this time was like that of a
bud ready to burst open with the first hour of sunlight; almost that
of a powder magazine needing but a spark for the liberation of its
imprisoned force. The sunlight hour or the spark-to leave the
reader his choice of metaphors-was provided by a young Norwe-
gian, Henrik Steffens by name, who came to Copenhagen in the
summer of 1802, after having spent four years in Germany in the
Jena-Weimar circle of Schelling, Fichte, A. W. Schlegel, Schiller,
and Goethe. During the first year of his stay in Denmark, Steffens
gave courses of lectures in which philosophy and literature and art
received fresh and suggestive discussion, just as they were receiving
similar discussion by Coleridge in England at almost exactly the
same time. Oehlenschläger was introduced to Steffens soon after the
arrival of the latter, and lost no time in improving the acquaintance.
His first call upon his new friend was at eleven o'clock one morn-
ing, and the conversation that began between them was kept up for
sixteen hours without a break. At three the next morning, Steffens
offered his guest a bed, and the young poet snatched a few hours
of restless sleep. Returning to his lodgings, he took pen and ink,
and straightway composed 'Guldhornene' (The Golden Horns); with
which work, says the historian Hansen, "the romantic period of
## p. 10747 (#627) ##########################################
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10747
Danish literature begins. "
The horns in question were two relics
of antiquity that had been unearthed not long before and placed on
exhibition. Their history "becomes a symbol for the newly awakened
poet: the golden horns, with their strange carvings and mysterious
runic inscriptions, are gifts of the gods bestowed upon men to remind
them of their divine origin; of the ties, half forgotten, that bind them
to the distant past. " Once started upon his new career, Oehlen-
schläger went forward with all the impetuosity of youth. Abandon-
ing the works upon which he had been engaged, and which were
almost ready for the press, he so gave himself up to the new impulse
that by Christmas of this memorable year a fresh volume of 'Poems'
was ready for publication. These 'Poems,' bearing the date of the
next year (1803), included lyrics, ballads, and a dramatic piece, and
proved nothing less than a revelation of the hitherto unknown possi-
bilities of Danish song. Nothing like them had ever before been writ-
ten in the language, and nothing save the lyrical impulse of Ewald
had even remotely foreshadowed such a production. In the words
of P. L. Möller, the book became "the corner-stone of nineteenth-
century Danish poetry.
imagination he can unite all ages and all worlds. Miracles disappear,
and everything transforms itself into miracles. " And so throughout
the tale the marvels advance by gigantic strides, until at the end it
only dimly stirs us to learn that "Heinrich plucks the Blue Flower
and releases Matilda from her enchantment, but she is again lost to
him. He becomes insensible through pain, and turns into a stone.
Edda (the Blue Flower, the Eastern Maiden, Matilda) sacrifices her-
self upon the stone, which is then transformed into a melodious tree.
Cyane hews down the tree and burns it, and herself with it. He
now becomes a golden ram which Edda - that is, Matilda-must sac-
rifice, when he again becomes man," etc.
'Heinrich von Ofterdingen' as a romance is unworthy of the place
assigned it by contemporary critics. Although full of passages of
rare beauties, and ideas which outstrip their time, it is nevertheless
vague, obscure, and chaotic. Its importance lies in its effect as the
leaven of the new literature just springing into being. It embodies
all the beauties, as well as all the faults and extravagances, of the old
Romantic school, before time had pruned its growth and developed it
into a fruitful maturity.
HYMNS TO THE NIGHT
WHAT
HAT living, feeling being loves not the gorgeous hues which
proclaim the dawn of day?
The ever-moving stars, as they whirl in boundless.
ether, hail the dawn-bright herald of the day, the glistening
rocks hail its rays, the tender growing plants raise their pure
eyes rejoicing, and the wild animal joins in the happy chorus.
which welcomes another day.
More than all these rejoices the glorious Being, the Monarch
of the Earth. His deep, thoughtful eyes survey his creation.
His melodious voice summons nature to resume her magic works.
He binds or looses a million ties, and stamps all earthly life with
## p. 10728 (#608) ##########################################
10728
NOVALIS
some impress of his power. His presence reveals the marvels
of the Kingdom of Earth.
But sacred Night, with her unspoken mysteries, draws me to
her. The world is far, far away, buried in a deep and lonely
grave. My heart is full of sadness. Let me dissolve in drops
of dew, and join the beloved dust. Long past memories, youth-
ful ambitions, childhood's dreams, a long life of brief joys and
blighted hopes, pass before me-dusky forms, like evening mist.
In another region merry day returns triumphant. Will it
never return to us, its children, who await its coming in child-
like trust?
What stirs this weary heart, and banishes my sorrow? Dost
thou feel pity for us, O holy Night?
What soothing influence pervades my being? What hand
sheds costly opiate on my throbbing heart? The wings of fancy
no longer droop, fresh energy arises within me. In joyful sur-
prise I see a calm, grave face bend lovingly over me; the face
of a tender mother, beaming with eternal youth. How poor and
childish in comparison are the joys of day, how blessed and con-
soling the return of night!
The active work of day is over; the boundless ocean of space,
with its lustrous spheres, proclaims Night's eternal power and
presence.
The eyes of the Night are countless hosts of glittering orbs,
a glory far exceeding that of Day. They see far beyond the
most distant of those countless hosts; they need no light to
perceive the unfathomable depth of that loving Spirit who fills
boundless space with happiness.
