Mendelssohn: Overture of the Hebrides
GA 127
3 March 1911, Berlin
Translator Unknown
This address was given following a Concert at the Berlin Group of the Anthroposophical Society, at which Mendelssohn's Overture of the Hebrides had been played).
Through the tones and harmonies of this Overture we have been led in spirit to the shores of Scotland, and in our souls, we have thus followed again a path of travel which, during the course of human evolution, has been deeply influenced by the secrets of karma. For, from entirely different parts of the western hemisphere of our earth, as if through a karmic current of migration, various peoples were once transplanted into that region, and its vicinity, to which these tones now lead us. And many strange destinies are made known to us. We are told, both by what Occultism relates as well as by outer historical documents, of what these peoples experienced in very ancient times on this particular part of the earth.
A memory of the mysterious destinies of these peoples arose again, as if newly awakened, when about 1772 the cave on the Island of Staffa belonging to the Hebrides, known as Fingal's Cave, was rediscovered. Those who beheld it were reminded of mysterious ancient destinies when they saw how Nature herself seemed to have constructed something which may be likened to a wonderful cathedral. It is constructed with great symmetry in long aisles of countless pillars towering aloft: above there arches a ceiling of the same stonework, while below the bases of the pillars are washed by the inrushing foaming waves of the sea which ceaselessly beat and resound with a music which is like thunder within this mighty temple. Dropping water drips steadily from strange stone formations upon the stalactites beneath, making melodious magical music.
A spectacle of this kind actually exists there. And those who, upon discovering it, had a sense for the mysterious things which once took place in this region, must have been reminded of the hero who once upon a time, as one of the most famous individualities of the West, guided destiny here in such a strange way, and whose fame was sung by his son, the blind Ossian, who is like a western Homer—a blind singer.
If we look back and see how deeply people were impressed by what they heard about this place, we shall be able to understand how it was that Macpherson's revival of this ancient song in the 18th Century made such a mighty impression upon Europe. There is nothing which may be compared with the impression made by this poem. Goethe, Herder, Napoleon harkened to it—and all believed to discern in its rhythms and sounds something of the magic of primeval days. Here we must understand that a spiritual world such as still existed at that time, arose within their hearts, and felt itself drawn to what sounded forth out of this song! And what was it that thus sounded forth?
We must now turn our gaze to those times which fall together with the first impulses of Christianity and the few centuries which followed. What happened up there in the vicinity of the Hebrides, in Ireland and Scotland—in ancient Erin, which included all the neighboring islands between Ireland and Scotland, as well as the northern part of Scotland itself. Here we must seek for the kernel of those peoples, of Celtic origin, who had most of all preserved the ancient Atlantian clairvoyance in its full purity. The others who had wandered farther to the East had developed further, and so no longer remained in connection with the ancient gods. The western peoples, however, had preserved for themselves the possibility of experiencing an ancient clairvoyance now entirely immersed in the personality, in the individuality. And they were led to this particular part of the earth, as if for a special mission, where a structure confronted them which mirrored their own music's inner depths and was itself architecturally formed entirely out of the spiritual world, a structure which I have just tried to characterize with a few words—Fingal's Cave. We shall imagine these events rightly if we realize that the cave acted as a focus point, mirroring what lived in the souls of these human beings who, through their karma, were sent hither as to a temple erected by the gods themselves. Here those human beings were prepared who should later receive the Christ Impulse with their full human being and were here to undergo something extremely strange by way of preparation.
Again we shall be able to imagine all this if we realize that here particularly those ancient folk customs were preserved whereby the tribe was divided into smaller groups based upon family. Those who were related by blood felt themselves closely connected, while all others were looked upon as strangers, as belong[ing] to another Group Ego. During the migrations from Atlantis toward the East, all that the Druid priests, who remained behind here in the West, were able to give to the people poured itself out over these individual groups as a harmonizing influence. And what they were able to give still lived on in the bards. We shall only rightly understand what worked through these bards, however, if we make clear to ourselves that here the most elemental passions met together with the ancient powers of sight into the spiritual world, and that those who, with powerful life forces, sometimes with rage and passion, fought as representatives of their clan against other clans, perceived at the same time impulses working out of the spiritual world which directed them in battle.
Such an active connection between the physical and the soul realms cannot be conceived of today. When a hero raised his sword he believed that a spirit out of the air guided it, and in the spirit he beheld an ancestor who had fought upon this same battlefield in former times and who had gone up yonder to help now from over there. In their battle ranks they felt their ancestors actively aiding them, their ancestors on both sides—and they did not only feel them ... they heard them clairaudiently! It was a wonderful conception which lived in these peoples, that the heroes had to fight upon the battlefields and to shed their blood, but that after death they ascended into the spiritual world, and that their spirits then vibrated as tone—sounding through the air as a spiritual reality.
Those who had proven themselves in battle, but had trained themselves at the same time so that they could listen to what sounded out of the winds as the voice of the past, who were blind for the physical world, who could no longer see the flashing of the swords but were blind for the physical plane—these were highly honoured! And one of these was Ossian. When the heroes swung their swords, they were conscious that their deeds would resound further into the spiritual world and that bards would appear who would preserve all this in their songs. This was perceived in living reality by these peoples.
