presents images which the poet himself such inherited sentiment are the fortunate poets, who create easily and abundantly. A poet is more fortunate still when the fund of sentiment he inherits is not obsolete to his reason, and when it is richly supplemented by strong and fresh sensations furnished by his own age. If to all this he add from his own genius an original power of insight into Nature and the universe-then we have the Shakespeare, who, though, as Goethe says of him, the life of whole centuries throbbed in his soul, yet is at the same time himself, since he is inspired by his own age as much as by the past and looks forward with eagerness to the future, and since he gives out from his original vitality as much as he receives whether from his ancestors or from his contemporaries. Now Goethe does not belong to this fortunate class. He did not come into a great poetic inheritance. When we inquire whence came his imaginative wealth, we are obliged to conclude that, in the main, he must have collected it himself. So far from being the growth and representative of a great age, or the result in literature of the silent nobleness of many generations of his countrymen, this great artist grew out of a people which had been sunk for a hundred years in an imaginative impotence as well as in a national and political nullity. The citizen of a declining imperial town, in a country where, as he himself complains, the citizen-class universally wanted personal dignity, in an age when Germany had fallen behind France and England, was destitute of literature, and had suffered its very language to fall into decay, and among the upper classes into disuse; he found no poetical atmosphere about him, but had to struggle with a reign of prosaic mediocrity that reduced him to despair. The stagnation was no mere temporary evil. An Englishman who finds, as Gray did, that he has fallen on a prosaic age, can shut himself пр with Shakespeare and Milton, and forget the poverty that surrounds him in the pomp and prodigality of Heaven!" But in Germany the poverty was of old standing; Goethe saw no great poetic luminaries a century or two behind him. For Milton he had only HoffmansThe poets who have a great fund of Waldau, for Shakespeare only Gryphius 66 and Opitz. He rejects such models, and throughout his career we find him leaning on no German predecessors but Hans Sachs, whose merit he rediscovered, and the old Middle German poet of Reineke Voss. And as Germany furnished him with no models, so she afforded few subjects. The Middle Ages were then little explored and little relished. With one vigorous effort Goethe rescues from oblivion the heroic name of Götz v. Berlichingen. But he can do no more. He makes an attempt to revive the memory of the hero of his patron's house, Bernhard of SaxeWeimar, but, as we might expect, his imagination recoils in horror from "the miserable Iliad," so he calls it, of the Thirty Years' War. And what could the later period of Germany offer to him? That which makes history poetical-namely, nationality-was wanting there. Only in his own boyhood, when Fritz beat the French at Rosbach, did German history strike out a momentary spark of the fire which warms the poet. The strange course which German affairs had taken for many centuries, and which had led to the ruinous disaster of the Thirty Years' War, produced pitiable effects upon the manners and ways of thinking of the people. There was a sort of dwarfishness-he himself calls it childishness-in the generation before Goethe, and in his own generation there was a painful consciousness that almost all that constitutes manhood, that self-respect, independence, patriotism, had been lost and needed to be rediscovered. They felt the loss most distinctly when they tried to write, for then they perceived that the true and right style in literature would not come to them. They could but helplessly imitate French models, and their imitations wanted the drawingroom elegance which made the chief charm of those models. When they tried to throw off the French yoke, and to speak with German frankness and simplicity, they found that instead of vigor they achieved only violence, and that their pathos turned into a miserable whine. It is this unfortunate style that our fathers ridiculed in the AntiJacobin (where Goethe himself is ridiculed), and that still displeases us when we read Werther." To throw 66 it off was all the more difficult, because of the want of native models of a better style. style. When we grew tired of Pope's couplets, we had only to revive an earlier taste; but Goethe and his contemporaries were forced to go to other countries for models. They began by calling in Shakespeare; then they devoted themselves to the imitation of the ancients; then came the turn of Calderon, Hafiz, and the Sakontala. German literature became rich beyondall other literatures in translations and adaptations; but these, however precious, seemed always foreign and farfetched acquisitions. We see the insurmountable difficulty that Goethe had to contend with, the want of the proper soil for poetry to grow in, and of the proper atmosphere to nourish it, when we remark that after all that he and others could do, German literature seems still, in comparison with other great literatures, somewhat pale, somewhat academic, and wanting in char acter. In these circumstances, it was impossible for Goethe to rival Shakespeare in achieving, with triumphant ease, masterpiece after masterpiece. He had to begin by making his way out of the slough to firm land. His first works could not but be faulty, as, in fact, they are overstrained, mawkish, at times ridiculous. When this stage was passed, he would run the risk of seeming too little spontaneous, too much under the influence of foreign models. And throughout he would be under the necessity of putting forth great effort, of schooling himself with the most assiduous vigilance; and it is to be expected that he would sometimes fail, and that he would make many plans which he would afterward find himself unable to execute. On the other hand, in this struggle with difficulties he might achieve certain great results which are not achieved by the happier genius. Peter the Great was not a very successful general; he was terribly beaten by Charles XII. at Narva, terribly beaten by the Turks on the Pruth; nevertheless, he created modern