All hail, Queen of the Earth! thou herald of holier worlds,
thou revealer of holy love! Much-loved sun of the night, thou
art her gift.
My whole being awakes. I am thine, and thou art mine.
Night has aroused me to life and manhood. Consume my earthly
frame, draw me into deeper and closer union, and may our
bridal night endure for ever.
MUST Day return again? Will earthly influences never cease?
Unholy toil desecrates the heavenly calm of Night. When shall
the mystic sacrifice of love burn for ever? Light has its own
fixed limits, but Night has a boundless unfathomable dominion;
the reign of Sleep has no end. Holy Sleep! shed thy blest balm
## p. 10729 (#609) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10729
on the hallowed Night of this earthly sphere. Only fools fail
to understand thee, and know of no other sleep than the shades
which the actual night casts over us in kindly pity. They see
thee not in the purple blood of the grape, in the golden oil of
the almond, in the dusty sap of the poppy. They guess not that
it is thou who hoverest around the tender maiden, making her
heart the temple of Heaven; nor dream that it is thou, heavenly
messenger, who bearest the key which opens the dwellings of the
Blessed.
I KNOW when the last day shall come when Light no longer
shall be scared by Night and Love: then slumber shall not cease,
and existence shall become an endless dream. Heavenly weari-
ness oppresses me, long and dreamy was my pilgrimage to the
Holy Grave, crushing was the cross I bore. He who has drunk
of the crystal wave which wells forth from the gloomy grave
on which earth's billows break, he who has stood on earth's
border-land and perceived that new country, the dwelling of
Night, returns not to the tumult of life, to the land where light
reigns amid ceaseless unrest.
―――
He builds himself a refuge far from the tumult-a peaceful
home, and awaits the welcome hour when he too shall be drawn
into the crystal wave. All that savors of earth floats on the
surface, and is driven back by tempests; but what love has hal-
lowed flows in hidden channels, to another region where it min-
gles- a fragrant essence—with those loved ones who have fallen
asleep.
Ah! merry Light, thou still arousest the weary to their task,
and strivest to inspire me too with cheerful life; but thou hast
no charm to tempt me from my cherished memories. With
joy I watch the busy hands, and look around to fulfill my own
duty; I praise thy glorious works, admire the matchless blending
of thy cunning designs, watch the varied workings of the busy
hours, and seek to discover the symmetry and laws which rule
the marvels of endless space and measureless ages.
But my heart remains ever true to Night and her daughter,
creative Love. Canst thou show me one ever-faithful heart?
Has thy sun a friendly glance for me? Do thy stars hold out a
welcoming hand? Do they return the gentle pressure and the
caressing word? Hast thou clothed them in color and beauty?
What joys or pleasure can life offer to outweigh the charm of
## p. 10730 (#610) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10730
death? Does not all that inspires us bear the colors of Night?
Night bears thee gently like a mother; to her thou owest all thy
glory. Thou wouldst have sunk into endless space had not Night
upheld thee, and bound thee, till earth arose. Truly I existed
long ere thou wert: I and my sisters were sent to dwell in thy
world, and hallow it with love, to make it an enduring memorial;
to plant it with unfading flowers. Not yet have these blossoms
opened, few are the traces which mark our way. But the end
of time is at hand; then thou wilt rejoin us, and gently fade
away, full of longing and fervent desire. All thy busy restless-
ness will end in heavenly freedom, a blessed home-coming. With
bitter grief I acknowledge thy forsaking of our home, thine un-
conquered hatred to the old glorious heaven.
But in vain is thy wrath and fury. The Cross stands firm
for ever, the banner of our race.
souls.
THE many scattered races of mankind lay bound for ages in
the grasp of an iron fate. Light was hidden from their weary
The eternal world was the home and dwelling of the
Gods. Its mysterious form had existed from eternity. Over
the glowing mountains of the East abode the Sun, with its all-
pervading heat and light. An aged Giant bore the Earth on his
shoulders. The Titans, the first children of Mother Earth,- who
had waged impious war against the new glorious race of Gods
and their kinsfolk, the merry race of men,-lay fast bound under
the mountains. The dark green depths of Ocean was the lap of
a Goddess. A gay, luxurious race dwelt in the crystal grottoes.
Beasts, trees, flowers, and animals had the gift of speech. Richer
was the flavor of the grapes, for a God dwelt in the luxuriant
vine; the golden sheaves took their birth from a loving motherly
Goddess; and love was the sweet service rendered to the dei-
ties. Age followed age, a ceaseless spring; and the happy life
of Earth's children was ever enlivened by celestial presences.
All races honored the flashing, many-hued flame, as the highest
manifestation in life.
Only one shadow obscured the common joy-the cruel spectre
of Death. This mysterious decree-separation from all that
was loved and lovely-weighed heavy on the hearts of all; even
the Gods could find no remedy for this evil. Unable to over-
come the menacing fate, man strove to cast a glamour of beauty
over the ghastly phantom, and pictured him as a lovely youth
## p. 10731 (#611) ##########################################
NOVALIS
10731
extinguishing a torch, and sinking to rest. Still the cruel
enigma remained unsolved, and spoke of the irresistible might
of some unknown power.
