# The Reminiscences of Carl Schurz (book)/Volume One/Chapter 04

CHAPTER IV
ALTHOUGH not yet regularly immatriculated at the university at Bonn, I received a warm welcome from a group of fine young men, the Burschenschaft Franconia—one of that class of students' associations which after the wars of liberation of 1813, '14 and '15 had been organized at various German universities, in obedience to a patriotic impulse. My admission to this fellowship I owed to my Cologne friends, Petrasch and von Weise, who had preceded me at the university and had spoken a good word for me to their brethren of the Franconia society, probably with an exaggerated account of my literary capabilities. This I discovered upon the occasion of my first appearance at the Franconia “Kneipe,” when it was the evident intention of both my friends to make a show of my talents. But I was at that time an extremely bashful youth, always silent and awkward in the presence of strangers. I shall never forget the feeling of utter helplessness that came over me when Petrasch introduced me to the presiding officer of the society, Johannes Overbeck, a self-poised young man several years my senior, and a brilliant student who had already published a volume of original poems. All this I knew and it had impressed me greatly. In answer to the friendly greeting he gave me I blushed and stammered and only managed to articulate an occasional yes or no. I was quite conscious of the sorry figure I was cutting, and what was worse, aware that Petrasch and Weise were disappointed and ashamed of me. It was the first occasion in life when I was brought in contact with men from other parts ​of Germany; and they, especially the North-Germans, had something superior and deliberate in their ways that greatly impressed me.
UNIVERSITY AT BONN
​ My irregular standing at the university did not permit me to be received as a full member into the Franconia, but I was admitted as a guest to their convivial meetings. For a long time I sat a mute spectator at the jovial gatherings of my friends, but finally my hour came. One of the principal events of the convivial evenings was the reading aloud of the Kneipzeitung, a humorous paper, written and read in turn by different members. To write a good Kneipzeitung was the object of general ambition, and those papers not seldom possessed decided literary merit. As I sat or moved, a quiet observer among my friends, abundant opportunity was afforded me to study the peculiarities of my new companions. My observation finally took form in a parody of the “Auerbach cellar scene” in “Faust,” in which I made the leading members of the Franconia the dramatis personæ. The satire was pointed, though of course not ill-natured. When I had finished the composition I showed it in confidence to Petrasch. He shouted with delight, and was certain that nothing better had ever been written by any member of the society. This of course I refused to believe, but yielded to his entreaties that I turn it into a Kneipzeitung and that he should be the one to read it aloud at the next reunion. I insisted that he keep its authorship strictly secret, which he promised. When finally the evening came for its presentation my heart was in my throat, and my face red with blushes, as the assembled company burst into repeated laughter and applause. The success of the paper was complete. Petrasch declared that the writer wished to remain unknown, but with this the audience would not rest content. Of course nobody suspected me. My friend, as proud of the ​achievement as if it had been his own, winked at me across the table and whispered audibly, “May I not tell?” This alone would have been sufficient to betray me, but another member sitting near recognized my handwriting. And now there was a great hurrah. From all sides they rushed upon me; there was no end of congratulation and handshaking; and Petrasch, looking around at the assembled company, called out: “There, now, what did I tell you?”
It has always been a relief to me that the poetic productions of my youth somehow disappeared; but I confess that I would like very much to see this one again, for at the time it rendered me an inestimable service. Its success aroused my dormant self-reliance and transformed me from an awkward country lad, who was in a good way to remain a ridiculous figure, into a respectable and respected young man. My shyness rapidly ceased in the intercourse with my comrades, and many delightful friendships were the outcome of it all.
Much time I could indeed not give to my friends during my first university year at Bonn, for the graduation examinations at the Cologne gymnasium, upon which my whole future depended, were still ahead, and they ever stood before me like a threatening specter. Aside from the historical and philological lectures by Aschbach and Ritschl, which I attended, I had to acquire all that was taught in the upper class of the gymnasium by way of self-instruction, and with the exception of higher mathematics and of natural science I succeeded in doing this, but, of course, not without much labor. At last, in September, 1847, the crisis came, and I journeyed to Cologne, accompanied by the prayers of my family and the cordial wishes of all good friends. Fortune favored me again, and all went well. I knew the sixth canto of the Iliad by heart, and it so happened that the examiner in Greek gave me a part of ​that canto to translate, which I could do without looking at the book. In addition to this, the result of my examination in history and my compositions in German and Latin were sufficiently satisfactory to move the examiners to overlook my weakness in other branches. Upon the conclusion of the ordeal the government commissioner, who had before seemed to me the personification of grim fate, handed me my graduation papers with an especially cordial handshake, and he gave me many good wishes for future success on my way. I returned to Bonn in triumph.