But all this creates an altogether different conception of humanity. It creates the conception that the human being is united with spiritual powers which sound forth out of the whole of Nature. For he cannot look upon a storm or a flash of lightning, he cannot hear the thunder or the surging of the sea without sensing that out of all the activities of Nature spirits work who are connected with the souls of the past, with the souls of his own ancestors. Thus the activity of Nature was at that time something altogether different than for us today. And it is for this reason that the rhythms and sounds of this song are so important, which, after being handed down for centuries through tradition only, were revived by the Scotsman Macpherson so that they create for us again a consciousness of the connection of the human being with the souls of his ancestors and with the phenomena of Nature.
We can understand how this Scotsman had in a certain sense a congenial feeling when he described how a line of battle stormed into the field, sweeping darkness before it, even as did the spirits who took part in the battle. This song is in reality something which was able to make a great impression upon spiritual Europe. The whole character of the description, even though given in a rather free poetical form, awakes in us a feeling for the kind of perception which lived in these ancient peoples. There was active in them a living knowledge, a living wisdom, concerning their connection with the spiritual world and the world of Nature in which the spiritual world works.
Out of such wisdom the finest sons from the different tribes—that is, those who had the strongest connection with the spirits of the past, who more than others allowed these spirits of the past to live in their deeds—were chosen as a picked band. And those who had the strongest clairvoyant forces were placed at its head. This band had to defend the kernel of the Celtic peoples against the peoples of the surrounding world. And one of these leaders was the clairvoyant hero, who has come down to us under the name of Fingal. How Fingal was active in the defense of the ancient gods against those who wished to endanger them—all this was handed down in ancient songs, heard out of the spiritual world—the ancient songs of the bard Ossian, Fingal's son, so that it remained alive even into the 16th and 17th Centuries. What Fingal achieved, what his son Ossian heard when Fingal had ascended into the spiritual realm, what their descendants heard in the rhythms and sounds of Ossian's songs with which they ever and again ensouled their deeds, this it was which worked on so mightily even into the 18th Century. And we shall win a conception of this if we realize how Ossian allowed the voice of his father, Fingal, to sound forth in his songs.
We are told how the heroes find themselves in a difficult position. They are almost overthrown ... when new life fills the band: “The king stood by the stone of Lubar. Thrice he reared his terrible voice. The deer started from the fountains of Cromia. The rocks shook on all their hills. Like the noise of a hundred mountain streams, that burst, and roar, and foam! Like the clouds, that gather to a tempest on the blue face of the sky! So met the sons of the desert round the terrible voice of Fingal. Pleasant was the voice of the king of Morven to the warriors of his land. Often had he led them to battle; often returned with the spoils of the foe.”
“‘Come to battle,’ said the king, ‘ye children of echoing Selma! Come to the death of thousands. Comhal's son will see the fight. My sword shall wave on the hill, the defense of my people in war. But never may you need it, warriors; while the son of Morni fights, the chief of mighty men! He shall lead my battle, that his fame may rise in song! O ye ghosts of heroes dead! Ye riders of the storm of Cromia! Receive my falling people with joy, and bear them to your hills. And may the blast of Lena carry them over my seas, that they may come to my silent dreams, and delight my soul in rest’ ...”
“Now like a dark and stormy cloud, edges round with the red lightning of heaven, flying westward from the morning's beam, the king of Selma removed. Terrible is the light of his armor; two spears are in his hand. His gray hair falls on the wind. He often looks back on the war. Three bards attend the son of fame, to bear his words to the chiefs. High on Cromia's side he sat, waving the lightning of his sword, and as he waved we moved ...”
“Fingal at once arose in arms. Thrice he reared his dreadful voice. Cromia answered around. The sons of the desert stood still. They bent their blushing faces to earth, ashamed at the presence of the king. He came like a cloud of rain in the day of the sun, when slow it rolls on the hill, and fields expect the shower. Silence attends its slow progress aloft: but the tempest is soon to arise. Swaran beheld the terrible kings of Morven. He stopped in the midst of his course. Dark he leaned on his spear, rolling his red eyes around. Silent and tall he seemed, as an oak on the banks of Lubar, which had its branches blasted of old by the lightning of heaven. It bends over the stream: the grey moss whistles in the wind: so stood the king. Then slowly he retired to the rising heath of Lena. His thousands pour around the hero. Darkness gathers on the hill!”
“Fingal, like a beam from heaven, shone in the midst of his people. His heroes gather around him. He sends forth the voice of his power: ‘Raise my standards on high, spread them on Lena's wind, like the flames of an hundred hills! Let them sound on the winds of Erin, and remind us of the fight. Ye sons of the roaring streams, that pour from a thousand hills, be near the king of Morven! Attend to the words of his power! Gaul, strongest arm of death! O! Oscar of the future fights! Connal, son of the blue shields of Sora! Dermid, of the dark brown hair! Ossian, king of many songs!—Be near your father's arm!’ We reared the sunbeam of battle; the standard of the king! Each hero exulted with joy, as, waving, it flew in the wind. It was studded with gold above, as the blue wide shell of the nightly sky. Each hero had his standard, too, and each his gloomy mien!”
Thus Fingal stormed into battle, thus he is described by his son Ossian.