The old world waned; the flowers of the first Paradise faded
away; and the race of men, casting off their early innocence,
strayed into a wild, uncultivated desert. The Gods and their
retinues vanished from earth. Nature stood lonely and lifeless,
bound in the iron chains of custom and laws. The bloom was
brushed from life. Faith took flight from the dreary scene; and
with her fled her heavenly companion Fancy, who could cast
over all things her magic vesture. A cruel north wind swept over
the barren waste, and the devastated wonder-home was blown
into space.
Heaven's blue ocean showed new dazzling spheres,
and the Spirit of the World withdrew to higher regions to
await the dawn of a renewed earth. Light ceased to be the
abode and the symbol of the Gods; they covered themselves
with the veil of Night. Night was the cradle of the coming age;
in it the Gods took refuge, and sleep came upon them, until a
new era should call them forth in new and more glorious forms.
The new era arose at last amidst a nation scorned and
despised, a people who had cast off their native innocence. In
poverty was born the son of the first Virgin Mother, myste-
rious offspring of heavenly origin. The wise sons of the East
were first to acknowledge the commencement of the strange new
epoch, and humbly bent their way to worship the King in his
lowly cradle; a mystic star guided their wandering steps. They
did him homage, offering him the sweetness and brightness of
the earth, the gold and the perfume, both miracles of nature.
The Heavenly Heart unfolded slowly-a flower chalice of Al-
mighty love, with eyes upturned to a Divine Father, while his
head rested on the tender bosom of a loving earthly mother.
With prophetic eye and godlike zeal, the blooming Child, despis-
ing the cruel days of earthly conflict before him, looked far ahead
to the future of his beloved race, the offshoots of a divine root.
Soon he gathered around him a loving band of childlike hearts.
A strange new life arose, like that of the flowers of the field;
unceasing words of wisdom and utterances of deepest love fell
from his lips, like sparks of divine fire.
From the far shores of Hellas and her sunny skies, a poet
came to Palestine, and laid his heart at the feet of the Wonder-
Child.
## p. 10732 (#612) ##########################################
10732
NOVALIS
Oh! thou art he who from unending years
Hast looked with pity on our earthly tomb;
Thou gav'st a sign of life in deepest night,
And thou wilt bring our higher manhood home.
Thou hast upheld us here, mid grief and tears.
Lead thou our nobler longings up to heaven:
In death alone eternal life is found,
For thou art death, and thou our life hast given.
Full of joy, his heart beating with new love and hope, the
singer bent his way to Hindustan, pouring out under its cloud-
less sky such burning songs that myriads of hearts turned to
him, and the joyful news spread far and near. Soon after the
poet left, the precious Life fell a sacrifice to fallen man: he
died young, torn away from the much-loved earth, his weeping
mother, and his faint-hearted friends. The moment of anguish,
the birth of the new world was at hand. He fought with the
old dreaded form of death; struggled hard to shake off the clutch
of the old world; his sweet lips drained the bitter chalice of
unspeakable anguish. Once more he cast a loving glance at his
mother; then came the delivering hand of Mighty Love, and
he fell asleep. For many days a thick mist lay on the raging
waters and the quaking earth; countless were the tears shed by
those who loved him; the secret of the grave was made clear,
and heavenly spirits rolled away the heavy stone from the tomb.
Angels watched by the slumbering Form: rising in new godlike
glory, he soared to the heights of the newly made world, buried
the old earthly shape in the depths of a cavern, and laid his
mighty hand on it, so that no power might ever move it.
The loving ones still wept by his grave, but they wept tears
of emotion and gratitude. Again they see thee and rejoice at
thy resurrection; they see thee weeping on thy mother's sacred
bosom; they walk once more as friends, listening to words like
leaves fluttering from the Tree of Life; they behold thee hasten
with untold longing to the Father's arms, bearing aloft the new
manhood and the victorious chalice. The mother soon hastened
to join thy triumph; she was the first to enter the New Home.
Long years have passed since then, and thy new creation soars to
higher powers; thousands and thousands drawn by thee from
bitter grief and pain now roam with thee and the heavenly
Virgin in the Kingdom of Love, serve in the Temple of Divine
Death, and are thine eternally.
## p. 10733 (#613) ##########################################
10733
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
(1828-1862)
F THAT company of brilliant if not always prosperous fellows
who kept the echoes of "Bohemia" busy with the laughter
and the sighs of spendthrift wit in the New York of the
decade of '50, Fitz-James O'Brien was a fascinating and admired com-
rade. This restless Gaelic spirit was like the Irish river beside which
he was born: sometimes turbulent in flashing cascades, beating and
bullying the stolid rocks; again spreading under the sun through
bright and placid lakes, or dancing gayly by the low and rose-
perfumed meadows. In the power of this lad from Shannon side,
Thomond's bardic birthright infused its bold and tender soul into a
facile pen, and with drama, song, and story lifted up the weary soul
of the workaday world.
O'Brien was of that strangely endowed race which furnished Lever
with the heroes of his military novels,- the Englished Irishmen. He
was born in the County Limerick, Ireland, about the year 1828.
