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He had not come this far with any philosopher, not even with Jacobi, who had been closest to him. He had always felt as if they were talking across a divide. The immediate life which he found among great poets and mystics, which he sought to portray in his poems, of which he spoke as something of a mystery, had treated some as the dreams of his poetry, and did not want to know it. Here was a philosopher who understood him; not in unsure outlines, or mixed with foreign and murky mixtures, but in solid forms he found his thoughts again. It was the inner consanguinity of religion, of philosophy, of art, to which he had always believed, and which had appeared to him in other systems in abstract antagonism, in hostile separation. His forebodings became lawful, and the modes of thought were filled with real content. Now philosophy was neither a mere gymnastics of thought, nor a constructing and creation of God. All came into a new context, he learned in the true sense of the word.

Hitherto he had lived in an instinctive state, and had withstood the impression of art and the beautiful, without having the philosophical need to be clear about its nature. What it was in itself, what it had in it, was indiscriminately one to him; he took one for the other. From this source many things had sprung from his fantasies and poetry.

The direct traffic with Solger kept this movement in constant flux. Not a year passed where they had not seen each other, where Tieck had not been to Berlin for a few days, or the friend had not visited him in the spring or autumn. Often their conversations began in the early morning, and after brief interruptions the late evening still found them in deep conversation. Single, often slight hints of Solger’s flashed him with the force of lightning, throwing forward and backward on whole rows of thoughts a new, bright light. Thus an utterance of evil as the real nothing seemed like a sudden revelation to him, and from here new fruitful ideas developed to him, which he later processed manifoldly.

But no thought penetrated him more deeply from the first moment he met him at Solger’s, and occupied him longer than the irony about which some hints were given at the end of Erwin, and which Solger later wrote to him in 1818 : “Mysticism, when looking for reality, is the mother of irony, if after the eternal world, the child of enthusiasm or inspiration. They called what I call mysticism poetry; I call it that, as well as religion, according to whether it is conscious or unconscious on both sides. What I call mysticism, however, is the living and immediate insight which it has in itself on all levels, and whose development is again philosophy. ” were thoughts which had darkly filled him since ancient times, and which he had unconsciously followed in his first poems; already with the “Lovell”, then with his satirical dramas. In order to reveal the immediate presence of the divine, human reality had to disappear; this was the tragic side of irony, while the divine becomes the object of comedy, beginning in the life of fragmentation and contradiction, transplanted into the human sphere; Therefore, even in the comic of irony, Ernst is inseparable.

Friedrich von Raumer, who had previously had a friendly relationship with Solger, also joined them. Under the direction of the State Chancellor Hardenberg he had worked in the field of administration; but he renounced this career to accept a professorship of history and politics in Wroclaw. Already in 1810 he visited Tieck in Ziebingen. Here, too, a closer relationship arose from the first conversations, which was continued by letters and visits, and led to a true and lasting friendship. Tieck followed the historical researches of Raumer with interest. He saw the work about the Hohenstaufen arise, and read it, not without receiving a considerable retrospective effect, for the most part already in the manuscript. Thus politics, history, the historical present also came closer to him.

He had formerly lived exclusively with the past, as far as legend and literature were concerned; the actual conditions of the present in detail occupied him little. Other forces and elements now emerged, and as the poet stood midway between the philosopher and historian, and entered into a new relation to the ideal and real world, his circumambulation education. The traffic of the three friends was the most intimate and richest. They complemented each other and promoted each other, as each represented a peculiar side of life. This gave rise to the idea of ​​a journal of philosophy, poetry, and history, the editor of which was Solger, in which they sought to abandon the results of their common activity.

But even in the immediate surroundings there was no lack of friends, with whom Tieck found inspiration and sympathy in his studies and poetry. Apart from his family, Count Finkenstein, Burgsdorff and his relatives, and Wilhelm von Schütz, one of his earliest school friends, who had been living in Ziebingen for some time, were the next; As a matter of course he took part in romantic poetry. After Spanish model pictures his tragedy “Lacrimas” was worked, which had a certain reputation for a time beside F. Schlegel’s “Alarcos” among the dramas of the romantics. He was enthusiastic but unclear. Also in Kadach, the preacher in Ziebingen, an intelligent and scientific man, Tieck had found a friend.

