Real's novel, and perhaps my own expressions, may have exhibited the matter to the reader in an improper light. During the time I was engaged upon it, which, on account of many interruptions, was long, many things in my own mind were changed. My work was necessarily influenced by the alterations which in this period took place in my opinions and sentiments. What had at first appeared particularly captivating, afterwards produced a much weaker effect, and in the end scarcely any. New ideas, which meanwhile arose within me, supplanted former ones; Carlos himself had sunk in my estimation, perhaps on no other account but because I so far surpassed him in years; and for a contrary reason the marquis Posa had stepped into his place. In consequence of this I brought with me into the fourth and fifth act a very different heart. But the three first acts were before the public; the plot of the whole could not be altered: I had no other alternative but to suppress the piece entirely, or to adapt the second part to the first as well as I could. The principal defect was, that I had it too long in hand; a dramatic work ought to be the blossom of a single summer. The plan, likewise, was too extensive for the limits and rules of dramatic composition. This plan, for example, required that Posa should continue to possess the unlimited confidence of Philip; but to produce this extraordinary effect, the arrangement of the piece allow ed me but a single scene."

From Leipzig Schiller removed to the celebrated Weimar, the residence of so many men of genius who were the ornament and the pride of their nation, and who will perpetu. ate the glory of Weimar among remote posterity. With these geniuses Schiller had a right to associate, and sufficient reason to hope that he would be acknowledged as one of their number. Accordingly Wieland, whom he for a time assisted in the publication of the German Mercury, received him with

his accustomed cordiality, and the minister Von Gothe with flattering attentions. He likewise acquired the friendship of Von Wollzogen, on whose estates in Meiningen he resided for several years, and whose sister he afterwards married. She was Schiller's free choice, and that is saying enough in her praise.

Some years afterwards Schiller was appointed professor of history at Jena, and he taught that science with almost unexampled applause. At a later period he likewise held lectures on æsthetics. Were we to describe the scholar striving with the utmost zeal to attain the highest possible excellence, it would be necessary to show how he learned Greek of Schutz; how, instigated by Reinhold, he indefatigably studied the theories of Kant, and made himself intimately acquainted with the best poets of all ages and nations. During these occupations he was engaged in the composition of lectures, which he might have sent to the press without any diminution of his fame, and was besides extremely active as an author.

That he might be able to study with less interruption, he reversed the order of nature. Night was more agreeable to him than day. However singular it may appear, it is not the less true, that in the evening he might be found at his breakfast, and at midnight deeply engaged in business. The stamp of midnight is in fact strikingly impressed on many of his compositions. By this conduct he, alas! abridged his cheerfulness, his pleasures, and even his life.

In 1796, he received a regular honorary professorhip, with a salary of two hundred dollars, which, after he left Jena, was continued by the duke, and was augmented a short time previous to his death. Meanwhile Gothe, who had become his friend, endeavoured to restore him to life and its enjoyments. Jena, he perceived, was not the place for this purpose; it was necessary to remove him to a region of greater freedom, and he invited him to Wei

már. This removal had the desired effect. He appeared to be again attached to life by more pleasing ties, and was completely happy in his domestic circle, among his children.

This cheerful tone pervades all the works he composed in the latter years of his life at Weimar: they are not the offspring of gloomy midnight, but the productions of genial noon. Among these was his "Maid of Orleans," of the first representation of which at Leipzig the following account is given by an eye-wit

ness:

"I repaired from Lauchstadt to Leipzig, and should not have repented the journey, had I only witnessed the respect paid to Schiller, in a manner perhaps unparalleled in the annals of the German stage. Notwithstanding the heat, the house was crowded almost to suffocation. No sooner had the curtain dropped at the conclusion of the first act, than a thousand voices exclaimed, as with one mouth, "Long live Frederic Schiller!" and the sound of drums and of trumpets joined in this expression of universal applause. The modest author returned thanks from his box with a bow, but all the spectators had not been able to obtain a sight of the object of their admiration. You may therefore conceive how, when the play was over, all thronged out of the house to see him. The extensive space from the theatre to the Ranstadt gate was crowded with people. He came out, and in a moment a passage was cleared. "Hats off!" exclaimed a voice: the order was universally complied with; and thus the poet proceeded through multitudes of admiring spectators, who all stood uncovered, while parents in the back ground raised their children in their arms, and cried, That is Schiller."

He had, as he himself acknowledged, two methods which he invariably followed in composition.When he had chosen a subject, he completed all the detail in his mind before he committed a single line to paper. A work which he had thus

brought to maturity in his mind, was finished, and hence may have often arisen the reports that Schiller had finished this or the other. Such was the case, toward the conclusion of his life, with his Atilla, of which he declared that he had five scenes ready. This may have been true, even though not a line of it were committed to writing.

Those compositions which Schiller had committed to paper, especially metrical performances, he used to read aloud by himself; and it frequently happened that he passed unawares from reading to declaiming, a proof that he made his ear, and not metre, a judge of rhyme and harmony.