Educated at Dublin University, he went to London, where he amused
himself for a time with the easy task of making "ducks and drakes"
of a comfortable patrimony. About 1851 he sought relief from the
importunities of declining fortune in a sea voyage, which landed him
in New York with a few purse-burning shillings and some letters of
introduction to distinguished Americans in his pocket. He soon be-
came a favorite with the gay and gifted autocrats of the New World
Grub Street, and strolled along the fashionable side of Broadway,
and about the nooks of Printing-House Square, with the confidence
of vested rights. From 1853 to 1858 O'Brien was one of the most
valued contributors to Harper's Magazine and Harper's Weekly. He
wrote for the stage several pretty comediettas, which are numbered
in that exclusive list called the Standard Drama.
With his story
'The Diamond Lens,' published in the Atlantic Monthly in 1858–9, a
new and dashing pace was set in the fiction of the period.
O'Brien was neither prosperous nor thrifty, and lived with splen-
did and careless irregularity, sometimes in great want and hardship;
but keeping always a seemingly exhaustless buoyancy of heart. The
Civil War sent him, in April 1861, with the ranks of the New York
Seventh Regiment, to the defense of Washington. The war spirit
took possession of him; and after his term of enlistment with that
## p. 10734 (#614) ##########################################
10734
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
regiment had expired, he sought eagerly for a chance to return to
the army.
He was appointed to the staff of General Lander in Jan-
uary 1862, and immediately thereafter went through a gallant action
at Bloomery Gap. In a skirmish on the morning of February 16th,
1862, he was in a desperate hand-to-hand encounter with the Confed-
erate Colonel Ashley, and received a shot in the left shoulder. He
rode twenty-four miles with a shattered scapular, and lay two months
in battle for life at the house of George A. Thurston, in Cumberland,
Maryland. Unskillful surgery, rather than the original wound, was
the cause of his death. It was not until the 20th of March, too late,
that he came into the charge of an able surgeon. In spite of a suc-
cessful operation, by which the arm was removed at the shoulder, he
succumbed to lockjaw, and died suddenly on the morning of Sunday,
the 6th of April, 1862. His ashes were laid in the earth of Green-
wood in November 1874. O'Brien's only real monument is a limited
edition, now scarce, of his collected works, edited by William Winter,
and published in 1881 at Boston.
THE GREAT DIAMOND IS OBTAINED AND USED
From The Diamond Lens, with other Stories. ' Copyright 1881, by James R.
Osgood & Co. ; 1885, by Charles Scribner's Sons
ITH
WITH
an uneasy look in his eyes, and hands unsteady with
drink and nervousness, Simon drew a small case from his
breast and opened it. Heavens! how the mild lamp-
light was shivered into a thousand prismatic arrows, as it fell
upon a vast rose diamond that glittered in the case! I was no
judge of diamonds, but I saw at a glance that this was a gem
of rare size and purity. I looked at Simon with wonder, and—
must I confess it? -with envy. How could he have obtained
this treasure? In reply to my questions, I could just gather
from his drunken statements (of which, I fancy, half the inco-
herence was affected) that he had been superintending a gang
of slaves engaged in diamond-washing in Brazil; that he had
seen one of them secrete a diamond, but instead of informing
his employers, had quietly watched the negro until he saw him
bury his treasure; that he had dug it up and fled with it, but
that as yet he was afraid to attempt to dispose of it publicly,— so
valuable a gem being almost certain to attract too much atten-
tion to its owner's antecedents,- and he had not been able to dis-
cover any of those obscure channels by which such matters are
## p. 10735 (#615) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10735
conveyed away safely. He added that in accordance with Ori-
ental practice, he had named his diamond with the fanciful title
of "The Eye of Morning. "
While Simon was relating this to me, I regarded the great
diamond attentively. Never had I beheld anything so beautiful.
All the glories of light ever imagined or described seemed to
pulsate in its crystalline chambers. Its weight, as I learned
from Simon, was exactly one hundred and forty carats. Here
was an amazing coincidence. The hand of destiny seemed in it.
On the very evening when the spirit of Leeuwenhoek communi-
cates to me the great secret of the microscope, the priceless means
which he directs me to employ start up within my easy reach!
I determined, with the most perfect deliberation, to possess myself
of Simon's diamond.
I sat opposite to him while he nodded over his glass, and
calmly revolved the whole affair. I did not for an instant con-
template so foolish an act as a common theft, which would of
course be discovered, or at least necessitate flight and conceal-
ment, all of which must interfere with my scientific plans. There
was but one step to be taken,- to kill Simon. After all, what
was the life of a little peddling Jew in comparison with the in-
terests of science? Human beings are taken every day from the
condemned prisons to be experimented on by surgeons. This
man Simon was by his own confession a criminal, a robber, and
I believed on my soul a murderer. He deserved death quite as
much as any felon condemned by the laws: why should I not,
like government, contrive that his punishment should contribute
to the progress of human knowledge?
The means for accomplishing everything I desired lay within.
my reach. There stood upon the mantelpiece a bottle half full
of French laudanum. Simon was so occupied with his diamond,
which I had just restored to him, that it was an affair of no dif-
ficulty to drug his glass. In a quarter of an hour he was in a
profound sleep.
I now opened his waistcoat, took the diamond from the inner
pocket in which he had placed it, and removed him to the bed,
on which I laid him so that his feet hung down over the edge.
