What foul ideas you have about me! There can be no question 
either of the buffoon or of the loyal Eckart (or Eckkardt, as you 
spell it),?”° but only of logic, reason, consistency, propositio major et 

To Wilhelm Graeber, July 30, 1839 465 

minor, etc. Yes, you are right. We won't get anywhere with 
gentleness here, these pigmies —servility, aristocratic rule, censor- 
ship, etc-—have to be driven away with the sword. Of course, I 
ought now to be really bullying and raging,but since it is you I am 
writing to, I'll go easy with you so that you will not have to “cross 
yourself” when the “wild gallop” of my unruly poetic prose 
overtakes you. First of all I protest against your insinuations that I 
have been giving the spirit of the times one kick after another in 
the hindquarters in order to speed its progress. My dear man, 
what a mug do you think I really am with my poor snub nose! No, 
I’m leaving it well and truly alone; on the contrary, when the spirit 
of the times comes along like a hurricane and pulls the train away 
on the railway line, then I jump quickly into a carriage and let 
myself be pulled along a little. Yes, a man like Karl Beck—the 
mad idea that he is finished as a poet originates most certainly 
from that depraved Wichelhaus, about whom Wurm _ has 
thoroughly informed me. The idea that a young man of twenty-two 
who has written such ravishing poetry should suddegly stop—no, 
really, I have never come across such nonsense before. Can you 
believe that Goethe stopped being a poet of genius after he had 
written Gétz, or Schiller after he had written the Rauber? Apart 
from which, history is supposed to have avenged itself on Young 
Germany! God preserve me. Indeed, if world history has been 
entrusted by the dear Lord God to the Bundestag as its hereditary 
fief, then it has avenged itself on Gutzkow by putting him in jail 
for three months.?!! But if, as we no longer doubt, it lies with 
public opinion (i. e., here, literary opinion), then it has avenged 
itself on Young Germany to the extent that it has allowed itself to 
be won by Young Germany fighting with the pen, and now Young 
Germany is enthroned as queen of modern German literature. 
What was Bérne’s fate? He died like a hero in February 1837, and 
in his last days he had the joy of seeing his successors — Gutzkow, 
Mundt, Wienbarg, Beurmann—rise so powerfully; to be sure, the 
black clouds of disaster still hung over their heads and a long, 
long chain was drawn around Germany which the Bundestag 
mended whenever it threatened to snap. But he is laughing even 
now at the princes, and perhaps he knows the hour when the 
stolen crowns will fall from their heads. I will not vouch to you for 
Heine’s happiness— anyhow the fellow has been wallowing in the 
mud for quite a while now. Nor for Beck’s for he is in love and 
fretting over our dear Germany. I am with him in regard to the 
latter, apart from which I still have a lot of fighting to do. But 
never mind, our good Lord God has given me an excellent sense 

of humour, which is a great comfort to me. Are you happy, 
manikin?— Keep your views about inspiration to yourself, other- 
wise you will never be a preacher in Wuppertal. If I had not been 
brought up in the most extreme orthodoxy and piety, if I had not 
had drummed into me in church, Sunday school and at home the 

most direct, unconditional belief in the Bible and in the 
agreement of the teaching of the Bible with that of the church, 

indeed, with the special teaching of every minister, perhaps, I 
would have remained stuck in some sort of liberal supranaturalism 
for a long time. There are plenty of contradictions in the 
teaching —as many as there are biblical authors, and the Wupper- 
tal faith has accordingly absorbed a dozen different individualities. 
As for Joseph’s family tree, Neander, as you know, attributes the 
one in Matthew to the Greek translator of the Hebrew original. If 
I am not mistaken, Weisse in his Life of Jesus* came out against 
Luke in much the same way as you do. Fritz’s explanation finally 
depends on such unnatural possibilities that it can’t be called an 
explanation at all. I am certainly a npdpayoc,” but of the liberal 
party, not the rationalists. The contradictions are taking shape, the 
views stand in sharp opposition. Four liberals (who are also 
rationalists), one aristocrat who came over to us but, fearing to 
offend against his family’s hereditary principles, immediately ran 
back again to the aristocracy, an aristocrat with good expectations, 
as we hope, and various blockheads, this is the circus within which 
the disputes rage. I do my championing as an expert on antiquity, 
the Middle Ages and modern life, as a boor, etc., but the 
championing is already no longer necessary; my young fellows are 
coming along quite well. Yesterday I explained to them the 
operation of historical necessity during the period 1789-1839 and, 
in addition, learned to my astonishment that I was supposed to be 
rather superior to all the local prima pupils in debating. I had 
beaten two of them in an argument some time before and they 
had then sworn to get me involved with the cleverest among them 
so that he could beat me; but unfortunately for them, he was 
tremendously enamoured of Horace at the time, so I beat him 
hollow. Then they became terribly afraid. This erstwhile 
Horaceomane is now on very good terms with me and told me all 
about it yesterday evening. You would be immediately convinced 
of the correctness of my book reviews if you read the books they 

