JOHANN WOLFGANG GOETHE.

He was a seer—a prophet. A century has passed since his birth, and we revere him as one of the first among the spiritual heroes of humanity.—Vischer. Speech at the Centenary Festival of Schiller’s birthday (1859).That Schiller went away early is for us a gain. From his tomb there comes to us an impulse, strengthening us, as with the breath of his own might, and awakening a most earnest longing to fulfill, lovingly, and more and more, the work that he began. So, in all that he willed to do, and in all that he fulfilled, he shall live on, forever, for his own nation, and for mankind.—Goethe.

That Schiller went away early is for us a gain. From his tomb there comes to us an impulse, strengthening us, as with the breath of his own might, and awakening a most earnest longing to fulfill, lovingly, and more and more, the work that he began. So, in all that he willed to do, and in all that he fulfilled, he shall live on, forever, for his own nation, and for mankind.—Goethe.

Goethe and Schiller greatly excelled in their department of literary labor, becoming oracles in all such matters. And since their names have gone into history, they share, perhaps not quite equally, the highest niche in the pantheon of German literature. Schiller was, at once, a fine thinker, and poet, able to weave his own subtle thoughts, and the philosophies of other transcendentalists into verse, as exquisite as their speculations were, at times, dreamy and incomprehensible. Carlyle, in a glowing tribute to Schiller, concedes to Goethe the honor of being the poet of Germany; and so perhaps he was, though it is difficult to compare men so widely different. They differed in this: Goethe, with his rich endowment of intellect, was born a poet—an inspired man; the everspringing fountain within him poured forth copiously; Schiller, with genius hardly surpassed, seems a more laborious thinker, ever seeking truth, while his finely wrought stanzas are a little more artificially melodious. He is the most beloved because his countrymen think he had more heart, and breathed out more ardent aspirations for political freedom. We commend what is excellent in his works; the facts and truths expressed with refreshing clearness, and usually of good moral tendency, but we can not ignore his philosophical skepticism, and warn the admiring reader against its pernicious influence. In the supreme matter of religious faith our captivating author was evidently much of his life adrift on stormy seas, “driven of the winds and tossed.” If the fatuity of the venture was not followed by dismal and utter shipwreck, he was near the fatal rocks, and suffered great loss. The beginning was in this respect most full of promise, and his environment favorable. The home training in a devout religious family, and the teachings of the sanctuary had made a deep impression on the mind of the thoughtful youth, and as solemn vows were made as ever passed from human lips. His was for a season really a life of prayer and consecration to Christian service. But all that passed away. And how the change was brought about it is not hard to discover. Though blameless in character, and full of noble aspirations while yet in his adolescence, quite too early, he became acquainted with infidel writings of Voltaire—a perilous adventure for any youth. The foundations on which he rested were shaken, and he fled to the positive philosophy of Kant and others, who interpreted away all that was distinctively true and life-giving in the Scriptures. Faith, whose mild radiance brightened the morning, suffered a fearful eclipse before it was noon: and thence, like a wanderer, he groped for the way; “daylight all gone.” The great man needed God, but turned from him—sought truth with worshipful anxiety, but, in his sad bewilderment, found it not. The difference between his states of faith and unfaith is strongly stated in his own words that we here give. The first extractwas written on a Sabbath in 1777. The other tells, about as forcibly as words can, of the unrest and disappointment that were afterward felt.

God of truth, Father of light, I look to thee with the first rays of the morning sun, and I bow before thee. Thou seest me, O God! Thou seest from afar every pulsation of my praying heart. Thou knowest well my earnest desire for truth. Heavy doubt often veils my soul in night; but thou knowest how anxious my heart is within me, and how it goes out for heavenly light. Oh yes! A friendly ray has often fallen from thee upon my shadowed soul. I saw the awful abyss on whose brink I was trembling, and I have thanked the kind hand that drew me back in safety. Still be with me, my God and Father, for there are days when fools stalk about and say, “there is no God.” Thou hast given me my birth, O my Creator, in these days when superstition rages at my right hand, and skepticism scoffs at my left. So I often stand and quake in the storm; and oh, how often would the bending reed break if thou didst not prevent it; thou, the mighty Preserver of all thy creatures and Father of all who seek thee. What am I without truth, without her leadership through life’s labyrinth? A wanderer through the wilderness overtaken by the night, with no friendly hand to lead me, and no guiding star to show me the path. Doubt, uncertainty, skepticism! You begin with anguish, and you end with despair. But Truth, thou leadest us safely through life, bearest the torch before us in the dark vale of death, and bringest us home to heaven, where thou wast born. O my God, keep my heart in peace, in that holy rest during which Truth loves best to visit us. If I have truth then I have Christ; If I have Christ then have I God; and if I have God, then I have everything. And could I ever permit myself to be robbed of this precious gem, this heaven-reaching blessing by the wisdom of this world, which is foolishness in thy sight? No. He who hates truth will I call my enemy, but he who seeks it with simple heart I will embrace as my brother and my friend.