I had possessed myself of the Malay creese, which I held in my
right hand, while with the other I discovered as accurately as I
could by pulsation the exact locality of the heart. It was essen-
tial that all the aspects of his death should lead to the surmise
## p. 10736 (#616) ##########################################
10736
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
of self-murder. I calculated the exact angle at which it was
probable that the weapon, if leveled by Simon's own hand, would
enter his breast; then with one powerful blow I thrust it up to
the hilt in the very spot which I desired to penetrate. A con-
vulsive thrill ran through Simon's limbs. I heard a smothered
sound issue from his throat, precisely like the bursting of a large
air bubble sent up by a diver when it reaches the surface of the
water; he turned half round on his side, and as if to assist
my plans more effectually, his right hand, moved by some mere
spasmodic impulse, clasped the handle of the creese, which it
remained holding with extraordinary muscular tenacity.
Beyond
this there was no apparent struggle. The laudanum, I presume,
paralyzed the usual nervous action. He must have died instantly.
There was yet something to be done. To make it certain
that all suspicion of the act should be diverted from any inhab
itant of the house to Simon himself, it was necessary that the
door should be found in the morning locked on the inside. How
to do this, and afterwards escape myself? Not by the window:
that was a physical impossibility. Besides, I was determined
that the windows also should be found bolted. The solution
was simple enough. I descended softly to my own room for
a peculiar instrument, which I had used for holding small slip-
pery substances, such as minute spheres of glass, etc. This
instrument was nothing more than a long slender hand-vise,
with a very powerful grip, and a considerable leverage, which
last was accidentally owing to the shape of the handle. Nothing
was simpler than, when the key was in the lock, to seize the end
of its stem in this vise, through the keyhole, from the outside,
and so lock the door. Previously, however, to doing this, I
burned a number of papers on Simon's hearth. Suicides almost
always burn papers before they destroy themselves. I also
emptied some more laudanum into Simon's glass,- having first
removed from it all traces of wine,- cleaned the other wine-
glass, and brought the bottles away with me. If traces of two
persons drinking had been found in the room, the question
naturally would have arisen, Who was the second? Besides, the
wine-bottles might have been identified as belonging to me. The
laudanum I poured out to account for its presence in his stomach,
in case of a post-mortem examination. The theory naturally would
be, that he first intended to poison himself; but after swallowing
a little of the drug, was either disgusted with its taste, or changed
## p. 10737 (#617) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10737
These
his mind from other motives, and chose the dagger.
arrangements made, I walked out leaving the gas burning, locked
the door with my vise, and went to bed.
Simon's death was not discovered until nearly three in the
afternoon. The servant, astonished at seeing the gas burning,—
the light streaming on the dark landing from under the door,-
peeped through the keyhole and saw Simon on the bed. She
gave the alarm. The door was burst open, and the neighbor-
hood was in a fever of excitement.
Every one in the house was arrested, myself included. There
was an inquest; but no clew to his death beyond that of sui-
cide could be obtained. Curiously enough, he had made several
speeches to his friends the preceding week that seemed to point
to self-destruction. One gentleman swore that Simon had said
in his presence that "he was tired of life. " His landlord affirmed
that Simon, when paying him his last month's rent, remarked that
"he should not pay him rent much longer. " All the other evi-
dence corresponded, the door locked inside, the position of the
corpse, the burnt papers. As I anticipated, no one knew of the
possession of the diamond by Simon, so that no motive was sug-
gested for his murder. The jury, after a prolonged examination,
brought in the usual verdict, and the neighborhood once more
settled down into its accustomed quiet.
THE three months succeeding Simon's catastrophe I devoted
night and day to my diamond lens. I had constructed a vast
galvanic battery, composed of nearly two thousand pairs of plates,
a higher power I dared not use, lest the diamond should be
calcined. By means of this enormous engine, I was enabled to
send a powerful current of electricity continually through my
great diamond, which it seemed to me gained in lustre every
day. At the expiration of a month I commenced the grinding
and polishing of the lens, a work of intense toil and exquisite
delicacy. The great density of the stone, and the care required.
to be taken with the curvatures of the surface of the lens, ren-
dered the labor the severest and most harassing that I had yet
undergone.
At last the eventful moment came; the lens was completed.
I stood trembling on the threshold of new worlds. I had the
realization of Alexander's famous wish before me. The lens lay
on the table, ready to be placed upon its platform. My hand
XVIII-672
## p. 10738 (#618) ##########################################
10738
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
fairly shook as I enveloped a drop of water with a thin coating
of oil of turpentine, preparatory to its examination,-a process
necessary in order to prevent the rapid evaporation of the water.
I now placed the drop on a thin slip of glass under the lens:
and throwing upon it, by the combined aid of a prism and at
mirror, a powerful stream of light, I approached my eye to the
minute hole drilled through the axis of the lens. For an instant
I saw nothing save what seemed to be an illuminated chaos, a
vast luminous abyss. A pure white light, cloudless and serene,
and seemingly limitless as space itself, was my first impression.
Gently, and with the greatest care, I depressed the lens a few
hair's-breadths. The wondrous illumination still continued; but as
the lens approached the object a scene of indescribable beauty
was unfolded to my view.
I seemed to gaze upon a vast space, the limits of which ex-
tended far beyond my vision. An atmosphere of magical lumi-
nousness permeated the entire field of view. I was amazed to
see no trace of animalculous life. Not a living thing, apparently,
inhabited that dazzling expanse. I comprehended instantly that
by the wondrous power of my lens, I had penetrated beyond the
grosser particles of aqueous matter, beyond the realms of infusoria
and protozoa, down to the original gaseous globule, into whose
luminous interior I was gazing, as into an almost boundless dome
filled with a supernatural radiance.