No wonder that this life, this consciousness of a connection with the spiritual world which sank deep into these peoples, into the souls of the ancient Celts, is the best preparation whereby they could spread the personal divine element throughout the West in their own way and from their own soil. For what they had experienced in the form of passion and desire, what they had heard sounding forth in the melodies of the spiritual world, prepared them for a later time when they brought into the world sons who revealed these passions in their souls in a purified and milder form. And thus we may say—it seems to us as if Erin's finest sons were to hear again the voices of their ancient bards singing of what they once heard out of the spiritual world as the deeds of their forefathers, but as if in Erin's finest sons the ancient battle cries had now been formed and clarified, and had become words which could express the greatest impulse of mankind.
All this sounded forth out of olden times in the songs about the deeds of the ancient Celts who fought out many things in mighty battles in order to prepare themselves for further deeds of spiritual life in later times, as we recognize them again today in that which the finest sons of the West have achieved. These were the impulses which flowed into the souls of human beings in the 18th Century, when these ancient songs were revived. And it is this which was remembered by those who saw again the wonderful cathedral, built as if by Nature herself, and which caused them to say to themselves—“Here is a site, a gathering place, given to man by karma, in order that what the bards were able to sing about the deeds of their ancestors, about all that the heroes did to steel their forces, might sound back to them as in an echo out of this temple which they themselves did not have to build—out of their holy temple which was built for them by the spirits of Nature and which could be an instrument of enthusiasm for all who beheld it.”
So the tones and harmonies of this Overture which we have just heard offer an opportunity which allows us to sense, in our own way at least, something of the deep and mysterious events which do indeed reign in the history of mankind, events which occurred long before our present era on almost the same soil upon which they now continue to live. As we must deepen ourselves in all that lives within us, and as all that lives within us is only a further resounding of what was there in the past, so this feeling, this sense, for what once was and now works further in mankind is of great significance for occult life.
Ossian Und Die Fingalshöhle
Ansprache nach einer Aufführung der «Hebriden-Ouvertüre» von Mendelssohn
Wir sind eben durch die Klänge dieser Ouvertüre geistig an Schottlands Küste herangeführt worden und haben damit in der Seele einen Zug vollzogen, einen Weg betreten, der im Laufe der Entwickelung der Menschheit von den Geheimnissen des Karma stark berührt wurde. Denn aus ganz anderen Gebieten unserer westlichen Erde wurden einstmals in die Nähe jener Gegenden, zu denen diese Töne uns hingeleitet haben, und in diese Gegenden selber, gewissermaßen wie durch einen karmischen Zug, Völker verpflanzt. Und geheimnisvolle Schicksale werden uns gemeldet. Gemeldet wird uns — sowohl durch das, was der Okkultismus enthüllt, wie auch durch äußere Dokumente der Geschichte - von dem, was diese Völker in weit zurückliegender Vorzeit auf diesem Boden erlebt haben.
Eine Erinnerung an die geheimnisvollen Schicksale jener Menschen wurde, wie in neuer Erweckung, gleichsam wieder wach, als man um 1772 herum ansichtig wurde jener Höhle auf der Insel Staffa, die zu den Hebriden gehört: der Fingalshöhle. Erinnert wurde man an geheimnisvolle Schicksale der Vorzeit, als man sah, wie die Natur selber auferbaut zu haben scheint etwas, was geschildert wird wie ein wunderbarer Dom. In langen Reihen, aufgerichtet mit großer Regelmäßigkeit, hochaufragende, unzählige Säulen, darüber gewölbt aus demselben Steinwerk eine Decke, unten die Füße der Säulen umspült von dem hineinströmenden, brandenden Meere, das in donnerartiger Musik fortwährend innerhalb dieses Domes wogt und wallt. Von Steingebilden herabtropfend Wasser, das fortwährend auf die Tropfsteinstümpfe in melodischer, zauberischer Musik aufschlägt. So etwas ist dort vorhanden. Und es mußten jene, die — das auffindend - Sinn hatten für das Geheimnisvolle, das sich auf dem Boden dort einst abgespielt hat, erinnert werden an den Helden, der einstmals als eine der berühmten Individualitäten des Westens hier in ganz eindeutiger Weise Schicksale gelenkt hat, und dessen Taten besungen wurden von seinem Sohne, dem blinden Ossian, der wie ein westlicher Homer erscheint: ein blinder Sänger.
Wenn wir zurückblicken auf den Eindruck, den die Kunde hievon auf die Menschen machte, können wir verstehen, daß die Wiederbelebung dieser Gesänge durch Macpherson im 18. Jahrhundert einen mächtigen Eindruck auf Europa machte. Nichts läßt sich mit diesem Eindruck vergleichen. Es horchten auf: Goethe, Herder, Napoleon, und alle glaubten, in diesen Klängen etwas zu vernehmen von dem Zauber uralter Tage. Man muß verstehen, daß eine in den Herzen aufsteigende Geisteswelt, wie sie damals noch vorhanden war, sich hingezogen fühlen konnte zu dem, was da herausklang! Was war es denn?