Later in life his anguish is openly expressed in his philosophical letters. “I felt, and I was happy. Raphael has taught me to think, and I am now ready to lament my own creation. You have stolen my faith that gave me peace. You have taught me to despise what I once reverenced. A thousand things were very venerable to me before your sorry wisdom stripped me of them. I saw a multitude of people going to church; I heard their earnest worship as they united in fraternal prayer; I cried aloud, ‘That truth must be divine which the best of men profess, which conquers so triumphantly and consoles so sweetly.’ Your cold reason has quenched my enthusiasm. ‘Believe no one,’ you said, ‘but your reason; there is nothing more holy than truth.’ I listened, and offered up all my opinions. My reason is now become everything to me; it is my only guarantee for divinity, virtue, and immortality. Woe unto me henceforth, if I come in conflict with this sole security!”

The following lines are given as a specimen of his verse. They are taken from Carlyle’s translation of the “Song of the Alps:”

By the edge of the chasm is a slippery track,The torrent beneath, and the mist hanging o’er thee;The cliffs of the mountains, huge, rugged, and black,Are frowning like giants before thee;And, would’st thou not waken the sleeping Lawine,Walk silent and soft through the deadly ravine.That bridge with its dizzying, perilous span,Aloft o’er the gulf and its flood suspended,Think’st thou it was built by the art of man,By his hand that grim old arch was bended?Far down in the jaws of the gloomy abyssThe water is boiling and hissing—forever will hiss.

By the edge of the chasm is a slippery track,

The torrent beneath, and the mist hanging o’er thee;

The cliffs of the mountains, huge, rugged, and black,

Are frowning like giants before thee;

And, would’st thou not waken the sleeping Lawine,

Walk silent and soft through the deadly ravine.

That bridge with its dizzying, perilous span,Aloft o’er the gulf and its flood suspended,Think’st thou it was built by the art of man,By his hand that grim old arch was bended?Far down in the jaws of the gloomy abyssThe water is boiling and hissing—forever will hiss.

That bridge with its dizzying, perilous span,

Aloft o’er the gulf and its flood suspended,

Think’st thou it was built by the art of man,

By his hand that grim old arch was bended?

Far down in the jaws of the gloomy abyss

The water is boiling and hissing—forever will hiss.

What shall I do to be forever known?Thy duty ever.This did full many who yet slept unknown—Oh! never, never!Thinkest thou, perchance, that they remain unknownWhomthouknowest not?By angel trumps in heaven their praise is blown,Divine their lot.What shall I do to gain eternal life?Discharge arightThe simple dues with which each day is rife?Yea, with thy might.Ere perfect scheme of action thou devise,Life will be fled,While he who ever acts as conscience criesShall live, though dead.

What shall I do to be forever known?

Thy duty ever.

This did full many who yet slept unknown—

Oh! never, never!

Thinkest thou, perchance, that they remain unknown

Whomthouknowest not?

By angel trumps in heaven their praise is blown,

Divine their lot.

What shall I do to gain eternal life?Discharge arightThe simple dues with which each day is rife?Yea, with thy might.Ere perfect scheme of action thou devise,Life will be fled,While he who ever acts as conscience criesShall live, though dead.

What shall I do to gain eternal life?

Discharge aright

The simple dues with which each day is rife?

Yea, with thy might.

Ere perfect scheme of action thou devise,

Life will be fled,

While he who ever acts as conscience cries

Shall live, though dead.

The following verse is from the oft-recited “Song of the Bell,” and is exquisite:

Ah! seeds how dearer far than theyWe bury in the dismal tomb,When hope and sorrow bend to pray,That suns beyond the realm of dayMay warm them into bloom.

Ah! seeds how dearer far than they

We bury in the dismal tomb,

When hope and sorrow bend to pray,

That suns beyond the realm of day

May warm them into bloom.