Now at last, as a regularly matriculated student, I could take equal rank with my university friends. With ardor and with a feeling of assurance I threw myself into philological and historical studies, looking with greater calmness into the future, in which I pictured myself as a professor of history at some German university, devoting some of my time to literary work. I hoped that now the severest storms of life were behind me, and that I might look forward to a smooth career which would satisfy all my ambitions. How little did I dream of the strange vicissitudes of fortune which were soon to scatter all these plans and to hurl me into currents of life entirely different from those which I had anticipated!
The cheerfulness of temperament with which benign nature had endowed me and the capacity of frugal enjoyment which the conditions of my early youth had developed in me, rendered me highly susceptible to the fascination of free student-life. Again fortune had greatly favored me in opening to me at the very entrance into the academic world access to a most stimulating circle of young men.
Friedrich Spielhagen, in his memoirs, says that the Burschenschaft Franconia was in a sense the most distinguished among the student societies of that day. And this it was indeed. To ​be sure, it did not count among its members scions of noble houses nor men of exceptional wealth. At any rate rank and wealth did not count. But its scientific and literary tone was marked, and many of its members later made a name for themselves in various walks of life. Among these were Johannes Overbeck, the archæologist, of whom it has been said that he wrote the best book that has ever been written on Herculaneum and Pompeii, without ever having seen either spot; Julius Schmidt, an astronomer, who gave to the world various works of great scientific value, and died as director of the astronomical observatory at Athens; Carl Otto Weber, of Bremen, a young man of rare brightness of mind and the most charming sweetness of character, whose distinguished merit gave him a professorship of medicine at Heidelberg, where, like a soldier in battle, he died of diphtheritic poison in an heroic effort to save a human life; Ludwig Meyer, who became an expert in mental diseases and a professor at Göttingen, and director of various institutions for the insane; Adolph Strodtmann, the biographer of Heine, who also excelled as a remarkably able translator of French, English and Danish literature; Friedrich Spielhagen, in whom in spite of his somewhat distant and reserved character we all recognized a man of rare intellectuality and moral elevation, and who later became a star of the first magnitude among the novelists of the century. There were several other young men of uncommon capacity and sound ambition who afterwards rose to honorable if less conspicuous positions in life.
Although in this company there was earnest and hard work done, its members were neither priggish nor did they lack youthful exuberance of spirits. But these spirits only very seldom degenerated into those excesses which usually pass as characteristic of German student-life. There were indeed a ​few capable of great things in beer-drinking. But beer-drinking was not cultivated as a fine art, in the exercise of which one had to seek honorable distinction. Nor would he who was temperate be exposed to any want of respect or derision. Moderation was the rule, and he who broke that rule too often made himself liable to a reprimand or even expulsion. Neither did we take part in the practice of dueling, in which various corps at German universities sought then as now their glory. I can recollect but two cases during my time at Bonn that a member of the Franconia fought a duel, and of those we were by no means proud. There is probably no civilized people to-day, except, perhaps, the French, in which enlightened public opinion does not look upon and condemn dueling as a remnant of medieval barbarity. While excuses may sometimes be offered in cases of exceptional insult, it is no longer accepted as evidence of true courage nor as the best means for a man to guard or avenge his honor; and the professional duelist who by frequent encounters creates suspicion that he is wantonly seeking an opportunity for a fight wins rather the reputation of being a rude if not a criminal ruffian than the renown of a hero. The true gentleman has ceased to be ashamed of invoking the law for the protection of his own or his family's or friends' honor when that honor may need protection; and the world has begun to suspect the man who for its defense breaks the law instead of appealing to it. Irresistibly this view is becoming public opinion among all truly civilized peoples.