Wir müssen einen Blick werfen auf die Zeiten, die zusammenfallen mit den ersten Impulsen des Christentums und dem ersten Jahrhunderte nachher. Was geschah da oben in den Hebriden herum, in Irland, Schottland, im alten Erin, das alle die benachbarten Inseln zwischen Irland und Schottland und die nördlichen Teile Schottlands umfaßte? Da haben wir den Kern jener Völker keltischer Abstammung zu suchen, die am meisten altes atlantisches Hellsehen in voller Ursprünglichkeit bewahrt hatten. Die anderen, die nach Osten gewandert waren, hatten sich weiter entwickelt, waren nicht mehr in dem Zusammenhang mit den alten Göttern. Ganz in Persönlichkeit, in Individualität getaucht, haben sich die Möglichkeit des alten Sehertums jene Menschen bewahrt. Menschen, die wie zu einer besonderen Mission nach diesem Boden gelenkt wurden, wo ihnen ein Gebilde entgegentrat — spiegelnd ihr eigenes musikalisches Innere und ganz aus der geistigen Welt selber architektonisch geformt, das, was ich mit einigen Worten eben zu charakterisieren versuchte, die Fingalshöhle. Richtig stellt man sich den Vorgang vor, wenn man sich denkt, daß die Höhle gleich einem Zentrum wirkte, widerspiegelnd, was in den Seelen dieser Menschen lebte, die durch ihr Karma hierher getrieben waren wie zu einem Tempel, von den Göttern selber aufgebaut. Hier wurden die Menschen vorbereitet, welche den Christus-Impuls mit voller Menschlichkeit erst später empfangen sollten, und die hier als Vorbereitung etwas höchst Eigentümliches durchmachen sollten. Das können wir uns vorstellen, wenn wir bedenken, daß hier gerade jene alte Institution der Völker bewahrt war, durch welche die Stämme geteilt wurden in kleine, familienhafte Zusammenhänge. Was blutsverwandt war, fühlte sich zusammengehörend, alles andere wurde als fremd, als einem anderen Gruppen-Ich angehörend empfunden. Und wie ein Harmonisierendes ergoß sich über diese einzelnen Gruppen das, was — als der Völkerzug aus der Atlantis nach Osten stattfand — im Westen zurückgebliebene Druidenpriester den Menschen geben konnten. Was sie geben konnten, lebte noch in den Barden. Aber was durch diese Barden wirkte, stellen wir uns nur richtig vor, wenn wir uns klarmachen, daß elementarste Leidenschaften zusammentrafen mit der alten Kraft des Hineinschauens in die geistige Welt, und daß die Menschen, welche als Vertreter ihrer Gruppen gegen andere Gruppen lebensstark, zuweilen wütend und leidenschaftlich kämpften, sahen, wie aus der geistigen Welt heraus Impulse wirkten, die sie in den Kämpfen leiteten. So etwas Zusammenwirkendes von Physischem und Seelischem ist heute gar nicht mehr vorzustellen. Wenn der Held sein Schwert erhob, glaubte er, daß ein Geist aus den Lüften ihn lenke, und in diesem Geist sah er einen Ahnen, der früher schon auf diesem Felde gekämpft hatte und hinaufgegangen war, um von dort aus nun mitzuwirken. In ihren Schlachtreihen fühlten sie ihre Ahnen wirken, ihre Ahnen von beiden Seiten, und fühlten sie nicht nur, hörten sie auch hellhörend! Das war eine wunderbare Vorstellung, die in diesen Völkern lebte: daß die Helden zu kämpfen hatten auf dem Schlachtfelde, ihr Blut zu vergießen hatten, daß sie aber nach dem Tode hinaufsteigen in die geistige Welt, und daß dann ihr Geist als Ton dahinvibriert, die Luft als Geistiges durchtönt.
Und jene dann, die zwar vertraut waren mit den Kämpfen, aber vorzugsweise sich dahin entwickelten, hinzuhören auf das, was aus den Lüften heraustönte als die Stimme der Vorzeit, die blind wurden für die physische Welt, die nicht mehr sehen konnten das Blitzen der Schwerter, blind waren für den physischen Plan: sie wurden hoch verehrt. Und einer von diesen war eben Ossian. Und indem die Helden ihre Schwerter schwangen, waren sie sich bewußt, daß ihre Taten fortklingen werden in der geistigen Welt, und daß sich Barden finden werden, die das in ihren Liedern bewahren werden. Das war lebensvolle Anschauung bei jenen Völkern.
Das gibt aber auch eine ganz andere Anschauung vom Menschentum überhaupt. Das gibt die Anschauung, daß der Mensch verbunden ist mit den geistigen Mächten, die aus der ganzen Natur heraus tönen. Man kann nicht einen Sturm oder den Blitz sehen, kann nicht den Donner hören, das Tosen des Meeres, ohne zu ahnen, daß aus allem Naturwirken heraus Geister wirken, die im Bunde sind mit den Seelen der Vorzeit, mit den Seelen der eigenen Ahnen. Da wird das, was Naturwirken ist, noch etwas ganz anderes. Daher waren eben jene Klänge so bedeutsam, die nun wieder herübertönten und, früher nur in Überlieferung lebend, aufgefrischt wurden durch den Schotten Macpherson, so daß sie ein Bewußtsein geben von dem Zusammenhang der Menschen mit den Seelen der Ahnen und mit den Naturerscheinungen.