Goethe differs from all other great writers, except perhaps Milton, in this respect, that his works can not be understood without a knowledge of his life, and that his life is in itself a work of art, greater than any work which it created.... He is not only the greatest poet of Germany; he is one of the greatest poets of any age.... He was the apostle of self-culture.—Sime.

Every author, in some degree, portrays himself in his works even be it against his will. In this case he is present to us, and designedly; nay, with a friendly alacrity, sets before us his inward and outward modes of thinking and feeling; and disdains not to give us confidential explanations of circumstances, thoughts, views, and expressions, by means of appended notes.

And now, encouraged by so friendly an invitation, we draw nearer to him; we seek him by himself; we attach ourselves to him, and promise ourselves rich enjoyment, and manifold instruction and improvement.

In a level northern landscape we find him, rejoicing in his existence, in a latitude in which the ancients hardly expected to find a living thing.

And truly, winter there manifests his whole might and sovereignty. Storm-borne from the pole, he covers the woods with hoar frost, the streams with ice—a drifting whirlwind eddies around the high gables, while the poet rejoices in the shelter and comfort of his home, and cheerily bids defiance to the raging elements. Furred and frost-covered friends arrive, and are heartily welcomed under the protecting roof; and soon they form a cordial confiding circle, enliven the household meal by the clang of glasses, the joyous song, and thus create for themselves a moral summer.

And when spring herself advances, no more is heard of roof and hearth; the poet is always abroad, wandering on the soft pathways around his peaceful lake. Every bush unfolds itself with an individual character, every blossom bursts with an individual life, in his presence. As in a fully worked-out picture, we see, in the sun-light around him, grass and herb, as distinctly as oak and beech-tree; and on the margin of the still waters there is wanting neither the reed nor any succulent plant.

Around him, like a dweller in Eden, sport, harmless, fearless creatures—the lamb on the meadows, the roe in the forest. Around him assemble the whole choir of birds, and drown the busy hum of day with their varied accents.

The summer has come again; a genial warmth breathes through the poet’s song. Thunders roll; clouds drop showers; rainbows appear; lightnings gleam, and a blessed coolness overspreads the plain. Everything ripens; the poet overlooksnone of the varied harvests; he hallows all by his presence.

And here is the place to remark what an influence our poets might exercise on the civilization of our German people—in some places, perhaps, have exercised.

His poems on the various incidents of rural life, indeed, do represent rather the reflections of a refined intellect than the feelings of the common people: but if we could picture to ourselves that a harper were present at the hay, corn, and potato harvests—if we recollected how he might make the men whom he gathered around him observant of that which recurs to them as ordinary and familiar; if, by his manner of regarding it, by his poetical expression, he elevated the common, and heightened the enjoyment of every gift of God and nature by his dignified representation of it, we may truly say he would be a real benefactor to his country. For the first stage of a true enlightenment is, that man should reflect upon his condition and circumstances, and be brought to regard them in the most agreeable light.

But scarcely are all these bounties brought under man’s notice, when autumn glides in, and our poet takes an affecting leave of nature, decaying, at least in outward appearance. Yet he abandons not his beloved vegetation wholly to the unkind winter. The elegant vase receives many a plant, many a bulb, wherewith to create a mimic summer in the home seclusion of winter, and, even at that season, to leave no festival without its flowers and wreaths. Care is taken that even the household birds belonging to the family should not want a green fresh roof to their bowery cage.

Now is the loveliest time for short rambles—for friendly converse in the chilly evening. Every domestic feeling becomes active; longings for social pleasures increase; the want of music is more sensibly felt; and now, even the sick man willingly joins the friendly circle, and a departing friend seems to clothe himself in the colors of the departing year.

For as certainly as spring will return after the lapse of winter, so certainly will friends, lovers, kindred meet again; they will meet again in the presence of the all-loving Father; and then first will they form a whole with each other, and with everything good, after which they sought and strove in vain in this piece-meal world. And thus does the felicity of the poet, even here, rest on the persuasion that all have to rejoice in the care of a wise God, whose power extends unto all, and whose light lightens upon all. Thus does the adoration of such a being create in the poet the highest clearness and reasonableness; and, at the same time, an assurance that the thoughts, the words, with which he comprehends and describes infinite qualities, are not empty dreams and sounds, and thence arises a rapturous feeling of his own and others’ happiness, in which everything conflicting, peculiar, discordant, is resolved and dissipated.