In what light then, in the face of this public opinion, does that portion of the so-called educated youth in German universities stand, which, not making even injured honor an excuse, cultivates the duel as a form of social amusement, and finds glory in the number of scars won in causeless combats? The precautionary measures customary at German ​universities have made an ordinary duel so harmless that usually nothing more than a mere scratch on the face is the result. To fight in this way requires no more courage than to have a tooth drawn; perhaps not even so much. As a true test of courage, therefore, such a duel cannot be regarded. The cause for it mostly consists in nothing but some childish quarrel, wantonly brought on for the very purpose of provoking a challenge; and the student who in this way disfigures his face with a network of unsightly scars is truly foolish to think he can pose as a braver and better man than others who enjoy their youth in a more sensible way during the period when they are preparing themselves for the grave problems of life. It is said that the duel prevents personal quarrels from degenerating into vulgar brawls and fisticuffs, and that the sword is a more dignified weapon than the fist. But this defense appears utterly untenable when we look at the universities of other countries, where dueling is practically unknown and where common fights are as infrequent as they are in Germany. It is also asserted that dueling stimulates a nice sense of honor among young people. But what kind of honor is this? Is it honorable to fight without due cause?. Is it honorable to treat with contempt those who object to dueling about silly nothings? Is not this so-called sense of honor mere shallow and rude rodomontade? It is in fact nothing but the cultivation of an entirely false standard of honor—a self-deception very dangerous to young people, because it confuses their moral principles, upon the clearness and firmness of which the character of the true gentleman rests. Such a notion of honor which consists only in cheap show induces one too easily to forget that the moral courage of a man who unflinchingly and unselfishly stands up in the struggle of opinions and of interests for that which he recognizes as true and right, rises far above all the glories of the dueling-field ​and all its pretended heroism. It is a matter of experience that not a few of the most bellicose students, devoid of just this genuine and higher courage, become the most servile sycophants of power in later life, always parading the scars on their faces as proof of their bravery. In this way a class of unprincipled climbers has developed itself, which depends in the competition for place and promotion, not on its real ability and true merit, but on social connections and the protection of the powerful, and which thus loses in the matter of character what it wins in the way of success.
Such were the views about the duel held in my time by the Franconians, although it is certain that they were not lacking in sense of honor nor of pride. Their principles, however, did not keep them from the fencing school; indeed several of them would have been conspicuously able to enforce respect sword in hand. I have to confess that I found especial pleasure in the fencing exercises, and Spielhagen praises me in his memoirs “for wielding a deft and powerful blade.”
In other respects we followed the customs and enjoyed the pleasures of German student-life to our hearts' content. We wore with pride the society colors on our caps and the tricolored ribbon across our breasts. We celebrated our “commerses” and went through all the traditional ceremonies with becoming solemnity. We took long rambles into the country—and it was no pedantic affectation, but a real outflow of gay spirits that on such occasions some of us who had studied our Homer with especial assiduity conversed in homeric verses, which somehow we contrived to apply to what we were doing or observing. We also indulged in delightful excursions up and down the Rhine and into its lovely side-valleys; and blessed be the memory of the innkeepers who did not demand an immediate settlement of our accounts; blessed above all, ​that of the benign Nathan of Sanct Goarshausen, under the shadow of the Loreley-rock, who welcomed every Franconian under his roof as an own child. Oh, how we reveled in the poetry of those friendships, which more than all else made youthful years so happy! The mature man should never be ashamed of the emotions that once moved him to wind his arm around his friend's shoulder and to dream of inseparable brotherhood. Thus I shall never be ashamed of the feelings which I showed as exuberantly as my companions, whenever at the close of the semester some members dropped out of our circle never to return, and when at leave-taking our glasses rang to the echo of the farewell song:
* Wohlauf noch getrunken
* Den funkelnden Wein,
* Ade nun Ihr Lieben,
* Geschieden muss sein.”
Even now I cannot listen to this song without a throb in my heart, for I see before me the dear fellows as their eyes filled at the moment of parting and they again and again embraced. Oh, these careless, sunny, university days, with their ideals and enthusiasms, their sentimentalities and their felicities! How soon they were to be overshadowed for me by the bitter earnestness of life!