Thus during these years he lived a simple still life that moved up and down without any significant external interruption between friends, poetic productions, mental work, and bodily, never quite resting sufferings. It was a narrow circle from which the world seldom heard as if from a remote existence. He almost seemed to live in a timeless state. With satisfaction he saw the rise and fall of the sun, spring and autumn passing by, and what he had once written as a boy about rural loneliness was fulfilled here. If he forgot the world, her vengeance did not endure by calling him [p. 370] began to be regarded as a lost one, who already belongs more to literary history than to contemporary life. Weird rumors had circulated about him. It was once said that he was thinking of becoming a preacher in Ziebingen. On another occasion, a transient sent him a note demanding that his muse restore the forgotten Ziebingen.

Several years had passed since the appearance of the first part of “Phantasus.” Now this collection came to a certain conclusion. In 1815 and 1816 he completed the “Fortunat”. It was an old plan, designed in 1800, which was finally executed. For the last time, Tieck treated dramatically a legend borrowed from the Middle Ages. But even this work bore witness to the transformation that had taken place; it was not as much a medieval believer as Genoveva, nor as colorful as Octavian. He tried to stay within the limits of the stage; he had gone out to a more dramatic concentration. In the second part, which he regarded as the accomplished one, poetic power mastered the fairytale material. Here humor and tragedy kept their balance; here was the spirit of Shakspeare. At the same time, the 1817 collection “Old German Theater” and the preface gave a new proof of his all-round dramaturgical studies.

For a long time he had wished to get to know the fatherland of his poet, the soil that was at the same time the scene of most and most powerful tragedies. It was important to gain insight into the resources of England for this literature. In the course of a twenty-five-year exploration of Shakspeare and the English drama, he had acquired a comprehensive knowledge of what the German libraries had to show in it. From his own point of view or through the mediation of friends he knew what Gottingen, Dresden, Berlin and Kassel possessed. Many older English dramas, even those under Shakspeare’s name, were sought in vain here. It did not seem possible to get them in Germany. He therefore gladly took a plan from his travel friend Burgsdorff to accompany him to England in 1817.

Finally, a general and lasting peace was won. With the feeling of security, in all spheres of life, the old, long-repressed tendencies returned. It was appealing, now for the first moment of peaceful reassurance London and Paris, for this too was to be visited to see.

In the first days of May 1817 they started the journey. They took their way through the northern Germany to the Rhine region and the Netherlands, the monuments of ancient art were initially the subject of consideration, as far as the rush admitted. The eyes of the living sex had opened up to the greatness of national past, the works of art of the German Antecedents, which had been overlooked coldly and indifferently, now appeared in a new, brilliant light.

The friends first entered the old dome in Magdeburg and Halberstadt, and then rested in Göttingen. It was a busy reunion after graduation, which was already a quarter of a century behind them. They visited the library, which was now under the direction of Beneke, a scholar taught in the new literature; they saw Hugo, Heeren, and some other university notables, including Fiorillo, their old teacher. In Marburg, they enjoyed the old church, then the beautiful location Wetzlar and Limburg and the local antiquities. In Koblenz they stayed with Görres, who also lived in Old German art. He possessed not insignificant collections, with which he had adorned his dwelling, and considered it duty to guide the poet of the “Genoveva” to the chapel of St. Genevieve at Andernach, which stood together with the people in the call of saving power. It was more important for Tieck to meet Max von Schenkendorf, the poet of the wars of liberation, whose beautiful lyrical talent he respected. Gorres accompanied them to Cologne, the German city of Rome, where they became acquainted with Walraf, Grote, and other antiquarians.

We continued to Brussels, Mechelen, Antwerp, Ghent and Bruges. It was partly the art migrations of Sternbald, which Tieck made up twenty years later. In these cities, the old German life was still in its original abundance. There were cathedrals, pictures of Eyck, Hemlink, Rubens. The human race also bore the firm, secure cut of a well-founded, old-historical existence.

