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He who wishes to test himself rigorously as to how he is related to the true æsthetic hearer, or whether he belongs rather to the community of the Socrato-critical man, has only to enquire sincerely concerning the sentiment with which he accepts the wonder represented on the stage: whether he feels his historical sense, which insists on strict psychological causality, insulted by it, whether with benevolent concession he as it were admits the wonder as a phenomenon intelligible to childhood, but relinquished by him, or whether he experiences anything else thereby. For he will thus be enabled to determine how far he is on the whole capable of understanding myth, that is to say, the concentrated picture of the world, which, as abbreviature of phenomena, cannot dispense with wonder. It is probable, however, that nearly every one, upon close examination, feels so disintegrated by the critico-historical spirit of our culture, that he can only perhaps make the former existence of myth credible to himself by learned means through intermediary abstractions. Without myth, however, every culture loses its healthy, creative natural power: it is only a horizon encompassed with myths which rounds off to unity a social movement. It is only by myth that all the powers of the imagination and of the Apollonian dream are freed from their random rovings. The mythical figures have to be the invisibly omnipresent genii, under the care of which the young soul grows to maturity, by the signs of which the man gives a meaning to his life and struggles: and the state itself knows no more powerful unwritten law than the mythical foundation which vouches for its connection with religion and its growth from mythical ideas.

Anyone who wants to test rigorously whether he is a true aesthetic listener or belongs instead to the Socratic-critical community need only ask himself one honest question. How does he respond to the wonder presented on stage? Does it offend his historical sense, which insists on strict psychological causality? Does he indulgently accept wonder as something a child can understand, but that he himself has outgrown? Or does he experience something else? His answer will show how far he is capable of understanding myth, the concentrated picture of the world. Myth condenses phenomena and cannot do without wonder. Yet on close examination, nearly everyone will probably find himself so fragmented by the critical and historical spirit of our culture that he can perhaps believe in the former existence of myth only through scholarly methods and abstract reasoning. Without myth, however, every culture loses its healthy, natural creative power. Only a horizon surrounded by myths can bring a social movement into a unified whole. Only myth frees all the powers of imagination and Apollonian dreaming from their aimless wandering. Mythical figures must be invisible guardian spirits, present everywhere, under whose care the young soul grows to maturity. By their signs, a person gives meaning to his life and struggles. And the state itself knows no more powerful unwritten law than the mythical foundation that guarantees its connection with religion and its growth from mythical ideas.

Let us now place alongside thereof the abstract man proceeding independently of myth, the abstract education, the abstract usage, the abstract right, the abstract state: let us picture to ourselves the lawless roving of the artistic imagination, not bridled by any native myth: let us imagine a culture which has no fixed and sacred primitive seat, but is doomed to exhaust all its possibilities, and has to nourish itself wretchedly from the other cultures—such is the Present, as the result of Socratism, which is bent on the destruction of myth. And now the myth-less man remains eternally hungering among all the bygones, and digs and grubs for roots, though he have to dig for them even among the remotest antiquities. The stupendous historical exigency of the unsatisfied modern culture, the gathering around one of countless other cultures, the consuming desire for knowledge—what does all this point to, if not to the loss of myth, the loss of the mythical home, the mythical source? Let us ask ourselves whether the feverish and so uncanny stirring of this culture is aught but the eager seizing and snatching at food of the hungerer—and who would care to contribute anything more to a culture which cannot be appeased by all it devours, and in contact with which the most vigorous and wholesome nourishment is wont to change into "history and criticism"?

Now let us set beside it the abstract man, living independently of myth. Let us also set beside it abstract education, abstract custom, abstract law, and the abstract state. Picture the artistic imagination roaming without restraint, unchecked by any native myth. Imagine a culture with no fixed and sacred original home. It is doomed to exhaust all its possibilities and must draw its meager nourishment from other cultures. Such is the Present, the result of Socratism, which is bent on destroying myth. Now the man without myth remains forever hungry among the remains of the past. He digs and scrabbles for roots, even if he must search among the most remote antiquities. What does all this point to, if not the loss of myth, the mythical home, and the mythical source? Consider modern culture’s immense and insatiable need for history, its gathering of countless other cultures around itself, and its consuming desire for knowledge. Is the feverish, uncanny activity of this culture anything more than a hungry person eagerly grabbing and snatching at food? And who would want to contribute anything more to such a culture? It cannot be satisfied by all it devours. Whatever comes into contact with it, even the most vigorous and wholesome nourishment, tends to turn into "history and criticism".