Schiller was tall, and rather slender. Even during his residence at Jena, his body seemed to suffer from the exertions of his mind: his face was pale, and his cheeks hollow; but silent enthusiasm sparkled in his eye, and his high open forehead announced the character of his mind. His whole demeanour was calculated to excite confidence. There was nothing in it of reserve, nothing of pride, haughtiness, or affectation; every expression was marked with such candour and sincerity, and unfolded such excellent qualities of the heart, that before you had passed a quarter of an hour in his company, you felt as if you had been acquainted with him for years. In a word, to him may justly be applied the character he has ascribed to true genius. "The child-like character (says he) which genius stamps upon all its works, it likewise manifests in private life, and in its manners. It is modest, because nature is always so; but it is not decorous, because decorum only attends corruption; it is rational, for nature can never be the contrary; but it is not crafty, for craft belongs only to art. It is true to its character and its propensities, not so much from principle, for nature, notwithstanding all digressions, invariably returns to the same spot, and always brings back the former necessities; it is unassuming, nay

éven timid, because genius ever remains a secret to itself; but it is not anxious, because it is unacquaint ed with the dangers of the way it is pursuing. We know little of the private life of the greatest geniuses, but the little that has been preserved confirms this observation."

His medical attainments, instead of being of advantage to him, were, in fact, prejudicial, for they made him too attentive to the state of his body and its changes, and thus deprived him of the repose so necessary for the re-establishment of his health. The worst was, he appeared to have retained so much of this knowledge as to be aware of the danger of his situation, but to have forgotten so much as was necessary to warn him of the approach of impending disease. Sickness attacked him but too early, and a premature report of his death was propagated even in the public journals; but the skill of his physician, for that time, preserved his valuable life. The illustrious duke of Augustenburg, on receiving this melancholy intelligence, resolved to erect a monument to the noble bard. Overjoyed at his recovery, and not content with having destined a stone for him when dead, he, in conjunction with that excellent minister count Schimmelmann, secured to Schiller a pension for life.

The closing scene of this distinguished writer is thus described in a letter from Weimar, dated May 13, 1805: "At six in the evening of the 9th, death snatched our beloved Schiller from among us. We were surprised at the account, for his illness had not been of long duration. Last summer, when he returned from Berlin, whither he had gone to see the representation of his William Tell, to Jena, where his wife was to lie-in, he was ill, and not free from danger. This danger, however, passed away, and during the last days he complained only that spring would never arrive this year, though he was attacked while at work with the most violent spasms. Hence we were all led to cherish

the fairest hopes, when, all at once, the melancholy news arrived. On the morning of Thursday, he began to be quite delirious, spoke much concerning soldiers and the tumults of war, but still more frequently pronounced the name of Lichtenberg, in whose works he had a short time before been reading. Towards noon he became more composed, and fell into a gentle slumber, from which he awoke once more in the possession of his faculties for a short time, of which he availed himself to take a painful farewel, and to desire that his body might be committed to the earth without any pomp, in the most private and simple manner. He was even cheerful, and said,

Now life is perfectly clear to me: many things are now plain and distinct.' He soon afterwards sunk again into a slumber, from which he never more awoke.

"His body was opened: the lungs were found almost entirely destroyed, the chambers of the heart were nearly filled up, and the gall was uncommonly distended. An accurate cast of his skull was taken for Dr. Gall. His funeral was fixed for Sunday, but as his body advanced too rapidly to corruption, it was found necessary to inter him in the night between Saturday and Sunday. According to his own desire, he was to have been carried to the grave by artisans; but several young literati and artists, desirous of evincing their love and respect to their distinguished colleague, even in death, relieved them from that duty. Among these friends of the immortal poet were professor Voss and the painter Jageman. In profound and solemn silence, the coffin was borne to the church-yard, between the hours of twelve and one. The sky was entirely overcast, and threatened rain. The blustering wind rushed awfully through the ancient roofs of the vaults, and the trophies groaned. But no sooner was the coffin placed before the vault, than the wind suddenly dissipated the gloomy clouds ; the moon, in mild majesty, burst forth, and threw her first beams on

the coffin with the precious relics. They were carried into the vault; the moon again veiled herself in clouds, and the wind roared with augmented violence.

The theatre was shut on Saturday. A written notice was sent to the subscribers, informing them that the grief of the company for the loss of him who had rendered such important services to the German stage, and to that of Weimar in particular, was such as to render them incapable of acting. On Sunday, between the hours of three and four, Mozart's Requiem was performed in the church of the Kirchhof, by the band of the ducal chapel, and the superintendant general Vogt delivered a discourse in memory of the deceased. "Schiller has certainly left behind works worthy of the press. Among these is a finished perform ance entitled, The Expedition of Bacchus to India. His latest tragedy, Attila, is not completed. His papers promise a rich harvest for universal history. His respected brother-in-law, the privy counsellor Von Wollzogen, perhaps with Gothe's assistance, will undoubtedly take the necessary measures for giving this rich treat to the world."