It was, however, no brilliant void into which I looked. On
every side I beheld beautiful inorganic forms, of unknown text-
ure, and colored with the most enchanting hues. These forms
presented the appearance of what might be called, for want of a
more specific definition, foliated clouds of the highest rarity; that
is, they undulated and broke into vegetable formations, and were
tinged with splendors compared with which the gilding of our
autumn woodlands is as dross compared with gold. Far away
into the illimitable distance stretched long avenues of these gas-
eous forests, dimly transparent, and painted with prismatic hues
of unimaginable brilliancy. The pendent branches waved along
the fluid glades until every vista seemed to break through half-
lucent ranks of many-colored drooping silken pennons. What
seemed to be either fruits or flowers, pied with a thousand hues,
lustrous and ever varying, bubbled from the crowns of this fairy
foliage. No hills, no lakes, no rivers, no forms animate or
inanimate, were to be seen, save those vast auroral copses that
## p. 10739 (#619) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10739
floated serenely in the luminous stillness, with leaves and fruits
and flowers gleaming with unknown fires, unrealizable by mere
imagination.
How strange, I thought, that this sphere should be thus con-
demned to solitude! I had hoped at least to discover some new
form of animal life,-perhaps of a lower class than any with
which we are at present acquainted, but still some living organ-
ism. I found my newly discovered world, if I may so speak, a
beautiful chromatic desert.
While I was speculating on the singular arrangements of the
internal economy of Nature, with which she so frequently splin-
ters into atoms our most compact theories, I thought I beheld a
form moving slowly through the glades of one of the prismatic
forests. I looked more attentively, and found that I was not
mistaken. Words cannot depict the anxiety with which I awaited
the nearer approach of this mysterious object. Was it merely
some inanimate substance, held in suspense in the attenuated
atmosphere of the globule? or was it an animal endowed with.
vitality and motion? It approached, flitting behind the gauzy,
colored veils of cloud-foliage, for seconds dimly revealed, then
vanishing. At last the violet pennons that trailed nearest to me
vibrated; they were gently pushed aside, and the form floated out
into the broad light.
It was a female human shape. When I say human, I mean
it possessed the outlines of humanity,- but there the analogy
ends. Its adorable beauty lifted it illimitable heights beyond the
loveliest daughter of Adam.
I cannot, I dare not, attempt to inventory the charms of this
divine revelation of perfect beauty. Those eyes of mystic violet,
dewy and serene, evade my words. Her long, lustrous hair fol-
lowing her glorious head in a golden wake, like the track sown
in heaven by a falling star, seems to quench my most burning
phrases with its splendors. If all the bees of Hybla nestled
upon my lips, they would still sing but hoarsely the wondrous
harmonies of outline that inclosed her form.
She swept out from between the rainbow curtains of the
cloud-trees into the broad sea of light that lay beyond. Her
motions were those of some graceful naiad, cleaving, by a mere
effort of her will, the clear unruffled waters that fill the cham-
bers of the sea. She floated forth with the serene grace of a
frail bubble ascending through the still atmosphere of a June
## p. 10740 (#620) ##########################################
10740
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
day. The perfect roundness of her limbs formed suave and
enchanting curves. It was like listening to the most spiritual
symphony of Beethoven the divine, to watch the harmonious flow
of lines. This indeed was a pleasure cheaply purchased at any
price. What cared I, if I had waded to the portal of this wonder
through another's blood? I would have given my own to enjoy
one such moment of intoxication and delight.
Breathless with gazing on this lovely wonder, and forgetful
for an instant of everything save her presence, I withdrew my
eye from the microscope eagerly. Alas! as my gaze fell on the
thin slide that lay beneath my instrument, the bright light from
mirror and from prism sparkled on a colorless drop of water!
There, in that tiny bead of dew, this beautiful being was forever
imprisoned. The planet Neptune was not more distant from me
than she. I hastened once more to apply my eye to the micro-
scope.
Animula (let me now call her by that dear name which I
subsequently bestowed on her) had changed her position. She
had again approached the wondrous forest, and was gazing ear-
nestly upwards. Presently one of the trees - as I must call them
-unfolded a long ciliary process, with which it seized one of the
gleaming fruits that glittered on its summit, and sweeping slowly
down, held it within reach of Animula. The sylph took it in her
delicate hand and began to eat. My attention was so entirely
absorbed by her, that I could not apply myself to the task of
determining whether this singular plant was or was not instinct
with volition.
I watched her as she made her repast, with the most pro-
found attention. The suppleness of her motions sent a thrill of
delight through my frame; my heart beat madly as she turned.
her beautiful eyes in the direction of the spot in which I stood.
What would I not have given to have had the power to precipi-
tate myself into that luminous ocean, and float with her through
those groves of purple and gold! While I was thus breathlessly
following her every movement, she suddenly started, seemed to
listen for a moment, and then cleaving the brilliant ether in
which she was floating, like a flash of light, pierced through the
opaline forest, and disappeared.