We should also have to regard our German character with despair and sorrow, if it had already become inextricably entangled in, or even identical with this culture, in a similar manner as we can observe it to our horror to be the case in civilised France; and that which for a long time was the great advantage of France and the cause of her vast preponderance, to wit, this very identity of people and culture, might compel us at the sight thereof to congratulate ourselves that this culture of ours, which is so questionable, has hitherto had nothing in common with the noble kernel of the character of our people. All our hopes, on the contrary, stretch out longingly towards the perception that beneath this restlessly palpitating civilised life and educational convulsion there is concealed a glorious, intrinsically healthy, primeval power, which, to be sure, stirs vigorously only at intervals in stupendous moments, and then dreams on again in view of a future awakening. It is from this abyss that the German Reformation came forth: in the choral-hymn of which the future melody of German music first resounded. So deep, courageous, and soul-breathing, so exuberantly good and tender did this chorale of Luther sound,—as the first Dionysian-luring call which breaks forth from dense thickets at the approach of spring. To it responded with emulative echo the solemnly wanton procession of Dionysian revellers, to whom we are indebted for German music—and to whom we shall be indebted for the re-birth of German myth.

We would also have to regard our German character with despair and sorrow if it had become inseparably entangled with this culture, or even identical with it. To our horror, we can see that this has happened in civilized France. For a long time, this very identity of people and culture was France's great advantage and the cause of her vast predominance. Yet the sight of it might lead us to congratulate ourselves. For our own culture is so questionable, and it has so far had nothing in common with the noble core of our people's character. Instead, all our hopes reach longingly toward the realization that a glorious, inherently healthy, primeval power lies hidden beneath this restless, throbbing civilized life and its convulsions of education. To be sure, this power stirs vigorously only at intervals, in tremendous moments. Then it dreams on again, awaiting a future awakening. The German Reformation emerged from this abyss. In its choral hymn, the future melody of German music first rang out. Luther's chorale sounded so deep, courageous, and full of soul, so exuberantly good and tender. It was the first call luring Dionysus, breaking from the dense thickets as spring approaches. The solemnly wanton procession of Dionysian revelers answered with a competing echo. We owe German music to these revelers, and we shall owe them the rebirth of German myth.

I know that I must now lead the sympathising and attentive friend to an elevated position of lonesome contemplation, where he will have but few companions, and I call out encouragingly to him that we must hold fast to our shining guides, the Greeks. For the rectification of our æsthetic knowledge we previously borrowed from them the two divine figures, each of which sways a separate realm of art, and concerning whose mutual contact and exaltation we have acquired a notion through Greek tragedy. Through a remarkable disruption of both these primitive artistic impulses, the ruin of Greek tragedy seemed to be necessarily brought about: with which process a degeneration and a transmutation of the Greek national character was strictly in keeping, summoning us to earnest reflection as to how closely and necessarily art and the people, myth and custom, tragedy and the state, have coalesced in their bases. The ruin of tragedy was at the same time the ruin of myth. Until then the Greeks had been involuntarily compelled immediately to associate all experiences with their myths, indeed they had to comprehend them only through this association: whereby even the most immediate present necessarily appeared to them sub specie æterni and in a certain sense as timeless. Into this current of the timeless, however, the state as well as art plunged in order to find repose from the burden and eagerness of the moment. And a people—for the rest, also a man—is worth just as much only as its ability to impress on its experiences the seal of eternity: for it is thus, as it were, desecularised, and reveals its unconscious inner conviction of the relativity of time and of the true, that is, the metaphysical significance of life. The contrary happens when a people begins to comprehend itself historically and to demolish the mythical bulwarks around it: with which there is usually connected a marked secularisation, a breach with the unconscious metaphysics of its earlier existence, in all ethical consequences. Greek art and especially Greek tragedy delayed above all the annihilation of myth: it was necessary to annihilate these also to be able to live detached from the native soil, unbridled in the wilderness of thought, custom, and action. Even in such circumstances this metaphysical impulse still endeavours to create for itself a form of apotheosis (weakened, no doubt) in the Socratism of science urging to life: but on its lower stage this same impulse led only to a feverish search, which gradually merged into a pandemonium of myths and superstitions accumulated from all quarters: in the midst of which, nevertheless, the Hellene sat with a yearning heart till he contrived, as Græculus, to mask his fever with Greek cheerfulness and Greek levity, or to narcotise himself completely with some gloomy Oriental superstition.

