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In the great battle which finally broke the power of Napoleon, William Havelock had been acting as aide-de-camp to baron von Alten, who had succeeded to the command of general Craufurd's division. We are told that William 'had done the baron a service' during the engagement, and that the general was anxious to prove his gratitude.
I have to thank fate, however, that a fine epigram of A.B. Schlegel, which has since been my guiding star, came before my notice as a youth: "Leset fleizig die Alten, die wahren eigentlich Alten Was die Neuen davon sagen bedeutet nicht viel." Oh, how like one commonplace mind is to another! How they are all fashioned in one form!
He wrote these forty-four songs in the same ecstasy of gladness: "What I write now, I write for the future.... Since Schubert and Schumann there has been nothing like it!" In 1890, two months after he had finished the Spanisches-Liederbuch, he composed another cycle of Lieder on poems called Alten Weisen, by the great Swiss writer Gottfried Keller.
I also suggested to the navigator that he should take the Captain a little brandy in case he was not feeling well, but the navigator declared he was going to stay down in the warmth till he was sent for. Alten is a great coarse brute. Fancy allowing a material substance such as alcohol to grip one's mentality. Thank Heaven I have nerves of iron; nothing would affect me!
This theory Creuzer has developed in his most important work, entitled "Symbolik und Mythologie der alten Völker, besonders der Greichen," which was published at Leipsic in 1819.
Far different was the scene at the front. There the third act of the drama was beginning. After half an hour of the heaviest cannonade ever known, Wellington's faithful troops were threatened by an avalanche of cavalry, and promptly fell into the "chequer" disposition previously arranged for the most exposed division, that of Alten.
If, on the French side, in that tussle of the cuirassiers, Delort, l'Heritier, Colbert, Dnop, Travers, and Blancard were disabled, on the side of the English there was Alten wounded, Barne wounded, Delancey killed, Van Meeren killed, Ompteda killed, the whole of Wellington's staff decimated, and England had the worse of it in that bloody scale.
If it were of any value in itself, something unconditioned, its end would not be non-existence. This is the dominant note of Goethe's beautiful song: "Hoch auf dem alten Thurme steht Des Helden edler Geist." That man is nothing but a phenomenon, that he is not-the-thing-in-itself I mean that he is not ὄντως ὄν is proved by the fact that death is a necessity.
Let a Norwegian travel in the Southern States, and dare to say a word in objection to slavery! There is nothing of interest between Alten and Hammerfest, except the old sea-margins on the cliffs and a small glacier on the island of Seiland. The coast is dismally bleak and barren. Whales were very abundant; we sometimes saw a dozen spouting at one time.
Schumann and Kierulf were his favorites, so he performed "Du bist die Ruh," "My loved one, I am prison'd" "Ich grolle nicht," "Die alten bösen Lieder," "I lay my all, love, at thy feet," "Aus meiren grossen Schmerzen mach' ich die kleinen Lieder" all with the same calm superiority, and that light, half-sportive accompaniment.
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