Instantly a series of the most singular sensations attacked
me. It seemed as if I had suddenly gone blind. The luminous
sphere was still before me, but my daylight had vanished. What
## p. 10741 (#621) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10741
caused this sudden disappearance? Had she a lover or a hus-
band? Yes, that was the solution! Some signal from a happy
fellow-being had vibrated through the avenues of the forest, and
she had obeyed the summons.
The agony of my sensations, as I arrived at this conclusion,
startled me. I tried to reject the conviction that my reason
forced upon me. I battled against the fatal conclusion,- but
It was so. I had no escape from it. I loved an ani-
in vain.
malcule!
It is true that, thanks to the marvelous power of my micro-
scope, she appeared of human proportions. Instead of presenting
the revolting aspect of the coarser creatures that live and strug-
gle and die in the more easily resolvable portions of the water-
drop, she was fair and delicate and of surpassing beauty. But
of what account was all that? Every time that my eye was
withdrawn from the instrument, it fell on a miserable drop of
water, within which, I must be content to know, dwelt all that
could make my life lovely.
Could she but see me once! Could I for one moment pierce
the mystical walls that so inexorably rose to separate us, and
whisper all that filled my soul, I might consent to be satisfied
for the rest of my life with the knowledge of her remote sympa-
thy. It would be something to have established even the faint-
est personal link to bind us together, to know that at times,
when roaming through those enchanted glades, she might think
of the wonderful stranger who had broken the monotony of her
life with his presence, and left a gentle memory in her heart!
But it could not be. No invention of which human intel-
lect was capable could break down the barriers that nature had
erected. I might feast my soul upon her wondrous beauty, yet
she must always remain ignorant of the adoring eyes that day
and night gazed upon her, and even when closed, beheld her in
dreams. With a bitter cry of anguish I fled from the room,
and flinging myself on my bed, sobbed myself to sleep like a
child.
## p. 10742 (#622) ##########################################
10742
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
THE LOST STEAMSHIP
O, THERE! Fisherman, hold your hand!
Tell me, what is that far away,-
There, where over the isle of sand
Hangs the mist-cloud sullen and gray?
See! it rocks with a ghastly life,
Rising and rolling through clouds of spray,
Right in the midst of the breakers' strife:
Tell me what is it, fisherman, pray? »
"H
"That, good sir, was a steamer stout
As ever paddled around Cape Race;
And many's the wild and stormy bout
She had with the winds in that selfsame place:
But her time was come; and at ten o'clock
Last night she struck on that lonesome shore;
And her sides were gnawed by the hidden rock,
And at dawn this morning she was no more. "
"Come, as you seem to know, good man,
The terrible fate of this gallant ship,
Tell me about her all that you can;
And here's my flask to moisten your lip.
Tell me how many she had aboard,—
Wives, and husbands, and lovers true,-
How did it fare with her human hoard?
Lost she many, or lost she few? »
"Master, I may not drink of your flask,
Already too moist I feel my lip;
But I'm ready to do what else you ask,
And spin you my yarn about the ship:
'Twas ten o'clock, as I said, last night,
When she struck the breakers and went ashore;
And scarce had broken the morning's light
Than she sank in twelve feet of water or more.
"But long ere this they knew her doom,
And the captain called all hands to prayer;
And solemnly over the ocean's boom
Their orisons wailed on the troublous air.
And round about the vessel there rose
Tall plumes of spray as white as snow,
## p. 10743 (#623) ##########################################
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
10743
Like angels in their ascension clothes,
Waiting for those who prayed be ow.
So these three hundred people clung
As well as they could to spar and rope;
With a word of prayer upon every tongue,
Nor on any face a glimmer of hope.
But there was no blubbering weak and wild,-
Of tearful faces I saw but one:
A rough old salt, who cried like a child,
And not for himself, but the captain's son.
"The captain stood on the quarter-deck,
Firm, but pale, with trumpet in hand;
Sometimes he looked at the breaking wreck,
Sometimes he sadly looked to land.
And often he smiled to cheer the crew
-
But, Lord! the smile was terrible grim
Till over the quarter a huge sea flew;
And that was the last they saw of him.
"I saw one young fellow with his bride,
Standing amidships upon the wreck;
His face was white as the boiling tide,
And she was clinging about his neck.
And I saw them try to say good-by,
But neither could hear the other speak;
So they floated away through the sea to die-
Shoulder to shoulder, and cheek to cheek.
"And there was a child, but eight at best,
Who went his way in a sea she shipped;
All the while holding upon his breast
A little pet parrot whose wings were clipped.
And as the boy and the bird went by,
Swinging away on a tall wave's crest,
They were gripped by a man, with a drowning cry,
And together the three went down to rest.
"And so the crew went one by one,
Some with gladness, and few with fear;
Cold and hardship such work had done,
That few seemed frightened when death was near.
Thus every soul on board went down,-
Sailor and passenger, little and great;
## p. 10744 (#624) ##########################################
10744
FITZ-JAMES O'BRIEN
The last that sank was a man of my town,
A capital swimmer,- the second mate. "
"Now, lonely fisherman, who are you
That say you saw this terrible wreck?
How do I know what you say is true,
When every mortal was swept from the deck?
Where were you in that hour of death?
