The paternal strain in Goethe's blood made for level-headedness, precise and methodical ways, a serious view of life, and a desire to make the most of it. By his mother he was a poet who liked nothing else so well as to invent dream-worlds and commune with the spirits of his imagination. He also ascribes to his mother his Frohnatur, his joyous nature. And certain it is that his temperament was on the whole sunny. As he grew to manhood men and women alike were charmed by him. He became a virtuoso in love and had a genius for friendship. But he was not always cheerful. In his youth, particularly, he was often moody and given to brooding over indefinable woes. He suffered acutely at times from what is now called the melancholia of adolescence. This was a phase of that emotional sensitiveness and nervous instability which are nearly always a part of the poet's dower.

Wolfgang grew up in a wholesome atmosphere of comfort and refinement. He never knew the tonic bitterness of poverty. On the other hand, he was never spoiled by his advantages; to his dying day he disliked luxury. At home under private tutors the boy studied Latin, French, and English, and picked up a little Italian by overhearing his sister's lessons. In 1758 Frankfurt was occupied by a French army, and a French playhouse was set going for the diversion of the officers. In the interest of his French Wolfgang was allowed to go to the theatre, and he made such rapid progress that he was soon studying the dramatic unities as expounded by Corneille and actually trying to write a French play. Withal he was left much to himself, so that he had time to explore Frankfurt to his heart's content.



He was much in contact with people of the humbler sort and learned to like their racy dialect. He penetrated into the ghetto and learned the jargon of the Jews. He even attacked biblical Hebrew, being led thereto by his great love of the Old Testament.

It was his boyish ambition to become a great poet. His favorite amusement was a puppet-show, for which he invented elaborate plays. From his tenth year on he wrote a great deal of verse, early acquiring technical facility and local renown and coming to regard himself as a "thunderer." He attempted a polyglot novel, also a biblical tale on the subject of Joseph, which he destroyed on observing that the hero did nothing but pray and weep. When he was ready for the university he wished to go to Goettingen to study the old humanities, but his father was bent on making a lawyer of him. So it came about that some ten years of his early life were devoted, first as a student and then as a practitioner, to a reluctant and half-hearted grapple with the intricacies of Holy Roman law.

At the age of sixteen Goethe entered the University of Leipzig, where he remained about three years. The law lectures bored him and he soon ceased to attend them. The other studies that he took up, especially logic and philosophy, seemed to him arid and unprofitable—mere conventional verbiage without any bed-rock of real knowledge. So he presently fell into that mood of disgust with academic learning which was afterwards to form the keynote of Faust. Outside the university he found congenial work in Oeser's drawing-school. Oeser was an artist of no great power with the brush, but a genial man, a friend of Winckelmann, and an enthusiast for Greek art. Goethe learned to admire and love him, and from this time on, for some twenty years, his constant need of artistic expression found hardly less satisfaction in drawing from nature than in poetry.

His poetic ambition received little encouragement in university circles. Those to whom he read his ambitious verses made light of them. The venerated Gellert, himself a poet of repute, advised the lad to cultivate a good prose style and look to his handwriting. No wonder that he despaired of his talent, concluded that he could never be a poet, and burnt his effusions. A maddening love-affair with his landlady's daughter, Anna Katharina Schoenkopf, revived the dying lyric flame, and he began to write verses in the gallant erotic vein then and there fashionable—verses that tell of love-lorn shepherds and shepherdesses, give sage advice to girls about keeping their innocence, and moralize on the ways of this wicked world. They show no signs of lyric genius. His short-lived passion for Annette, as he called her, whom he tormented with his jealousy until she lost patience and broke off the intimacy, was also responsible for his first play, Die Laune des Verliebten, or The Lover's Wayward Humor. It is a pretty one-act pastoral in alexandrine verse, the theme being the punishment of an over-jealous lover. What is mainly significant in these Leipzig poetizings is the fact that they grew out of genuine experience. Goethe had resolved to drop his ambitious projects, such as Belshazzar, and coin his own real thoughts and feelings into verse. Thus early he was led into the way of poetic "confession."