Russia. Something similar may be said of Goethe. "Werther," is morbid, the "GrossCophta" is tiresome; but modern German literature is itself in a great de gree the production of Goethe. is much felicity in the compliment There of songs and no over-indulgent critic of Goethe, thought so. Further, he may be called the greatest of all literary critics. And lastly, though he did not write formal essays, yet in the qualities of the essayist, in subtle and abundant observation of human life, in the number and value of his wise remarks and pregnant sentences, he is by far the greatest writer since Montaigne and Bacon. Even if we look no deeper, it is matter for astonishment that the most tender of lyrists, and one of the most inventive and sublime of dramatists, should be found discussing in "Wilhelm Meister " the duties of landowners, and the details of the management of a theatre, with a hard common-sense worthy of Johnson. In truth, however much men may differ about the merits of particular writings of Goethe, yet his literary greatness in general is so striking and so undeniable, that his fame is not in any way bound up with that of German literature. Those who do not relish the German genius in general, who find it wanting in clearness or manliness, must and do make an exception in Goethe's favor. "It is a mere historic fact that since its appearance by far the greatest part of what till then had been considered, and at that time was still considered, genuine poetry, has continually fallen more and more into oblivion, and what poetry appeared afterward, written by others, stood so evidently under the influence of this new sunrise of beauty, that even the most powerful and original of the new poets, even Schiller, could not convey the full impression of his greatness and individuality till he had made a loving study of Goethe's poetry and genius, and so recognized his own difference from Goethe, and, at the same time, his deep agreement with him.'* But this, after all, concerns Germans rather than ourselves. For us the question is, What do his works contain ? and not, What effect did they produce in Germany when they first appeared? Let us try then to describe the kind and degree of the merit, which by every nation alike, and not by the Germans only, has been recognized in Goethe, and has been acknowledged to be such that it can never be forgotten. It would be possible to meet the lazy and superficial objection which I have been combating by an argument of the same superficial kind. By simply reckoning up Goethe's literary achievements, and comparing them, as an examiner might do, with those of other literary men, it may be shown that he is entitled, as it were, by marks to a place very near the top of the literary list. Beside the five or six consummate works, which by universal consent are above criticism, it may be affirmed that his songs are the best in the world. Heine at least, no bad judge * A. Schöll, "Goethe," p. 124. But to get a clear view of Goethe's genius we must not compare him with others, nor show that he is equal to this author in this, and superior to that author in that, nor must we try him by the common standard, and consider how often by that standard he succeeds and how often he fails. Rather we must understand how he differs from other writers, what an exceptional personality he has, and accordingly what an unusual standard he sets up for himself, and elects to be tried by. If the variety of his works is remarkable, their unity is more remarkable still; it is unique. And if his power strikes us, if at times he is thrilling or overwhelming, his reserve, his reticence, his abstinence are still rarer than his power, and the level flats which at first disappoint us in his works are found to have an interest of their own. I have spoken of the hereditary sentiment which makes so large a part of poetry, nay, which almost exclusively composes the poetry of many poets. vast proportion of the poetry that is in the world is not serious. It expresses not what the writer really thinks and A to as feels, but what haunts his brain, the fancies that come to him unbidden, and these are usually an echo of former beliefs. The serious thoughts of one age walk, as it were, as the poetry of the ages that follow. Quite different and much less in quantity is the poetry that arises from a fresh, original contemplation of Nature, the poetry which, though perhaps symbolical in form, the author is prepared to stand by as substantially true. There is not much in any age of such poetry, and it is seldom well received. For the public is much more under the dominion of hereditary sentiment than even the poets; the public desires to find in poetry the old commonplaces, and resents being cheated of them. But it is incomparably more valuable, and in fact is the vital element which alone keeps poetry alive. Wordsworth supplied it England in Goethe's age. Now hereditary poetic sentiment, I have remarked, was wanting in Goethe's age and country. He was driven to be original, and being thus driven he became the avowed enemy of the conventional style, the mortal enemy," he loves to say, of all empty verbiage. He takes poetry very seriously indeed. It is not enough for him that a poem is eloquent or high-sounding, or that it is popular; not enough even that it acts on the feelings, that it draws tears or excites enthusiasm. "Touch the heart!" he exclaims, " any bungler can do that!" According to him poetry must be true, and he presses this principle with such rigor, that he seems to withdraw the art from popular judgment altogether. In short, all the work of reformation that was done in England by Wordsworth was done at the same time for Germany by Goethe. It was done not indeed more faithfully and in the face of less opposition; but it was done with far wider intelligence, and with far profounder results. But that it should have been done at all, adds another great title to those high and various pretensions which Goethe puts forward. The Shakespeare was at the same time the Wordsworth. The great creator who imagined Faust and Gretchen, who certainly could not say with Words worth to freeze the blood I have no ready arts," is nevertheless as vigorous a reformer, and holds mere popularity in as sovereign contempt, as Wordsworth himself. Wordsworth went without popularity, and it may strike us as natural that such