To Wilhelm Graeber, July 30, 1839 467 

deal with. K. Beck is an enormous talent, more than that, he is 
a genius. He produces images like 

One hears the thunder’s voice proclaim aloud 
What’s written by the lightning on the clouds* 

in enormous profusion. Listen to what he says about Borne, 
whom he adores. He is speaking to Schiller: 

Your Posa was no airy fantasy; 

For did not Bérne pensh for us all? 

He scaled the summits of humanity; 

A Tell, he sounded Freedom’s clarion call. 

Up there, he calmly whet his arrow-head 

Took aim and shot. And Freedom’s arrow sped 

Into the apple, into the round Earth. 

And how he describes the misery of the Jews and student life! It 
is capital, and now the Fahrende Poet! Man, have some sense and 
read him. Look, if you refute Bérne’s essay on Schiller’s Tell then 
you can have all the royalties I am hoping to get for my 
translation of Shelley.?"? I'll forgive you for pulling my Wuppertal 
article‘ to pieces so thoroughly, for I read it again recently and 
was astonished at the style. I haven’t written nearly so well since. 
Don’t forget Leo and Michelet next time. As I have said before, 
you are very much mistaken in thinking that we Young Germans 
want to support the spirit of the age. But just think for a 
moment—when this mnvedpat blows and blows right for us, 
would we not be fools if we did not set our sails? It will not be 
forgotten that you were at Gans’ funeral.?"* [’ll get it mentioned in 
the Elegante Zeitung* soon. The way you all afterwards beg so 
nicely for forgiveness for the little bit of rumpus you kicked up 
strikes me as very funny. You still can’t curse and swear, but here 
they all come: Fritz sends me to hell, accompanies me to the gate 
and pushes me in with a low bow so that he himself can then fly 
back to Heaven. You see everything double through your spar 
spectacles and take my three friends for spirits from the Venus- 

berg. — Manikin, why are you calling for the loyal Eckart? Look, 
there he is, a little chap with a sharp, Jewish profile. His name is 
Borne and only give him a free hand and he will clear out all the 
Venus Servilia crowd. Then you also will make your most humble 
farewells — look, Mr. Peter* is coming too, smiling with one side of 
his face and snarling with the other, turning towards me first the 
snarl and then the smile. 

In our dear Barmen literary feeling is beginning to stir now. 
Freiligrath started a play-reading society in which, since his 
departure, Stricker and Neuburg (a clerk at Langewiesche’s) are 
the nodpayol > of liberal ideas. Now Herr Ewich has made the 
following sharp-witted discoveries: (1) that the spirit of Young 
Germany haunts this society, (2) that the society in pleno composed 
the “Letters from Wuppertal” in the Telegraph. He has also 
suddenly discovered that Freiligrath’s poems are the dullest stuff 
in the world and that Freiligrath stands far below de la Motte 
Fouqué and will be forgotten within three years. Precisely what 
was once asserted by Beck. 

O Schiller, Schiller, ever-vibrant spirit, 

O greatest heart that beat in warmest breast, 
Forever young, to us you were the Prophet 

Who carried Freedom’s flag before the rest. 
When all the world had stolen from the fray, 
And the faint-hearted could do nought but pray, 
Oh, you were truly prodigal of your blood; 
Your warmest life, your deepest life you threw 
Before the world in sacrifice from you. 
Contented, cold, the world misunderstoad, 

All heedless of your heart’s deep misery, 

And only heard the music of the spheres, 

When to its ears came waves of poetry 

That you had swelled with your own blood-red tears. 

Who wrote that? — It is from Karl Beck’s Der Fahrende Poet‘ with 
all his powerful verse and magnificent imagery, but also with his 

obscurity, his extravagant hyperboles and metaphors. For it is now 
settled that Schiller is our greatest liberal poet. He sensed the new 
era which would dawn after the French Revolution, which Goethe 
did not, even after the July revolution, and when it came too near 
to him so that he almost had to believe that something new was 
coming, he retired into his room and shut the door so as to 
remain comfortable. That detracts from Goethe a great deal; but 

To Marie Engels, September 28, 1839 469 

he was forty years old when the revolution broke out, and a made 
man, so one cannot reproach him with it. To finish Ill draw you 

something? 

Klos DP MG Sly ntl 

I enclose masses of poems. Share them between you. 

Yours, 
Friedrich Engels