Man kann verstehen, daß jener Schotte doch in gewisser Weise kongenialempfunden hat, wenn er schildert, wie dahinstürmt eineSchlachtreihe, Finsternis vor sich hertreibend, gleich den Geistern, die in die Schlacht ziehen. Es ist in der Tat etwas, was einen großen Eindruck auf das geistige Europa machen konnte. Und die ganze Art der Darstellung, wenn auch in etwas freier Dichtung gegeben, weckt in uns das Gefühl für die Anschauung, die in jenen alten Völkern lebte. In ihnen lebte ein lebendiges Wissen, eine lebendige Weisheit von dem Zusammenhang mit der Geisterwelt und der natürlichen Welt, in welcher die Geisterwelt wirkt.
Aus einer solchen Weisheit heraus wurden die besten Söhne der verschiedenen Stämme — das heißt jene, die am meisten den Zusammenhang hatten mit den Geistern der Vorzeit, die am meisten die Geister der Vorzeit in ihren Taten leben ließen — auserwählt zu einer auserlesenen Schar. Und wer die stärksten hellseherischen Kräfte hatte, wurde an die Spitze gestellt. Diese Schar hatte das Kernvolk der Kelten gegen die Völker der Umwelt zu verteidigen. Einer von diesen Anführern war der hellseherische Held, dessen Kunde zu uns gekommen ist unter dem Namen des Fingal. Wie dieser Fingal in der Verteidigung der alten Götter wirkte gegen die, die sie gefährden wollten, das haben alte Lieder, wie sie aus der geistigen Welt heraus gehört wurden, alte Lieder des Barden Ossian, seines Sohnes, weitererklingen lassen, so daß das lebendig blieb bis ins 16., 17. Jahrhundert hinein. Was Fingal vollbracht hat, was sein Sohn Ossian gehört hat, als Fingal aufgestiegen war in das Geisterreich, was dann die Nachgeborenen aus den Tönen Ossians heraus immer zu ihren Taten beseelen sollte, das war es, was so mächtig noch im 18. Jahrhundert wirkte. Und wir bekommen eine Vorstellung davon, wenn wir vernehmen, wie Ossian in seinen Gesängen seines Vaters Fingal Stimme erschallen läßt. In schwieriger Lage befinden sich die Helden, sie sind fast geschlagen — da kommt neues Leben in die Scharen.
«Der König stand bei dem Stein von Lubar; dreimal erhob er seine schreckliche Stimme, Der Hirsch schrak auf von’ den Quellen von Cromla, die Felsen erbebten auf all ihren Bergen. Gleich dem Tosen von hundert Bergströmen, welche hervorbrechen und brausen und schäumen, gleich den Wolken, welche sich sammeln zu einem Gewitter auf dem blauen Antlitz des Himmels, so traf die Söhne der Wildnis rings umher die schreckliche Stimme Fingals. Angenehm war die Stimme des Königs von Morven den Kriegern seines Landes. Oft hatte er sie geführt zur Schlacht, oft kehrte er zurück mit der Beute des Feindes. Kommt zur Schlachv, sagte der König, «ihr Kinder des hallenden Selma! Kommt zu dem Tode der Tausend! Konnals Sohn will sehen den Kampf! Mein Schwert soll wogen auf dem Hügel zur Verteidigung meines Volkes im Kriege — aber nimmer möget ihr dessen bedürfen, Krieger, während der Sohn Mornis kämpft, der Häuptling gewaltiger Männer. Er soll leiten meine Schlacht, damit sein Ruhm möge steigen im Sang! O ihr Geister verstorbener Helden, ihr Reiter des Sturmes von Cromla, nehmt mein fallendes Volk mit Freude auf. Bringt sie zu euren Hügeln, und möge der Hauch von Lena sie über dem Meere tragen, und mögen sie kommen in meine schweigenden Träume und erfreuen meine Seele im Schlaf!»
Jetzt, gleich einer düstern stürmischen Wolke, eingefaßt.rings von den roten Blitzen des Himmels, westwärts fliehend vor dem Strahl des Morgens, entfernte sich der König von Selma. Schrecklich ist der Glanz seiner Rüstung. Zwei Speere waren in seiner Hand, sein graues Haar flatterte im Winde. Er blickt oft zurück in die Schlacht. Drei Barden begleiten den Sohn des Ruhmes, zu tragen seine Worte zu den Häuptlingen. Hoch an Cromlas Abhang er saß, winkend mit dem Blitze seines Schwertes. Und wie er winkte, setzten wir uns in Bewegung...
Fingal plötzlich erhob sich in Waffen. Dreimal erscholl seine schreckliche Stimme, Cromla antwortete ringsum. Die Söhne der Wildnis standen still; sie beugten ihre erregten Gesichter zur Erde, beschämt durch die Gegenwart des Königs. Er kam gleich einer Wolke des Regens an dem Tag der Sonne, wenn sie niedrig über den Hügel zieht und die Felder erwarten den Schauer. Stille begleitete ihren langsamen Gang, aber der Sturm ist bereit, sich zu erheben. Swaran sah den schrecklichen König von Morven. Er hielt in der Mitte seines Laufes. Finster lehnte er sich an seinen Speer, rollend sein rotes Auge ringsumher. Schweigend und hoch glich er einer Eiche auf dem Ufer von Lübar, die ihre Äste hat verbrannt vor Alters durch den Blitz des Himmels; sie beugt sich über den Strom, das graue Moos flüstert im Winde. So stand der König. Dann wandte er sich langsam zurück zu der ansteigenden Heide von Lena, Seine Tausende ergossen sich um den Helden. Dunkelheit sammelt sich auf dem Hügel.