a serious view of poetry should not commend itself to the multitude. To the multitude, indeed, it seems pedantic and almost self-contradictory; for is not poetry a pleasure, a natural recreation of the spirit, and what can be more perverse than to sophisticate it with reasoning? Was Goethe then unpopular also? The history of Goethe's reputation, and of his popularity in Germany, is long and interesting. I shall return to it. Meanwhile, it is to be said that certainly he suffered no such neglect as Wordsworth. Some of his works were vastly popular. He began with the greatest popular triumph that has been witnessed in German lit erary history. The reception Cof "Götz" and of "Werther,' was similar to that of the " Lay of the Last Minstrel" and the first canto of " Childe Harold" in England; and as Goethe was the author of both works, his fame after their appearance was like that of Scott and that of Byron taken together. About 1775 he was by far the most popular poet, not only living, but that had lived, in Germany. Had Goethe been only a Scott, or only a Byron, or only a Scott and Byron in one, he would have taken his fortune at the flood, and poured out during the next twenty years. a series of chivalrous romances, and another series of domestic tales of love and suicide. Certainly at that time it could hardly have been expected that he would appear as a vigorous reformer of taste. Again, in the middle of his career, his Hermann und Dorothea" was enthusiastically received, and of course the First Part of Faust, which, in its complete form, did not come before the world till Goethe was fifty-nine years of age, had an unbounded popularity. But in the long intervals between these great triumphs he often passed into the background, was often almost forgotten, or was believed to have been spoiled for literature by the distractions of Court-life. Even when his fame was solidly established it became the custom to say, and Coleridge repeated it in England in the only passage in which Coleridge ever spoke of Goethe, that his writings did not, and never would, go to the heart of the German people as did those of Schiller, and that there was a certain coldness about them. Other critics outside Germany have charged him not only with coldness, but even with dulness; M. Schérer, for example. On this question of dulness we must distinguish. Goethe had a long old age. Perhaps we ought to consider that the "Westöstlicher Divan," which appeared in 1819, marks the close of his really vigorous authorship. But he lived and labored for twelve years after this date. In the production of those twelve years, no doubt much is languid, and we can only say in apology that the writer is old, and, especially when we speak of the second part of ". Faust,' that admiration and flattery have caused him to overrate the importance of his writings. But if we find dulness in the writings of his vigorous period, it must be due to another cause. Dulness, when we attribute it to a writer, is after all a relative term; it expresses only a want of correspondence between. the mind of the writer and that of the reader. The writer finds something interesting, and therefore enlarges upon it, but the reader does not find it interesting. To that reader therefore that writer is dull; but it is equally true that the reader seems dull to the writer. On which side the dulness actually resides depends upon the question, whether the matter which actually does not interest the reader ought to interest him. When Wordsworth's readers pish and psha at his stories of humble life, and protest that they take no interest in them, Wordsworth answers: But you ought to take an interest! It is not quite nor always, but it is partly and at times, the same with Goethe. What you call dulness he I calls seriousness. Wilhelm's interminable description of the puppet-show in the first book of "Wilhelm Meister puts Marianne to sleep; that is, the writer knows well that he is writing what plain people will find dull, but to himself, since he is seriously inquiring into the philosophy of the drama, these things are interesting and seem to deserve close attention. perhaps, the most serious; not the most solemn, nor the most passionate, nor the most earnest, but the most serious. He is absolutely bent upon grasping, and expressing the truth; he has no pleasure in any imaginations, however splendid or impressive, which he cannot feel to be true; on the other hand, when he feels that he is dealing with truth he seems to care little, and sometimes to forget altogether, that it is not interesting. This is highly characteristic of the man who took almost as much interest in science as in poetry, and could perform with infinite assiduity the task of a practical administrator. When we consider indeed the methodical and practical seriousness of his character, what surprises us is not so much that his writings should here and there be heavy, as that he should have continued through a long life to be a poet, and a highly imaginative and brilliant poet. What was rather to be predicted of such a nature was, that after a poetic youth he would find the serious business of his life either in science or in administration. Literature is perhaps at best a compromise between truth and fancy, between seriousness and trifling. It cannot do without something of popularity, and yet the writer who thinks much of popularity is unfaithful to his mission; on the other hand, he who leans too heavily upon literature breaks through it into science or into practical business. Goethe was often in danger of seeing his art thus give way under him; when he says that but for Schiller's sympathy he does not know what would have become of him, he seems to mean that he was on the point, at the moment when Schiller came to the rescue, of abandoning poetry for science. He is always so near to reality, and examines it with such penetrating eyes, that it is a problem how he can remain a poet; for is poetry possible without something of illusion? Yet he remains a poet to the last. Business could not make him dull, nor science sceptical; even when old age was added to both, he might lose something of his force, but his imagination remained warm and glowing. The second part of Faust" may show signs of decay, but assuredly it is not prosaic. Of all imaginative writers Goethe is, On the point of disappearance, this 64 |