Faustus.Oh, he, indeed, is happy, who still feels,And cherishes within himself, the hopeTo lift himself above this sea of errors!Of things we know not, each day do we findThe want of knowledge—all we know is useless:But ’tis not wise to sadden with such thoughtsThis hour of beauty and benignity:Look yonder, with delighted heart and eye,On those low cottages that shine so bright(Each with its garden plot of smiling green),Robed in the glory of the setting sun!But he is parting—fading—day is over—Yonder he hastens to diffuse new life.Oh, for a wing to raise me up from earth,Nearer, and yet more near, to the bright orb,That unrestrained I still might follow him!Then should I see, in one unvarying glowOf deathless evening, the reposing worldBeneath me—the hills kindling—the sweet vales,Beyond the hills, asleep in the soft beamsThe silver streamlet, at the silent touchOf heavenly light, transfigured into gold,Flowing in brightness inexpressible!Nothing to stop or stay my godlike motion!The rugged hill, with its wild cliffs, in vainWould rise to hide the sun; in vain would striveTo check my glorious course; the sea already,With its illumined bays, that burn beneathThe lord of day, before the astonished eyesOpens its bosom—and he seems at lastJust sinking—no—a power unfelt before—An impulse indescribable succeeds!Onward, entranced, I haste to drink the beamsOf the unfading light—before me day—And night left still behind—and overheadWide heaven—and under me the spreading sea!—A glorious vision, while the setting sunIs lingering! Oh, to the spirit’s flight,How faint and feeble are material wings!Yet such our nature is, that when the lark,High over us, unseen in the blue skyThrills his heart-piercing song, we feel ourselvesPress up from earth, as ’twere in rivalry;—And when above the savage hill of pines,The eagle sweeps with outspread wings—and whenThe crane pursues, high off, his homeward path,Flying o’er watery moors and wide lakes lonely!Flying o’er watery moors and wide lakes lonely!Wagner.I, too, have had my hours of reverie;But impulse such as this I never felt.Of wood and fields the eye will soon grow weary;I’d never envy the wild birds their wings.How different are the pleasures of the mind;Leading from book to book, from leaf to leaf,They make the nights of winter bright and cheerful;They spread a sense of pleasure through the frame,And when you see some old and treasured parchments,All heaven descends to your delighted senses!

Faustus.Oh, he, indeed, is happy, who still feels,

And cherishes within himself, the hope

To lift himself above this sea of errors!

Of things we know not, each day do we find

The want of knowledge—all we know is useless:

But ’tis not wise to sadden with such thoughts

This hour of beauty and benignity:

Look yonder, with delighted heart and eye,

On those low cottages that shine so bright

(Each with its garden plot of smiling green),

Robed in the glory of the setting sun!

But he is parting—fading—day is over—

Yonder he hastens to diffuse new life.

Oh, for a wing to raise me up from earth,

Nearer, and yet more near, to the bright orb,

That unrestrained I still might follow him!

Then should I see, in one unvarying glow

Of deathless evening, the reposing world

Beneath me—the hills kindling—the sweet vales,

Beyond the hills, asleep in the soft beams

The silver streamlet, at the silent touch

Of heavenly light, transfigured into gold,

Flowing in brightness inexpressible!

Nothing to stop or stay my godlike motion!

The rugged hill, with its wild cliffs, in vain

Would rise to hide the sun; in vain would strive

To check my glorious course; the sea already,

With its illumined bays, that burn beneath

The lord of day, before the astonished eyes

Opens its bosom—and he seems at last

Just sinking—no—a power unfelt before—

An impulse indescribable succeeds!

Onward, entranced, I haste to drink the beams

Of the unfading light—before me day—

And night left still behind—and overhead

Wide heaven—and under me the spreading sea!—

A glorious vision, while the setting sun

Is lingering! Oh, to the spirit’s flight,

How faint and feeble are material wings!

Yet such our nature is, that when the lark,

High over us, unseen in the blue sky

Thrills his heart-piercing song, we feel ourselves

Press up from earth, as ’twere in rivalry;—

And when above the savage hill of pines,

The eagle sweeps with outspread wings—and when

The crane pursues, high off, his homeward path,

Flying o’er watery moors and wide lakes lonely!