Fingal, gleich einem Strahl vom Himmel, schien in der Mitte seines Volkes. Seine Helden versammelten sich um ihn. Er entsandte die Stimme seiner Macht. ‹Hebt meine Fahnen in die Höhe, breitet sie aus in Lenas Wind gleich den Flammen von hundert Hügeln! Laßt sie rauschen in Erins Winden und uns an den Kampf erinnern. Ihr Söhne der brausenden Ströme, die sich ergießen von tausend Bergen, seid nah dem König von Morven! Horcht auf die Worte seiner Macht! Oskar, stärkster Arm des Todes, o Fillan, du Renner der künftigen Schlachten, Dermid, schwarzlockiger Jäger der springenden Rehe, Kothmar, Sohn der hallenden Schilde von Mora, Ossian, König der Gesänge, seid nahe dem Arm eures Vaters!› — Wir erhoben den Sonnenstrahl der Schlacht, die Fahne des Königs. Jeder Held frohlockte in Freude, als sie wogend im Winde flatterte: sie war oben mit Gold verziert, wie die weite blaue Schale des nächtlichen Himmels. Jeder Held hatte seine eigene Fahne dazu, und jeder seine düsteren Mannen.»
So stürmte Fingal in die Schlacht, so wird er geschildert von seinem Sohne Ossian. Kein Wunder, daß dieses Leben, dieses Bewußtsein von dem Zusammenhang mit der geistigen Welt, das sich hineinsenkt in die Seelen dieser Leute, in die Seelen der alten Kelten, die beste Vorbereitung ist, das persönliche göttliche Element dann in ihrer Art von ihrem Boden aus über das Abendland zu verbreiten. Denn das, was sie in Leidenschaft erlebt hatten, was sie gehört haben, ausklingend in Melodien der geistigen Welt, bereitete sie vor für jene Zeit, da sie Söhne hervorbrachten, welche später jene Leidenschaften geläutert und gemildert in der Seele zeigten, so daß wir sagen können: Es ist uns, als wenn Erins beste Söhne wieder vernehmen würden die Klänge ihrer alten Barden, die diese einstmals aus der geistigen Welt heraus als die Taten der Vorfahren gehört haben, aber wie wenn sich in Erins besten Söhnen die alten Schlachtklänge nun auch geformt und geklärt hätten und geworden wären zum Worte, welches ausdrücken sollte der Menschheit größten Impuls.
Das klang aus alten Zeiten in Gesängen heraus von den Taten der alten Kelten, die in gewaltigen Schlachten so manches ausgekämpft hatten, um sich vorzubereiten für weitere Taten des geistigen Lebens, wie wir sie wieder erkennen in dem, was des Abendlandes beste Söhne geleistet haben. Das waren die Impulse, die dann in die Seelen der Menschen des 18. Jahrhunderts hineinflossen, als jene alten Gesänge erneuert wurden. Das war es, woran sich diejenigen erinnerten, die das wunderbare Münster wieder sahen, das wie von der Natur selber gebaut war und sie sagen ließ: Hier ist eine Stätte vom Karma gewirkt, damit das, was die Barden zu singen hatten von den Taten der Ahnen, von dem, was die Helden zu tun hatten zur Stählung ihrer Kräfte, in einem Echo ihnen widerklinge aus dem Dome, den sie nicht selbst zu bauen brauchten, aus ihrem heiligen Tempel, der ihnen hingebaut wurde von den Geistern der Natur, und der ein Mittel der Begeisterung sein konnte für jene, die ihn sahen.
So können uns die Klänge der Ouvertüre eine Veranlassung geben, auch in unserer Weise wenigstens etwas ahnen zu lassen von den tiefen geheimnisvollen Zusammenhängen, welche denn doch walten in der Geschichte der Menschen, die unserer Zeit vorausgegangen sind fast auf demselben Boden, auf dem wir weiterleben. Und da wir uns vertiefen müssen in das, was in uns lebt, und da das, was in uns lebt, nur ein Fortklingen ist dessen, was in der Vorzeit da war, ist jene Ahnung von dem, was einst war und weiter wirkt in der Menschheit, von größter Bedeutung für das okkulte Leben.
Ossian and Fingal's Cave
Speech following a performance of Mendelssohn's “Hebrides Overture”
The sounds of this overture have just transported us to the coast of Scotland, taking our souls on a journey, setting us on a path that has been deeply touched by the mysteries of karma throughout the course of human development. For from completely different regions of our Western world, peoples were once transplanted to the vicinity of those regions to which these sounds have led us, and into these regions themselves, as if by a karmic pull. And mysterious destinies are reported to us. We are told — both through what occultism reveals and through external documents of history — of what these peoples experienced on this soil in times long past.