PROF. GOTTFRIED KINKEL
​ It was at the beginning of the winter semester of 1847-8, at Bonn, that I made the acquaintance of Professor Gottfried Kinkel—an acquaintance which for my later years became one of fateful consequence. Kinkel delivered lectures on literature and art-history, some of which I attended. I also participated in his course of rhetorical exercises. This brought me into close personal contact with him. He was at the time when I first ​knew him thirty-two years of age; the son of an evangelical minister stationed in a village on the Rhine, and he himself also to be educated for the church. To this end he visited the universities of Bonn and Berlin. In the year 1836 he settled down at the university of Bonn as a teacher of church history. But on account of his health he made a journey to Italy in 1837, where he gave himself up to the study of the history of art. After his return he became assistant preacher of an evangelical church in Cologne, where he attracted large congregations by the eloquence of his sermons. In the meantime his poetical gifts, which by personal intercourse with Simrock, Wolfgang Müller, Freiligrath and others had been constantly stimulated, had attracted wide attention. Especially his romantic epic, “Otto der Schütz,” won for him a prominent name in literature. In Cologne he became acquainted with the divorced wife of a bookseller, a woman of extraordinary mental activity. While rowing on the Rhine one day Kinkel saved her from drowning, the boat having capsized, and soon after, in the year 1843, they were married. This union with a divorced Roman Catholic woman would alone have sufficed to make his position as an evangelical clergyman untenable, had it not already been undermined by his outspoken liberal opinions. For this reason he abandoned theology and accepted a position of professor-extraordinary of art-history at the university of Bonn.
As a lecturer he proved himself exceedingly attractive by his interesting personality as well as by the charm of his delivery. Kinkel was a very handsome man, of regular features and herculean stature, being over six feet in height and a picture of strength. He had a wonderful voice, both strong and soft, high and low, powerful and touching in its tone, gentle as a flute and thundering like a trombone—a voice which ​seemed to command all the registers of the church organ. To listen to him was at the same time a musical and an intellectual joy. A gesticulation as natural as it was expressive and graceful accompanied his speech, which flowed on in well-rounded and not seldom poetic sentences.
When Kinkel offered to introduce his hearers in a special course to the art of speech, I was one eagerly to seize the opportunity. He did not deliver theoretical instruction in rhetorics, but he began at once to produce before us eminent models and to exercise our faculties by means of them. As such models he selected some of the great rhetorical passages in the dramas of Shakespeare, and for me he set the task to explain the famous funeral oration of Marc Antony, to point out the intended effects and the means by which these effects were to be accomplished, and finally to recite the whole speech. I accomplished this task to his satisfaction, and then Kinkel invited me to visit him at his house. I soon followed this invitation, and the result was the development between teacher and scholar of a most agreeable personal intercourse. He possessed in a high degree the genial unconventionality and the gay temper of the Rhineland.
He delighted to put the professor aside and to let himself go when in the circle of his family and friends in unrestrained hilarity. He drank his glass of wine—with moderation, to be sure—laughed heartily at a good jest and even at a poor one, drew from all circumstances of life as much enjoyment as there was in them, and grumbled little when fate was unkind. Thus one soon felt at home in his company. He had indeed also his detractors, who accused him of being what they called “vain.” But who is not vain, each one in his way? Vanity is the most common and the most natural of all weaknesses of character—and at the same time the most harmless and the ​most pardonable if it stands under the influence of a sound ambition. Whenever it is carried too far it becomes ridiculous, and thus punishes itself.
Mrs. Kinkel was not at all handsome. Her stature was low, her features large and somewhat masculine and her complexion sallow. Nor did she understand the art of dressing. Her gowns were ill-fitting and usually so short that they brought her flat feet, clad in white stockings and black slippers, with cross-ribbons, into undue prominence. But the impression made by her lack of beauty vanished at once when one looked into her blue, expressive eyes, and when she began to speak. Even then she seemed at first to be neglected by nature, for her voice was somewhat hoarse and dry. But what she said almost instantly fascinated the hearer. She not only spoke upon many subjects of high significance with understanding, sagacity and striking clearness, but she also knew how to endow by her picturesque presentation commonplace things and every-day events with a peculiar charm. In conversing with her one always felt that behind what she said there was still a great wealth of knowledge and of thought. She also possessed that sparkling Rhenish humor that loves to look at things from their comical side and under all circumstances appreciates whatever there is enjoyable in life. She had received an exceptionally thorough musical education, and played the piano with a master hand. I have hardly ever heard Beethoven and Chopin compositions performed with more perfection than by her. In fact, she had passed far beyond the line that separates the dilettante from the artist. She had also written some exquisite compositions. Although her voice possessed no resonance and in singing she could only indicate the tones, still she sang with thrilling effect. Indeed, she understood the art of singing without a voice.