Wagner.I, too, have had my hours of reverie;But impulse such as this I never felt.Of wood and fields the eye will soon grow weary;I’d never envy the wild birds their wings.How different are the pleasures of the mind;Leading from book to book, from leaf to leaf,They make the nights of winter bright and cheerful;They spread a sense of pleasure through the frame,And when you see some old and treasured parchments,All heaven descends to your delighted senses!

Wagner.I, too, have had my hours of reverie;

But impulse such as this I never felt.

Of wood and fields the eye will soon grow weary;

I’d never envy the wild birds their wings.

How different are the pleasures of the mind;

Leading from book to book, from leaf to leaf,

They make the nights of winter bright and cheerful;

They spread a sense of pleasure through the frame,

And when you see some old and treasured parchments,

All heaven descends to your delighted senses!

His most important work is his “History of Ancient and Modern Literature.” Throughout his exposition he is a propagandist of his special ideas; but the book is of lasting importance as the earliest attempt to present a systematic view of literary development as a whole.—Sime.

Literary Influence of the Bible.—On attentively considering the influence exercised by the Bible over mediæval as well as more modern literature and poetry, and the effects of the Scriptures, viewed as a mere literary composition on language, art, and representation, two important elements engage our observation. The first of these is complete simplicity of expression or the absence of all artifice. Almost exclusively treating of God and the moral nature of man, the language of the Scriptures is throughout living and forcible, devoid of metaphysical subtleties and of those dead ideas and empty abstractions which mark the philosophy of all nations—from the Indians and Greeks down to modern Europeans—whenever they undertake to represent those exalted objects of contemplation, God and man, by the light of unassisted reason.... Corresponding simplicity or absence of affectation also mark the poetical portions of Holy Writ, notwithstanding the copiousness of noble and sublime passages with which they abound.... The second distinctive quality of the Bible, in reference to external form and mode of representation, exerting an immense influence over modern diction and poesy, is the all pervading typical and symbolic element—not only of its poetical but of the didactic and historical books. In the case of the Hebrews this peculiarity may be partially regarded as a national peculiarity, in which the Arabs, their nearest of kin, participated.It is not impossible that the prohibition concerning graven images of the Divinity contributed to cherish this propensity; the imagination restricted on one side sought an outlet in another. The same results flowed from similar causes among the followers of Mahomet. In those portions of Holy Writ in which oriental imagery is less dominant, as for instance in the books of the New Testament, symbolism nevertheless prevails. This spirit has, to a great extent, influenced the intellectual development of all Christian races.

Mediæval Gothic Architecture.—The real mediæval is nowhere so thoroughly expressed as in the memorials of the architectural style erroneously called gothic, the origin of which, as also its progressive features, may, to this day, be said to be lost in obscurity and doubt. The misnomer is now generally admitted, and it is commonly understood that this mediæval style did not originate with the Goths, but sprung up at a later date, and speedily attained its full maturity without exhibiting various gradations of formation. I allude to that style of Christian art which is distinguished by its lofty vaults and arches, its pillars which resemble bundles of reeds, and general profusion of ornament modeled after leaf and flower.... Whoever the originators, it is evident that their intention was not merely to pile up huge stone edifices, but to embody certain ideas. How excellent soever the style of a building may be, if it convey no meaning, express no sentiment, it can not strictly be considered a creation of art; for it must be remembered that this, at once the most ancient and sublime of creative arts, can not directly stimulate the feelings by means of actual appeal or faculty of representation. Hence architecture generally bears a symbolical hidden meaning, whilst the Christian architecture of mediæval Germany does so in an eminent and especial degree. First and foremost there is the expression of devotional thought towering boldly aloft from this lowly earth toward the azure skies and an omnipotent God.... The whole plan is replete with symbols of deep significance, traced and illustrated in a remarkable manner in the records of the period. The altar pointed eastward; the three principal entrances expressed the conflux of worshipers gathered together from all quarters of the globe. The three steeples corresponded to the Christian Trinity. The quire arose like a temple within a temple on an increased scale of elevation. The form of the cross had been of early establishment in the Christian church, not accidentally, as has been conjectured by some, but with a view to completeness, a constituent part of the whole. The rose will be found to constitute the radical element of all decoration in this architectural style; from it the peculiar shape of window, door and steeple is mainly derived in their manifold variety of foliated tracery. The cross and the rose are, then, the chief symbols of this mystic art. On the whole, what is sought to be conveyed is the stupendous idea of eternity, the earnest thought of death, the death of this world, wreathed in the lovely fullness of an endless blooming life in the world that is to come.

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