From Calais they crossed the canal. On the morning of May 29, they saw the coast of England. In the fog, between the gray lake and clouds, the chalk cliffs of Dover lay before them. It was cloudy weather, and the first sight no cheerful. But for some inconvenience compensated already the visit of the Cathedral of Canterbury. The next day they were in London. Soon old and new acquaintances came together; Burgsdorff’s old friend, the Baron von Bielfeld, Leopold von Buch, the ingenious naturalist and traveler who attracted by his rugged but always original nature.

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For Tieck there were two points in London that drew his attention to others, the museum and the theater. He soon convinced himself how indispensable the knowledge of the first treasures was for his shakespeare studies. From manuscripts and rare prints he copied many ancient drama. A friendly support of this work he found in the recent Schlichtegroll, who was employed at the British Museum, and later also carried out some assignment for him.

On stage, Tieck was allowed to see Kemble and Kean side by side. The first was about to close his theatrical career. Tieck saw him in Shakspeare’s greatest roles, as Brutus, Percy, Wolsey, Hamlet, and finally as Coriolan, in whom his play had always been most admired. For a long time he had been the darling of the public. With bursting tears he resigned after the last performance of the spectators and the theatrical effectiveness. Truly furious outbursts of veneration followed, with which the public showered upon the famous actor. It was a scene of the most tremendous noise and tumult. Kemble was an important actor, yet he did not live up to what Tieck demanded of artistic perfection, and even saw. In the past, Kemble’s game might have been more effective; now at an advanced age he had lost strength and voice. For juvenile roles, both were no longer enough. He declamated more than he played. But in the rule of language and sound, he showed himself as a master. His speech was like a clear, even river, but it finally tires. The greater was the effect he produced by single, unexpected, and rarely used accents. Often Tieck Iffland believed to hear again.

By other means Kean acted as Hamlet and Richard III. He was the consummate opposite of Kemble’s, and far more mannerist. His tone was sharp, penetrating, tending towards the humorous. He cut and tore the speech, he was in constant agitation; he was driving violently back and forth on stage. The really important moments were rarer with him. One did not come to the quiet pleasures. Talma could not be seen. With the George he gave single scenes on the theater of the great opera at an enormously high entrance fee according to German terms. On the whole, the English theater was lower than the domestic one. The manner prevailed, the last note of the natural truth had been lost. Without understanding and respect for the poet, Shakspeare’s dramas were truly barbaric, often beyond recognition, by abbreviations and contractions. There was no idea of ​​the meaning and effect of the whole.

What was left over, besides the time trials, was the churches and galleries, the tower, the city, life in general. They were also present at the inauguration of the new Waterloo bridge. But for Tieck this bustle was not easy. Often he sighed over the long distances in the great city, and the peculiarities of the custom gave him, who was used to German house rules, a joke and seriousness in many an expression of disgust. He found that life became uncomfortable with all devices for convenience; and whoever wants to appreciate Germany in his own way must go abroad. He also did not want to like London. The ancient remains were less than he had believed, and these were supplanted by new buildings, and the trade and factory drift of the modern world.

But he had to praise the kindness of the English, whose acquaintance he made. One knew more about him than he expected. The praise which the Staël had given him was not without effect. His writings were known, and the works on Shakspeare could count on approval and encouragement. Among the English writers he found a friend, Coleridge, the connoisseur of German literature and translator of the “Wallenstein”. He had seen him in Rome ten years earlier, and had been in friendly relations with him. Coleridge also valued Tieck as a poet and critic.

