n
the literature of his country which culminated in Goethe. As so often
happens in mental development, the reaction against prevailing
conditions and the advance to higher ones, in the middle of the
eighteenth century, led first of all to the opposite extreme--balance
was only reached by degrees. What chiefly made Klopstock a literary
reformer was the glowing enthusiasm and powerful imagination which
compelled the stiff poetic forms, clumsy as they were, to new rhythm
and melodious cadence. And although his style degenerated into
mannerism in the _Messias_, for the youthful impetus which had
carried his Pegasus over the clouds to the stars could not keep it
there without artificial aid, the immense value of his influence
remained. He is one of the most interesting representatives, not only
of his own, but of all similar periods of exaggerated feelings and
ideals. Despite his loftiness of thought and speech, and his seraphic
raptures, he was not without a full share of sensuous development,
and women's eyes, or a girl's rosy lips, would draw him away from the
finest view in the world.

A mind so intent upon the noble and beautiful was sure to be
enthusiastic about Nature; his correspondence is the best witness to
this, and at the same time throws side-lights upon the period.

It is difficult to-day to understand the influence which the
_Messias_ had upon its readers; even Friedenkende spent happy hours
reading it with pious tears of delight, and young and old were of the
same opinion.

There is a pretty letter from Gustchen Stolberg[10] to Klopstock,
which runs thus:

UETERSEN,
25 _April_ 1776.

In the garden. Yes, in the garden, dearest Klopstock! I have just
been walking about, it was so beautiful: the little birds were
singing, violets and other flowers wafted their fragrance to me,
and I began thinking very warmly of all whom I dearly, dearly
love, and so very soon came to my dear Klopstock, who certainly
has no truer friend than I am, though perhaps others express it
better ... Thanks, thanks, for your very delightful little
letter--how dear to me I don't tell you--can't tell you.

C. F. Cramer was his enthusiastic panegyrist. It is not only what he
says of the private life and special taste of his adored friend which
is noteworthy, but the way in which he does it--the tone in which, as
a cultivated man of the day, he judged him. 'He will paint and paint
Nature. For