How did you learn what you relate? "
His answer came in an under-breath,—
"Master, I was the second mate! "
## p. 10745 (#625) ##########################################
10745
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
(1779-1850)
BY WILLIAM MORTON PAYNE
HE greatest of Danish poets was born in Copenhagen, Novem-
ber 14th, 1779, just a quarter of a century after the death
of Holberg. His ancestry was more German than Danish,
and his descent from four generations of organists may fairly be
reckoned as having some influence in the determination of his artistic
bent. His youth was careless and singularly happy; he applied him-
self indifferently to his studies, read a good
many books, and wrote boyish verses, tales,
and dramatic sketches. His interest in the
drama even impelled him to study for the
actor's profession, and during a year or two
he played minor parts on the stage of the
Royal Theatre. His youthful literary efforts
were of insignificant value, and there was
little that was stimulating in the literary
surroundings of his early years. Holberg
had left nothing that could be called a
school, and the classical tradition that he
had maintained was carried on feebly
enough by a few third-rate poets. This
tradition received its death-blow
hands of Wessel, the one poet contemporary with Ewald who was
a real literary force, and whose satirical play Kjærlighed uden
Strömper (Love without Stockings) had killed classical tragedy in
Denmark as effectively as 'Don Quijote' killed chivalrous romance
in Spain. The exquisite talent of Ewald had blossomed and passed
away, its seed to all seeming having fallen upon stony ground. Jens
Baggesen, a graceful poet and a master of both pathos and humor, a
typical transition figure, striving to escape from a past which he felt
to be outworn, but lacking the discernment of the pioneer, was the
most conspicuous writer of the closing years of the century; but it
was quite evident that no word of his was to be the "open sesame"
of the new treasure-house of the spirit.
at the
That word was soon to be spoken by the young Oehlenschläger,
who had tired of the play-actor's calling, and entered the University
OEHLENSCHLÄGER
## p. 10746 (#626) ##########################################
10746
ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
as a law student. But he found jurisprudence less tempting than the
opportunity - offered soon after his entrance-of competing for a
prize by writing an essay on the subject of the desirability of substi-
tuting the Norse for the Greek mythology in Scandinavian literature.
It is hardly necessary to say which side of the argument he took;
and although his essay failed to win the prize, it shows us to what
extent the ideals that were to control his future creative activity
were already shaping themselves in his mind. Meanwhile, the events
were hastening that were to give his genius the needed impulse,
and help him to the discovery of his true self. After eighty years
of peace his country got a taste of warfare in the first year of the
present century. The French revolutionary movement and the Napo-
leonic wars suddenly drew Denmark within their vortex, and a wave
of passionate patriotism swept over the land when an English fleet
under Nelson attacked the Danes in the harbor of Copenhagen. This
event and its attendant surge of national feeling stimulated the young
law student to renewed poetical exertions; and although his work
was still amateurish and tentative, it struck a new note and gave
evidence of a new energy. But the influence that was to operate
most powerfully in shaping his poetical destiny was intellectual rather
than political. It was the great revolution in taste and sentiment
that had been creating a new literature in Germany, and that is
called, somewhat vaguely, the Romantic Movement.
Oehlenschläger's mental condition at this time was like that of a
bud ready to burst open with the first hour of sunlight; almost that
of a powder magazine needing but a spark for the liberation of its
imprisoned force. The sunlight hour or the spark-to leave the
reader his choice of metaphors-was provided by a young Norwe-
gian, Henrik Steffens by name, who came to Copenhagen in the
summer of 1802, after having spent four years in Germany in the
Jena-Weimar circle of Schelling, Fichte, A. W. Schlegel, Schiller,
and Goethe. During the first year of his stay in Denmark, Steffens
gave courses of lectures in which philosophy and literature and art
received fresh and suggestive discussion, just as they were receiving
similar discussion by Coleridge in England at almost exactly the
same time. Oehlenschläger was introduced to Steffens soon after the
arrival of the latter, and lost no time in improving the acquaintance.
His first call upon his new friend was at eleven o'clock one morn-
ing, and the conversation that began between them was kept up for
sixteen hours without a break. At three the next morning, Steffens
offered his guest a bed, and the young poet snatched a few hours
of restless sleep. Returning to his lodgings, he took pen and ink,
and straightway composed 'Guldhornene' (The Golden Horns); with
which work, says the historian Hansen, "the romantic period of
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ADAM GOTTLOB OEHLENSCHLÄGER
10747
Danish literature begins. "
The horns in question were two relics
of antiquity that had been unearthed not long before and placed on
exhibition. Their history "becomes a symbol for the newly awakened
poet: the golden horns, with their strange carvings and mysterious
runic inscriptions, are gifts of the gods bestowed upon men to remind
them of their divine origin; of the ties, half forgotten, that bind them
to the distant past. " Once started upon his new career, Oehlen-
schläger went forward with all the impetuosity of youth. Abandon-
ing the works upon which he had been engaged, and which were
almost ready for the press, he so gave himself up to the new impulse
that by Christmas of this memorable year a fresh volume of 'Poems'
was ready for publication. These 'Poems,' bearing the date of the
next year (1803), included lyrics, ballads, and a dramatic piece, and
proved nothing less than a revelation of the hitherto unknown possi-
bilities of Danish song. Nothing like them had ever before been writ-
ten in the language, and nothing save the lyrical impulse of Ewald
had even remotely foreshadowed such a production. In the words
of P. L. Möller, the book became "the corner-stone of nineteenth-
century Danish poetry.