​Whoever observed these two externally so different human beings in their domestic life could not but receive the impression that they found hearty joy in one another and that they fought the struggles of life together with a sort of defiant buoyancy of spirit. This impression became even stronger when one witnessed their happiness in their four children.
No wonder that Kinkel's house became the gathering place of a circle of congenial people, whose hours of social intercourse left nothing to desire in animation, intellectual vivacity and cheerfulness. It was composed throughout of men and women of rich mental endowments and of liberal ways of thinking in the religious as well as the political field—men and women who liked to utter their opinions and sentiments with outspoken frankness; and there was no lack of interesting topics in those days.
The revolt among the Roman Catholics caused by the exhibition and adoration of the “holy coat” in Trier had brought forth the so-called “German Catholic” movement, and had also given a vigorous impulse to the tendency for free-thinking and free-teaching among Protestants. Upon the political field, too, there was a mighty stir. The period of political discouragement and of national self-depreciation in Germany had given place to an impulse to strive for real and well-defined goals, and also to the belief that such goals were attainable. Everybody felt the coming of great changes, although most people did not anticipate how soon they would come. Among the guests of Kinkel's house I heard many things clearly uttered which until then were only more or less nebulous in my mind. A short review of the origin and development of the feelings with regard to political conditions, which at that time prevailed with the class of Germans to which he, and, in a more modest way, I belonged, may serve ​to make intelligible their conduct in the movements which preceded the revolutionary upheavals of the year 1848.
The patriotic heart loved to dwell on the memories of the “holy Roman empire of the German nation,” which once, at the zenith of its power, had held leadership in the civilized world. From these memories sprang the Kyffhäuser romanticism, with its dreams of the new birth of German power and magnificence, which had such poetic charm to German youth: the legend telling how the old Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossa was sitting in a cave of the Kyffhäuser mountain in Thuringia, in a sleep centuries long, his elbows resting on a stone table and his head on his hands, while a pair of ravens were circling around the mountain top; and how one day the ravens would fly away and the old kaiser would awaken and issue from the mountain, sword in hand, to restore the German Empire to its ancient glory. While cherishing such dreams we remembered with shame the time of the national disintegration and the dreary despotism after the Thirty Years' War, when German princes, devoid of all national feeling, always stood ready to serve the interests and the ambitions of foreign potentates—even to sell their own subjects in order to maintain with the disgraceful proceeds the luxuries of their dissolute courts; and with equal shame we thought of the period of the “Rheinbund,” when a number of German princes became mere vassals of Napoleon; when one part of Germany served to keep the other part at the feet of the hated conqueror, and when Emperor Francis of Austria, who had been also emperor of the hopelessly decayed empire of Germany, laid down in 1806 his crown, and German Emperor and German Empire ceased even to exist in name.
Then came, in 1813, after long suffering and debasement, the great popular uprising against Napoleonic despotism, and ​with it a period of a new German national consciousness. To this feeling appealed the famous manifesto, issued from the town of Kalisch, in which the king of Prussia, allied with the Russian Czar, after Napoleon's defeat in Russia, called the German people to arms, promising at the same time a new national union and participation of the people in the business of government under constitutional forms. The new birth of a united German national empire, the abolition of arbitrary government by the introduction of free political institutions—that was the solemn promise of the Prussian king as the people understood it—that was the hope which inspired the people in the struggle against Napoleonic rule with enthusiastic heroism and a self-sacrifice without limit, and ended in a final victory. It was one of the periods in history when a people proved itself ready to sacrifice all for the attainment of an ideal. But after the victories of Leipzig and Waterloo followed another time of bitter disappointment. Against the formation of a united Germany arose not only the jealous opposition of non-German Europe, but also the selfish ambitions of the smaller German princes, especially of those who, as members of the “Rheinbund,” such as Bavaria, Würtemberg, Baden, etc., had been raised in their rank. And this opposition was strengthened by the intriguing policy of Austria, which, with her possessions outside of Germany, had also un-German interests and designs. And this Austrian policy was conducted by Prince Metternich, the prime minister of Austria, to whom every emotion of German patriotism was foreign, as he hated and feared every free aspiration among the