A memory of the mysterious destinies of those people was revived, as if in a new awakening, when, around 1772, the cave on the island of Staffa, which belongs to the Hebrides, was discovered: Fingal's Cave. People were reminded of the mysterious destinies of ancient times when they saw how nature itself seemed to have built something that is described as a wonderful cathedral. In long rows, erected with great regularity, towering, countless columns, above them a ceiling vaulted from the same stonework, below the feet of the columns washed by the rushing, breaking sea, which continually surges and swells within this cathedral in thunderous music. Water drips from stone formations, continuously striking the stalagmites in melodious, enchanting music. Something like this exists there. And those who, upon discovering this, had a sense of the mystery that once took place on that ground, could not help but be reminded of the hero who once, as one of the famous individuals of the West, clearly guided destinies here, and whose deeds were sung by his son, the blind Ossian, who appears like a Western Homer: a blind singer.
When we look back on the impression this news made on people, we can understand why Macpherson's revival of these songs in the 18th century had such a powerful effect on Europe. Nothing can be compared to this impression. Goethe, Herder, Napoleon listened attentively, and all believed they heard something of the magic of ancient times in these sounds. One must understand that a spiritual world rising in people's hearts, as it still existed at that time, could feel drawn to what was being expressed! What was it?
We must take a look at the times that coincide with the first impulses of Christianity and the first centuries thereafter. What was happening up there in the Hebrides, in Ireland, Scotland, in ancient Erin, which encompassed all the neighboring islands between Ireland and Scotland and the northern parts of Scotland? There we must seek the core of those peoples of Celtic descent who had preserved the ancient Atlantean clairvoyance in its full originality. The others, who had migrated to the east, had developed further and were no longer connected to the old gods. Completely immersed in personality and individuality, these people preserved the possibility of the ancient clairvoyance. People who were guided to this land as if on a special mission, where they encountered a structure that mirrored their own musical inner lives and was architecturally formed entirely from the spiritual world itself — what I have just attempted to characterize in a few words as Fingal's Cave. One can imagine the process correctly if one thinks of the cave as a center, reflecting what lived in the souls of these people, who were driven here by their karma as if to a temple built by the gods themselves. Here, the people who were to receive the Christ impulse with full humanity only later were prepared, and here they were to undergo something highly peculiar as preparation. We can imagine this when we consider that it was precisely here that the ancient institution of the peoples was preserved, through which the tribes were divided into small, family-like communities. Those who were related by blood felt they belonged together, while everything else was perceived as foreign, as belonging to another group ego. And what the Druid priests who remained in the West were able to give to the people when the migration from Atlantis to the East took place poured out over these individual groups like a harmonizing force. What they were able to give still lived on in the bards. But we can only imagine what these bards were capable of when we realize that the most elemental passions met with the ancient power of looking into the spiritual world, and that the people who, as representatives of their groups, fought vigorously, sometimes furiously and passionately against other groups, saw how impulses from the spiritual world guided them in their struggles. Such an interaction between the physical and the spiritual is impossible to imagine today. When the hero raised his sword, he believed that a spirit from the air was guiding him, and in this spirit he saw an ancestor who had fought on this field before and had ascended to participate from there. In their battle lines, they felt their ancestors working, their ancestors from both sides, and they not only felt them, they also heard them clearly! It was a wonderful idea that lived among these peoples: that heroes had to fight on the battlefield, shed their blood, but that after death they ascended to the spiritual world, and that their spirits then vibrated as sound, filling the air as spirit.
And those who were familiar with the battles but preferred to develop themselves to listen to what sounded from the air as the voice of ancient times, who became blind to the physical world, who could no longer see the flashing of swords, who were blind to the physical plane: they were highly revered. And one of these was Ossian. And as the heroes wielded their swords, they were aware that their deeds would echo in the spiritual world and that bards would be found who would preserve them in their songs. This was a lively view among those peoples.
But this also gives a completely different view of humanity in general. It gives the view that human beings are connected with the spiritual powers that resound from the whole of nature. One cannot see a storm or lightning, cannot hear thunder or the roar of the sea, without sensing that spirits are at work in all natural phenomena, spirits that are in league with the souls of ancient times, with the souls of one's own ancestors. This makes the workings of nature something completely different. That is why those sounds, which now resound once more and were revived by the Scotsman Macpherson, were so significant. They give us an awareness of the connection between human beings and the souls of their ancestors and with natural phenomena.
One can understand that the Scotsman felt a certain affinity when he described how a battle line rushes forward, driving darkness before it like ghosts going into battle. It is indeed something that could have made a great impression on the intellectual Europe. And the whole manner of presentation, even if somewhat freely poetic, awakens in us a feeling for the worldview that lived in those ancient peoples. They possessed a living knowledge, a living wisdom of the connection between the spirit world and the natural world in which the spirit world works.