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Shakspeare was the subject of her frequent conversations. Coleridge knew his views on the English Commentators, and that he had set a different opinion about the development of the poet and the order of the pieces. One evening he asked him for detailed information. Tieck declared himself ready if he could recite them coherently and without interruption. It was ten o’clock in the evening when he began to pass midnight when he closed. Silently Coleridge had been listening; Without a word of reply he said good night. On the other evening they came together again. “I have,” he began, “your views the thought through all night; and learned something new from it. I think you are right in many ways. “Tieck had not hoped for such an unanimous approval. “Still,” he continued, “I can not accept her!” “And why not?” Tieck asked in surprise. “Because I do not want to accept them, because they contradict everything that has previously been thought and written about Shakspeare in England.” It was hard to fight against such a national point of view in criticism. But Coleridge proved friendly and helpful, and by his mediation Tieck came into contact with Southey and the novella Godwin.

Finally, England wanted to meet outside London. Where else could this trip be than to the birthplace of Shakspeare? First to Oxford. But even Tieck could not get a taste out of nature. It was a lush green, a glorious land they drove through; but it was a made, a tailored nature, it had lost the character of originality. She lacked immediacy, that sanctity he called the one that appeals to the sentiment, and that often touched him even in the poor areas of home. Through industry she had been robbed of the poetic scent.

In Warwickshire they stood on the ground of Shakspeare and his heroes. Splendid was the effect of the old castle of Warwick, with its walls, wrapped in dense epheu. The rich collection of old weapons kept here enhanced the vivid impression. One climbed one of the mighty towers, which afforded a surprising view of the land. Then they visited the ruins of the once glittering castle of Kenelworth, whose name bore many important memories. Last they were in the little Stratford on the Avon, which had made a poet a famous place of pilgrimage. That’s how things came true! He, the poet, stood in devout reverence at the cradle of the poet, at whose spirits in the distant land and after centuries his own lighted, whose name he bore in his heart since he had become aware of himself.

Over the fields of Glocestershire, where the bloody battles of the two roses had been struck, over Bristol and Bath, they traveled to Salisbury, where, besides the old cathedral, they also drew the fabulous field of Stonehenge, which makes the legend Merlin’s theater. With this excursion her stay in England closed.

In the first days of July they arrived in Paris, where they were kindly received by Alexander von Humboldt, Oelsner and others. The most peculiar phenomenon among the Germans in Paris was Schlaberndorf, who had sacrificed his native conditions in order to live here both as a hermit and a man of the world. His peculiarities had survived the revolution. Freed from the traditional laws of social life, he confined himself to the room of a poor room, which he never left. Getting up from bed was an important change for him; he often stayed for days. Still, he was in the middle of things. He was not lacking in reports from the political and literary world. The most distinguished people visited the nerd. He was a living chronicle of the French Revolution, and surveyed the political situation with the gaze of a statesman and the calm of a Diogenes. Tieck visited him in his hermit cave. He found an old man with a strong gray beard, of feral reputation. The main feature of his suit was a tattered dressing gown that barely covered the nakedness of the body, and the lack of the most common underwear. It was the image of an anchorite; but his full participation belonged to life and the present. He spoke eloquently of the revolution. He thought about recording his memories. The book was finished in his head. He also started to do it. As evidence he brought out a few sheets of paper, the first page of which contained the dainty title of the book. He had not come further. Tieck repeated these strange visits, but in doing so excited the wrath of Leopold of Buch, who could only speak mockingly and repudiatingly of the strange man who in his eyes was a perfect revolutionary.

In Paris too the library was the most important, about whose possessions Tieck sought to inform himself in the older German and dramatic literature; then the theaters. Here a strange adventure happened. He repeatedly remarked that he caused a certain amount of attention and movement among those who were sitting down first, and this spread as often as he entered. What could it be? As a German poet, he certainly was not subject to curiosity. Finally it came to light. It confirmed what friends had told him before; it was his striking resemblance to the emperor that drew everyone’s attention to him. These great dark, melancholy eyes, the high forehead, the upper half of the face, reminded vividly of Napoleon in later times. A North American who knew King Joseph personally thought he looked even closer. Tieck, not an admirer of Napoleon’s, had always been half-indignant at such jesting remarks, now he had to convince himself of its truth. Older officers of the German Empire approached him, and even around the library they surrounded him, so that at last he became annoyed with being the subject of this curious contemplation.

