Hyperion | Page 9

I never read a page of his writings without
hearing his voice, and seeing his form before me. There he sits, with his
majestic, mountainous forehead, his mild blue eyes, and finely cut nose
and mouth; his massive frame clad loosely and carelessly in an old
green frock, from the pockets of which the corners of books project,
and perhaps the end of a loaf of bread, and the nose of a bottle;--a straw
hat, lined with green, lying near him; a huge walking-stick in his hand,
and at his feet a white poodle, with pink eyes and a string round his
neck. You would sooner have taken him for a master-carpenter than for
a poet. Is he a favorite author of yours?"
Flemming answered in the affirmative.
"But a foreigner must find it exceedingly difficult to understand him,"
said the gentleman. "It is by no means an easy task for us Germans."
"I have always observed," replied Flemming, "that the true
understanding and appreciation of a poet depend more upon individual,
than upon national character. If there be a sympathy between the minds
of writer and reader, the bounds and barriers of a foreign tongue are
soon overleaped. If you once understand an author's character, the
comprehension of his writings becomes easy."
"Very true," replied the German, "and the character of Richter is too
marked to be easily misunderstood. Its prominent traits are tenderness
and manliness,--qualities, which are seldom found united in so high a
degree as in him. Over all he sees, over all he writes, are spread the
sunbeams of a cheerful spirit,--the light of inexhaustible human love.
Every sound of human joy and of human sorrow finds a
deep-resoundingecho in his bosom. In every man, he loves his
humanity only, not his superiority. The avowed object of all his literary
labors was to raise up again the down-sunken faith in God, virtue, and

immortality; and, in an egotistical, revolutionary age, to warm again
our human sympathies, which have now grown cold. And not less
boundless is his love for nature,--for this outward, beautiful world. He
embraces it all in his arms."
"Yes," answered Flemming, almost taking the words out of the
stranger's mouth, "for in his mind all things become idealized. He
seems to describe himself when he describes the hero of his Titan, as a
child, rocking in a high wind upon the branches of a full-blossomed
apple-tree, and, as its summit, blown abroad by the wind, now sunk
him in deep green, and now tossed him aloft in deep blue and glancing
sunshine,--in his imagination stood that tree gigantic;--it grew alone in
the universe, as if it were the tree of eternal life; its roots struck down
into the abyss; the white and red clouds hung as blossoms upon it; the
moon asfruit; the little stars sparkled like dew, and Albano reposed in
its measureless summit; and a storm swayed the summit out of Day into
Night, and out of Night into Day."
"Yet the spirit of love," interrupted the Franconian, "was not weakness,
but strength. It was united in him with great manliness. The sword of
his spirit had been forged and beaten by poverty. Its temper had been
tried by a thirty years' war. It was not broken, not even blunted; but
rather strengthened and sharpened by the blows it gave and received.
And, possessing this noble spirit of humanity, endurance, and
self-denial, he made literature his profession; as if he had been divinely
commissioned to write. He seems to have cared for nothing else, to
have thought of nothing else, than living quietly and making books. He
says, that he felt it his duty, not to enjoy, nor to acquire, but to write;
and boasted, that he had made as many books as he had lived years."
"And what do you Germans consider the prominent characteristics of
his genius?"
"Most undoubtedly his wild imagination and his playfulness. He throws
over all things a strange and magic coloring. You are startled at the
boldness and beauty of his figures and illustrations, which are scattered
everywhere with a reckless prodigality;--multitudinous, like the
blossoms of early summer,--and as fragrant and beautiful. With a
thousand extravagances are mingled ten thousand beauties of thought
and expression, which kindle the reader's imagination, and lead it
onward in a bold flight, through the glow of sunrise and sunset, and the

dewy coldness and starlight of summer nights. He is difficult to
understand,--intricate,-- strange,--drawing his illustrations from every
by-corner of science, art, and nature,--a comet, among the bright stars
of German literature. When you read his works, it is as if you were
climbing a high mountain, in merry company, to see the sun rise. At
times you are enveloped in mist,--the morning wind sweeps by you
with a shout,--you hear