From such wisdom, the best sons of the various tribes — that is, those who were most connected with the spirits of the past, who let the spirits of the past live most in their deeds — were chosen to form an elite band. And those who had the strongest clairvoyant powers were placed at the head. This group had the task of defending the core Celtic people against the surrounding peoples. One of these leaders was the clairvoyant hero whose fame has come down to us under the name of Fingal. How this Fingal acted in defense of the old gods against those who wanted to endanger them has been passed down in ancient songs heard from the spiritual world, ancient songs of the bard Ossian, his son, so that it remained alive until the 16th and 17th centuries. What Fingal accomplished, what his son Ossian heard when Fingal ascended into the spirit realm, what then inspired future generations to action through the sounds of Ossian's songs, was what still had such a powerful effect in the 18th century. And we get an idea of this when we hear how Ossian lets the voice of his father Fingal resound in his songs. The heroes are in a difficult situation, they are almost defeated — then new life comes into the ranks.
“The king stood by the stone of Lubar; three times he raised his terrible voice, The stag startled from the springs of Cromla, the rocks shook on all the mountains. Like the roar of a hundred mountain streams bursting forth and rushing and foaming, like clouds gathering for a storm on the blue face of heaven, so the terrible voice of Fingal struck the sons of the wilderness all around. The voice of the king of Morven was pleasant to the warriors of his country. He had often led them into battle, and often returned with the spoils of the enemy. Come to battle, said the king, “you children of echoing Selma! Come to the death of a thousand! Connal's son wants to see the fight! My sword shall wave on the hill in defense of my people in war—but never shall you need it, warriors, while the son of Morni fights, the chieftain of mighty men. He shall lead my battle, that his fame may rise in song! O spirits of fallen heroes, riders of the storm of Cromla, take my fallen people with joy. Bring them to your hills, and may the breath of Lena carry them across the sea, and may they come into my silent dreams and gladden my soul in sleep!"
Now, like a dark storm cloud, surrounded by the red flashes of the sky, fleeing westward from the rays of the morning, the king of Selma withdrew. Terrible is the splendor of his armor. Two spears were in his hand, his gray hair fluttered in the wind. He often looks back at the battle. Three bards accompanied the son of glory to carry his words to the chiefs. High on Cromla's slope he sat, waving the flash of his sword. And as he waved, we set off...
Fingal suddenly rose in arms. Three times his terrible voice rang out, and Cromla answered all around. The sons of the wilderness stood still; they bowed their excited faces to the ground, ashamed by the presence of the king. He came like a cloud of rain on a sunny day, when it draws low over the hills and the fields await the shower. Silence accompanied their slow march, but the storm is ready to rise. Swaran saw the terrible king of Morven. He stopped in the middle of his run. He leaned grimly on his spear, rolling his red eye around. Silent and tall, he resembled an oak tree on the banks of Lübar, its branches burned by the lightning of heaven; it bends over the stream, the gray moss whispering in the wind. So stood the king. Then he slowly turned back to the rising heath of Lena, his thousands pouring around the hero. Darkness gathered on the hill.
Fingal, like a ray from heaven, shone in the midst of his people. His heroes gathered around him. He sent forth the voice of his power. “Raise my banners high, spread them out in Lena's wind like the flames of a hundred hills! Let them rustle in Erin's winds and remind us of the battle. You sons of the roaring streams that pour forth from a thousand mountains, be close to the king of Morven! Hear the words of his power! Oskar, strongest arm of death, O Fillan, you racer of future battles, Dermid, black-haired hunter of leaping deer, Kothmar, son of the echoing shields of Mora, Ossian, king of songs, be close to the arm of your father!” — We raised the sunbeam of battle, the king's banner. Every hero rejoiced with joy as it fluttered in the wind: it was decorated with gold at the top, like the wide blue bowl of the night sky. Every hero had his own banner, and each had his grim men.
Thus Fingal rushed into battle, thus he is described by his son Ossian. No wonder that this life, this awareness of the connection with the spiritual world, which sinks deep into the souls of these people, into the souls of the ancient Celts, is the best preparation for spreading the personal divine element in their own way from their soil to the West. For what they had experienced in passion, what they had heard, echoing in melodies from the spiritual world, prepared them for the time when they produced sons who later showed those passions purified and softened in their souls, so that we can say: It is as if Erin's best sons were hearing again the sounds of their ancient bards, who once heard them from the spiritual world as the deeds of their ancestors, but as if the ancient battle sounds had now also taken shape and become clear in Erin's best sons and had become words that were to express the greatest impulse of humanity.
This sounded from ancient times in songs about the deeds of the ancient Celts, who had fought many battles in order to prepare themselves for further deeds of spiritual life, as we recognize them again in what the best sons of the West have accomplished. These were the impulses that then flowed into the souls of the people of the 18th century when those ancient songs were revived. This was what those who saw the wonderful cathedral again remembered, which seemed to have been built by nature itself and made them say: Here is a place shaped by karma, so that what the bards had to sing about the deeds of their ancestors, about what the heroes had to do to strengthen their powers, might echo back to them from the cathedral they did not have to build themselves, from their sacred temple built for them by the spirits of nature, and which could be a source of inspiration for those who saw it.”
Thus, the sounds of the overture can give us an opportunity to glimpse, at least in our own way, the deep and mysterious connections that nevertheless prevail in the history of the people who preceded us, who lived almost on the same ground on which we continue to live. And since we must delve deeper into what lives within us, and since what lives within us is only an echo of what was there in the past, that inkling of what once was and continues to work in humanity is of the utmost importance for the occult life.