Schiller did not die rich. He was not narrow-minded enough to scrape money together. As the master of a family, in which he maintained the utmost regularity, his conduct was unblemished. He was an excellent husband, and the father of four children. But the state of his health, and his mode of life, which was regulated by the rooted disorders with which he was afflicted, rendered necessary a proportionably greater expence, though in his exterior he observed the utmost simplicity, and was an enemy to ostentation. Schiller was made a citizen of France, and was elevated by the emperor to the rank of a noble of the German empire. Both these honours were conferred unsolicited. During the last four years of his life he resided at Weimar, in a house of his own, situated in an alley that runs through the town, and combining many con

veniences. The purchase of this house, and the elegant style in which he furnished it, cost him considerable sums. A few years before his death his pension was increased by the duke, but in return he performed very essential services to the theatre. He suffered all his plays to be first represented there, for which he required no compensation, and acted on all occasions in the most disinterested manner.

The hereditary princess of Weimar has not a little increased the enthusiasm which every heart feels for her, by the declaration that she will provide for Schiller's two sons.

We shall conclude this sketch of the life of Schiller with the words of his friend Gothe, not as admiring them, but as characteristic of that famous writer: "We have reason to think it a happy circumstance for him that he ascended from the pinnacle of human existence to bliss; that a short affliction snatched him from among the living. He was not doomed to experience the infirmi ties of age, the decay of his mental powers. He lived as a man, and has gone hence in the perfection of manhood. He now enjoys this advantage, that his virtues and his energies will ever live in the memory of posterity; for in the same form in which man quits the earth, he wanders among the shades; so that Achilles still retains all the vigour of youth. His early departure will likewise be a benefit to us. From his grave the emanations of his energy will invigorate us, and will excite within us the most powerful impulse to continue, with unabated zeal and love, the work which he began."

For the Literary Magazine.

THE REFLECTOR.

NO. IX.

NOTWITHSTANDING so many writers have been profuse in their directions to mankind how to conduct themselves in their intercourse with

society, in those particulars where politeness is the principal object, no one, that I can now recollect, has said any thing on the passing salute. When we meet any of our friends or acquaintance in the public walks, we generally deem it proper to notice them in some way or other. When I say we, I mean mankind generally, not including those truly well-bred people whose manners I mean to describe in the present paper. In this particular, many people are guilty of gross improprieties; they are uniformly polite to all. Should they happen to meet a gentleman of the first class, they bow low, with a "Sir, I hope you are well," or some other phrase which they may happen to recollect at the time; the next per son they meet is, perhaps, a tradesman, hurrying along, dressed in a well husbanded suit of clothes, which have long served him as a holiday suit, and now hold a secondary rank; to him they bow as low, and use the same kind expressions: if they meet with a lady of the first rank, they make their best bow; if they meet her maid, and happen to be acquainted, they act exactly in the same manner. It is a shockingly vulgar thing, and improper in the extreme; they do not seem to recollect that, by thus bowing indiscriminately to all, they reduce the great to the same level with the little, or raise the little to an equal height with the great. How would a great man or great lady be pleased, should they be saluted by a person they happen to meet, and immediately after see him saluting their taylor, their baker, their barber, or any other tradesman they may perhaps employ! Bowing is a mark of respect, or, at least, it is generally considered as such. When I was yet a school-boy, my teacher bade me bow to persons in office in the church, with the greatest respect (clergymen particularly), without regarding whether they knew me, or not; "because," said he, "these gentlemen must be treated with the greatest respect." Now, if it is a mark of respect, it should be paid to those only whom we do respect, and

VOL. V. NO. XXXI.

not to every one indiscriminately. Can a person, in the situation of those I have mentioned, consider a bow as a mark of respect, when they see it paid to high and low, to rich and poor, to plain and gay, to people whom nobody knows? Certainly not: they must consider it as an insult. Those who are acquainted with the genteel part of mankind will, I believe, agree with me in opinion on this subject. They will probably recollect that, when they have been walking with good company, they have met with some humble acquaintance, whom they have saluted in the usual manner: it is immediately asked, "Who is that?" Many people will say this is done to acquire a knowledge of the person's name. No such thing. Reader, I assure you, the true meaning of the question may be thus expressed: "Who is that man? is he a gentleman, a man of wealth, show?" &c. The answer frequently runs thus: "He is a tradesman, a very worthy fellow, whom I have long known, an honest man," &c.

When they answer in this manner, it is not done merely to convey information for the support of craving curiosity, but to give good reasons for noticing him in the same manner he would have done any one of the present company on meeting. It would be much better not to notice them at all, or else in a slighter manner; for can they suppose they will meet with a welcome reception in good company? If they pay the same attention to these plebeians, as they do to their betters, it is absurd to expect it. Great people have (and ought to have) too much regard for what is due to their station, to suffer such deviations from the rules of politeness to pass unnoticed; and people, guilty of such improprieties, must not expect to act thus with impunity. No: the day will arrive when it will be signified to them that they are no longer desirable company for genteel people; that they may go and herd with tradesmen and other low company, such as they have been accustomed to sa

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