people. Thus the peace was far from bringing to the German people the reward for their sacrifices which they had deserved and expected. From the Congress of Vienna, in 1814 and 1815, which disposed of peoples as of herds of cattle in order to establish a permanent ​balance of power in Europe, nothing issued for the German nation but a treaty of alliance between German states, the famous “Deutsche Bund,” the organ of which was to be the “Bundestag”; and this organ was to be composed of the representatives of the various German kings and princes, without any vestige of a representation of the people. There was no mention of any guarantee of civic rights, of a popular vote, of a free press, of the freedom of assembly, of a trial by jury. On the contrary, the “Bundestag,” impotent as an organ of the German nation in its relations to the outside world, developed itself only as a mutual insurance society of despotic rulers—as a central police board for the suppression of all national and liberal movements. The king of Prussia, Frederick William III., the same who had made the promises to the people contained in the proclamation of Kalisch, had probably in the days of distress and of national uprising honestly meant to do what he promised. But his mind was narrow and easily disposed to consider autocratic authority on his part as necessary for the well-being of the world. Every effort among the people in favor of free institutions of government appeared to him as an attack on that absolute authority, and therefore as a revolutionary transgression; and the mere reminder on the part of the people of his own promises made to them in 1813 was resented by him as an arrogant self-assertion of subjects, and as such to be repelled. Thus he became, perhaps unconsciously, the mere tool of Prince Metternich, the evil genius of Germany. The outcome was a period of stupid reaction, a period of conferences of ministers for the concoction of despotic measures, of cruel persecutions of patriotic men whom they called demagogues, of barbarous press-gagging, of brutal police excesses. In some of the small German states some advance was made toward liberal institutions, ​which, however, was usually followed by more odious measures of repression on the part of the Bundestag. Such were the returns for the sacrifices and the heroism of the German people in the struggle for national independence; such was the fulfillment of the fair promises made by the princes. It was a time of deepest humiliation. Even the Frenchmen, who had felt the edge of the German sword, derided, not without reason, the pitiable degradation of the victor.
FREDERICK WILLIAM III
​ Hope revived when Frederick William III.'s son and successor, Frederick William IV., ascended the Prussian throne in 1840. He was regarded as a man of high intelligence and had, as crown-prince, excited fair expectations. Many considered him incapable of continuing the stupid and sterile policy of his father. Indeed, the first utterances of the new king and the employment of able men in high positions encouraged the hope that he harbored a national heart, in sympathy with the patriotic aspirations of the German people, and that the liberal currents of the time would find in him appreciative understanding. But fresh disappointment followed. As soon as the demand was publicly made, that now at last the old promises of a representative government should be fulfilled, the king's attitude changed. These demands were bluntly repelled, and the censorship of the press was enforced with renewed severity.
FREDERICK WILLIAM IV
​ Frederick William IV. was possessed of a mystical faith in the absolute power of kings “by the grace of God.” He indulged himself in romantic imaginings about the political and social institutions of the Middle Ages, which had for him greater charm than those befitting the nineteenth century. He had sudden conceits, but no convictions; whims, but no genuine force of will; wit, but no wisdom. He possessed the ambition to do something great and thus to engrave his name ​upon the history of the world; but he wished at heart to leave everything substantially as it had been. He thought he could satisfy the people with an appearance of participation in the government without however in the least limiting the omnipotence of the crown. But these attempts ended like others made by other monarchs in other times. The merely ostensible and insufficient things he offered served only to strengthen and inflame the popular demand for something substantial and effective. Revolutions often begin with apparent but unreal reforms. He called “provincial diets,” assemblies of local representative bodies, with the expectation that they would modestly content themselves with the narrow functions he prescribed for them. But they petitioned vehemently for a great deal more. The experiment of appearing to give and of really withholding everything was bound to fail miserably. The petitions of the provincial diets for freedom of the press, for trial by jury, and a liberal constitution, became more and more pressing. The discontent gradually grew so general, the storm of petitions so violent, the repugnance of the people to the police-despotism so menacing, that the old parade of the absolute kingly power would no longer suffice, and some new step in the direction of liberal innovations seemed imperatively necessary.