I know that I must now lead my sympathetic and attentive friend to a high place of solitary contemplation. There he will have few companions. But I call out to encourage him: we must hold fast to our shining guides, the Greeks. To correct our understanding of art, we borrowed from them the two divine figures who each rule a separate realm of art. Through Greek tragedy, we gained some idea of how these figures meet and elevate each other. A remarkable rupture between these two basic artistic impulses seemed bound to bring about the ruin of Greek tragedy. A decline and transformation of the Greek national character went hand in hand with this process. This should make us think seriously about how closely and necessarily art and the people, myth and custom, tragedy and the state are joined at their foundations. The ruin of tragedy was also the ruin of myth. Until then, the Greeks had been compelled, without intending it, to connect every experience directly with their myths. Indeed, they could understand their experiences only through this connection. As a result, even the immediate present necessarily appeared to them sub specie æterni, or from the perspective of eternity, and thus, in a sense, as timeless. Both the state and art plunged into this current of the timeless. There they found relief from the burden and urgency of the moment. A people, like an individual, is worth only as much as its ability to stamp its experiences with eternity. In this way, it is freed, as it were, from the merely worldly. It reveals its unconscious inner conviction that time is relative and that life has a true, metaphysical significance. The opposite happens when a people begins to understand itself historically and tear down the mythical defenses around it. This is usually accompanied by a marked turn toward the worldly. It also brings a break with the unconscious metaphysics of its earlier life, along with all the ethical consequences of that break. Greek art, and especially Greek tragedy, did more than anything else to delay the destruction of myth. They too had to be destroyed before the Greeks could live detached from their native soil, unrestrained in the wilderness of thought, custom, and action. Even then, this metaphysical impulse still tries to glorify itself in the Socratism of science that urges people to live. This form of glorification is weakened, no doubt. But at a lower level, the same impulse led only to a feverish search. This gradually became a chaos of myths and superstitions gathered from every quarter. Amid them, the Hellene still sat with a yearning heart. At last, as Græculus, he managed to mask his fever with Greek cheerfulness and Greek levity, or to numb himself completely with some gloomy Oriental superstition.

We have approached this condition in the most striking manner since the reawakening of the Alexandro—Roman antiquity in the fifteenth century, after a long, not easily describable, interlude. On the heights there is the same exuberant love of knowledge, the same insatiate happiness of the discoverer, the same stupendous secularisation, and, together with these, a homeless roving about, an eager intrusion at foreign tables, a frivolous deification of the present or a dull senseless estrangement, all sub speci sæculi, of the present time: which same symptoms lead one to infer the same defect at the heart of this culture, the annihilation of myth. It seems hardly possible to transplant a foreign myth with permanent success, without dreadfully injuring the tree through this transplantation: which is perhaps occasionally strong enough and sound enough to eliminate the foreign element after a terrible struggle; but must ordinarily consume itself in a languishing and stunted condition or in sickly luxuriance. Our opinion of the pure and vigorous kernel of the German being is such that we venture to expect of it, and only of it, this elimination of forcibly ingrafted foreign elements, and we deem it possible that the German spirit will reflect anew on itself. Perhaps many a one will be of opinion that this spirit must begin its struggle with the elimination of the Romanic element: for which it might recognise an external preparation and encouragement in the victorious bravery and bloody glory of the late war, but must seek the inner constraint in the emulative zeal to be for ever worthy of the sublime protagonists on this path, of Luther as well as our great artists and poets. But let him never think he can fight such battles without his household gods, without his mythical home, without a "restoration" of all German things I And if the German should look timidly around for a guide to lead him back to his long-lost home, the ways and paths of which he knows no longer—let him but listen to the delightfully luring call of the Dionysian bird, which hovers above him, and would fain point out to him the way thither.

We have come remarkably close to this condition since the revival of Alexandrian and Roman antiquity in the fifteenth century. That revival followed a long interval that is not easy to describe. At the highest levels, we find the same exuberant love of knowledge and the same insatiable joy in discovery. We find the same immense secularization. Alongside these comes a homeless wandering, an eager intrusion at foreign tables, and a frivolous worship of the present. Or there is a dull, senseless estrangement, all sub speci sæculi, in the perspective of the present time. These same symptoms suggest the same defect at the heart of this culture: the destruction of myth. It seems hardly possible to transplant a foreign myth with lasting success without terribly damaging the tree. The tree may sometimes be strong and healthy enough to expel the foreign element after a terrible struggle. But ordinarily it must waste away, either languishing and stunted or growing in sickly abundance. We believe that the core of the German being is pure and vigorous. So we dare to expect it, and it alone, to expel forcibly grafted foreign elements. We think it possible that the German spirit will once again reflect on itself. Perhaps many will think that this spirit must begin its struggle by casting out the Romanic element. It might find outward preparation and encouragement in the victorious bravery and bloody glory of the recent war. But it must seek its inner drive in the desire to remain forever worthy of the great leaders on this path. These are Luther and our great artists and poets. But let no one think he can fight such battles without his household gods, without his mythical home, without a "restoration" of all German things! Suppose the German looks timidly around for a guide to lead him back to his long-lost home. He no longer knows the ways and paths that lead there. Let him only listen to the delightfully enticing call of the Dionysian bird. It hovers above him and would gladly point out the way.