After a stay of several weeks they started the return journey. Through Lorraine and Trier they went to Koblenz, where they saw Görres as the president of Meusebach, the well-known collector of older German literature. In Frankfurt a. M. they met F. Schlegel. Unexpectedly, they met in Heidelberg Jean Paul. Among the older friends, Daub and Creuzer, came the Mediciner Nägele, a cheerful, humorous man, and Hegel, whose reputation as a philosopher began at this time. They also admired Boisserée’s collection of old German paintings, which surpassed in value and scope everything that they had seen on the journey to monuments of ancient art.

Finally, they spent a few more days in southern Germany. Via Karlsruhe they went to Baden-Baden, Stuttgart and Würzburg, then through Thuringia to Weimar. How could Tieck have been here without at least welcoming Goethe? For the short stay did not allow more this time, as he continued to travel on the same day. Goethe later remarked on Tieck’s visit that this meeting had gone quite well.

In Weissenfels they visited Müllner, a poet of new strikes, whose rapidly acquired fame could be considered a sign of the times. Tieck had seen him once before, now Burgsdorff also wanted to get to know the fateful foothills. Feeling richly acknowledged, Müllner was so confident that he made a funny impression. They talked for a whole evening. Wollin dared to express some doubts about “the guilt”. Muellner ignored her, or repudiated her with repeated assurance that he would refute these and other objections in the preface to the forthcoming fourth edition. This returned so often that it became clear that he considered the fourth edition of his “guilt” to be a weapon against which all criticism must be destroyed. After a fleeting visit to Adam Müller in Leipzig, they arrived in Berlin in September.

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Here Tieck saw many friends of older and later times, Brentano, Arnim, Solger, Schinkel, with whom he met in good company, also F.A. Wolf and Schleiermacher. Since his student days he had met Wolf every now and then. He found the quick-witted, epigrammatic student of antiquity, who had studied the ancients practically well. He visited Schleiermacher in his church. With admiration he heard the great speaker. His sermon was simple, clear, apt, instructive. Nevertheless, it did not quite satisfy what Tieck demanded of ecclesiastical edification. At noon the same day he was in company with his publisher Reimer. In eager conversation, he felt a slight slap on the shoulder. It was Schleiermacher who had noticed him in the morning from the pulpit. Originally he called to him: “How the devil, Tieck, come to my church?”

Oehlenschläger also stayed in Berlin. He had returned from Vienna via Paris, where he had accompanied a distinguished young Dane. He was quite the old man, good-natured, but irritable and blindly approaching. This led to a funny delusion. He was an admirer of Shakspeare, and “Hamlet” took him first place because he saw in it a glorification of the Scandinavian North. Tieck boldly kicked him with the Contrary to the assertion that it was in this tragedy that the poet had made it clear that the Danes had no reason. Oehlenschläger exclaimed that it was impossible. Tieck promised to lead the proof, and showed him the verse in which the king says, “You can not speak of reason to the Dane.” Oehlenschlager burst into a flood of curses. Such one-sidedness, even barbarism, is unheard of! To accuse a whole people of irrationality! Whoever speaks like that is certainly not a poet! But he says goodbye to Shakspeare now; in public, he will enlighten the gullible world about which idols they have worshiped. His anger increased to the Berserkerwuth, to which the friends sought in vain to put a stop.

The next day, when they came together again, he kept on talking in the same tone as if he had just stopped. Now the thing had to be put to an end. Solger and Schleiermacher, who were present, seized the reluctant by the arms and pushed him down onto the chair. Shakspeare in hand, Tieck came before him and shouted in his ears, “Man, have you been nonsensical? Listen! Let me sign you! “The very next verse explains how it is to be understood; just taken out of context, give that verse such a wrong meaning. The Dane is the king, this particular king of Denmark, not the Danes, the people at all. Gradually Oehlenschlager became quieter, he began to understand why it was happening. Exhausted, he sat in the chair; the sweat ran from his forehead. At last he said, “Wicked people! But his good nature did not make him angry for long, and soon he joined in the laughter of his friends.