At last Frederick William IV. decided to convoke the so-called “United Diet,” an assembly consisting of the members of all the provincial diets, to meet on April 11, 1847, in Berlin. But it was the old game over again. This assembly was to have the look of a parliament and yet not to be one. Its convocation was always to depend upon the pleasure of the king. Its powers were circumscribed within the narrowest limits. It was not to make laws nor to pass binding resolutions. It was to serve only as a sort of privy council to the king, to ​assist him in forming his decisions, its wishes to be presented to him only by way of petition. In the speech with which the king opened the United Diet, he declared with emphasis that this was now the utmost concession to which he would ever consent; he would never, never permit a piece of paper, meaning a written constitution, to be put between the prince and his people; the people themselves, he claimed, did not desire a participation of their representatives in the government; the absolute power of the king must not be broken; “the crown must reign and govern according to the laws of God and of the country and according to the king's own resolutions”; he could not, and must not, “govern according to the will of majorities”; and he, the king, “would never have called this assembly had he ever suspected in the slightest degree that its members would try to play the part of so-called representatives of the people.” This was now, he said, the fulfillment, and “more than the fulfillment,” of the promises made in the time of distress in 1813, before the expulsion of the French.
General disappointment and increasing discontent followed this pronouncement. But the concession made by the king in fact signified more than he had anticipated. A king who wishes to govern with absolute power must not permit a public discussion of the policy and of the acts of the government by men who stand nearer to the people than he does. The United Diet could indeed not resolve, but only debate and petition. But that it could debate, and that its debates passed through faithful newspaper reports into the intelligence of the country—that was an innovation of incalculable consequence.
The bearing of the United Diet, on the benches of which sat many men of uncommon capacity and liberal principles, was throughout dignified, discreet and moderate. But the ​struggle against absolutism began instantly, and the people followed it with constantly increasing interest. What has happened in the history of the world more than once happened again. Every step forward brought to the consciousness of the people the necessity of further steps forward. And now, when the king endeavored to stem the growing commotion, repelled the moderate demands made by the United Diet with sharp words, and dismissed that assembly “ungraciously,” then the public mind was, by the government itself, dragged into that channel of thought in which revolutionary sentiments grow.
There had indeed long been some revolutionary agitators who, in their isolation, had passed for dreamers and could win but a slim following. But now the feeling began to spread in large circles that the real thunder-storm was coming, although hardly anybody anticipated how soon it would come. In former days people had excited themselves about what Thiers and Guizot had said in the French chambers, or Palmerston and Derby in the English parliament, or even what Hecker, Rotteck and Welker had said in the little Diet of the grand duchy of Baden. But now everybody listened with nervous eagerness to every word that in the United Diet of the most important of German states had fallen from the lips of Camphausen, Vincke, Beckerath, Hansemann and other liberal leaders. There was a feeling in the air as if this United Diet, in its position and the task to be performed by it, was not at all unlike the French assembly of the year 1789.
We university students watched these events with perhaps a less clear understanding, but with no less ardent interest, than our elders. As I have already mentioned, the “Burschenschaft” had its political traditions. Immediately after the wars of liberation—1813 to 1815—it had been among the first ​in line to raise the cry for the fulfillment of the pledges given by the princes. It had cultivated the national spirit with zeal, although sometimes with exaggerated demonstrations. It had furnished many victims in the persecutions of so-called demagogues. The political activity of the old Burschenschaft had indeed not been continued by the younger associations; but “God, Liberty, Fatherland,” had still remained the common watchword; we still wore the prohibited black-red-golden ribbon under our coats, and very many members of the new Burschenschaft societies still recognized it as their duty to keep themselves well informed of what happened in the political world and to devote to it as active an interest as possible. Thus the liberal currents of our time found among us enthusiastic partisans, although we young people could not give a very definite account of the practical steps to be taken.
In the prosecution of my studies I had taken up with ardor the history of Europe at the period of the great Reformation. I expected to make this my specialty as a professor of history. The great characters of that period strongly attracted me and I could not resist the temptation to clothe some of them in dramatic form. So I planned a tragedy, the main figure of which was to be Ulrich von Hutten, and I began to elaborate some scenes in detail. At the beginning of the winter semester of 1847-48 I had made the acquaintance of a young student from Detmold, who became not indeed a member, but a guest of the Franconia. His name was Friedrich Althaus. More than any young man of my acquaintance he responded to the ideal of German youth. His was a thoroughly pure and noble nature and richly endowed with mental gifts. As we pursued similar studies we easily became intimates, and this friendship lasted with undiminished warmth long beyond the university years. To him I confided my Hutten secret, and he ​encouraged me to carry out my plan. Happy were the hours when I read to him what I had written and he gave me his judgment, which usually was altogether too favorable. Thus passed the larger part of the winter in useful and enjoyable occupations. Then fate broke in with the force of a mighty hurricane, which swept me, as well as many others, with irresistible power out of all life-plans previously designed and cherished.