In the summer of 1768 he was suddenly prostrated by a grave illness—an internal hemorrhage which was at first thought to portend consumption. Pale and languid he returned to his father's house, and for several months it was uncertain whether he was to live or die. During this period of seclusion he became deeply interested in magic, alchemy, astrology, cabalism, and all that sort of thing. He even set up a kind of alchemist's laboratory to search experimentally for the panacea. Out of these abstruse studies grew Faust's wonderful dream of an ecstatic spirit-life to be attained by natural magic. Of course the menace of impending death drew his thoughts in the direction of religion. Among the intimate friends of the family was the devout Susanna von Klettenberg, one of the leading spirits in a local conventicle of the Moravian Brethren. This lady—afterwards immortalized as the "beautiful soul" of Wilhelm Meister—tried to have the sick youth make his peace with God in her way, that is, by accepting Christ as an ever-present personal saviour. While he never would admit a conviction of sin he envied the calm of the saintly maiden and was so far converted that he attended the meetings of the Brethren, took part in their communion service, and for a while spoke the language of a devout pietist.

This religious experience of his youth bit deep into Goethe's character. He soon drifted away from the pietists and their ways, he came to have a poor opinion of priests and priestcraft, and in time men called him a heathen. Nevertheless his nature had been so deeply stirred in his youth by religion's mystic appeal that he never afterwards lost his reverence for genuine religious feeling. To the end of his days the aspiration of the human soul for communion with God found in him a delicate and sympathetic interpreter.

During his convalescence Goethe retouched a score of his Leipzig songs and published them anonymously, with music by his friend Breitkopf, under the title of New Songs. He regarded them at the time as trifles that had come into being without art or effort. "Young, in love, and full of feeling," he had sung them so, while "playing the old game of youth." To-day they seem to convey little forewarning of the matchless lyric gift that was soon to awaken, being a shade too intellectual and sententious. One hears more of the critic's comment than of the poet's cry. It was at this time also that he rewrote an earlier Leipzig play, expanding it from one act to three and giving it the title Die Mitschuldigen, or The Fellow-culprits. It is a sort of rogue's comedy in middle-class life, written in the alexandrine verse, which was soon to be discarded along with other French fashions. We have a quartet consisting of an inquisitive inn-keeper, his mismated sentimental daughter, her worthless husband, and her former lover. They tangle themselves up in a series of low intrigues and are finally unmasked as one and all poor miserable sinners. Technically it is a good play—lively, diverting, well put together. But one can not call it very edifying.

In the spring of 1770 Goethe entered the University of Strassburg, which was at that time in French territory. It was a part of his general purpose to better his French, but the actual effect of his sojourn in Alsatia was to put him out of humor with all French standards, especially with the classic French drama, and to excite in him a fervid enthusiasm for the things of the fatherland. This was due partly to the influence of Herder, with whom he now came into close personal relations. From Herder, who was six years his senior and already known by his Fragments and Critical Forests as a trenchant and original critic, he heard the gospel of a literary revolution. Rules and conventions were to be thrown overboard; the new watchwords were nature, power, originality, genius, fulness of expression. He conceived a boundless admiration for Homer, Ossian, and Shakespeare, in each of whom he saw the mirror of an epoch and a national life. He became an enthusiastic collector of Alsatian folksongs and was fascinated by the Strassburg minster—at a time when "Gothic" was generally regarded as a synonym of barbarous. Withal his gift for song-making came to a new stage of perfection under the inspiration of his love for the village maid Friederike Brion. From this time forth he was the prince of German lyrists.

In the summer of 1771 he returned to Frankfurt once more, this time with the title of licentiate in law, and began to practise in a perfunctory way, with his heart in his literary projects. By the end of the year he had written out the first draft of a play which he afterwards revised and published anonymously (in 1773) under the title of Goetz von Berlichingen. By its exuberant fulness of life, its bluff German heartiness, and the freshness and variety of its scenes, it took the public by storm, notwithstanding its disregard of the approved rules of play-writing.



The next year he published The Sufferings of Young Werther, a tragic tale of a weak-willed sentimental youth of hyperesthetic tendencies, who commits suicide because of disappointment in love. The story was the greatest literary triumph that Germany had ever known, and in point of sheer artistic power it remains to this day the best of novels in the tragic-sentimental vein. These two works carried the name of Goethe far and wide and made him the accepted leader of the literary revolution which long afterwards came to be known, from the title of a play by Klinger, as the Storm and Stress.

The years 1773-1775 were for Goethe a time of high emotional tension, from which he sought relief in rapid, desultory, and multifarious writing. Exquisite songs, musical comedies of a sentimental tinge, humorous and satiric skits in dramatic form, prose tragedy of passionate error, and poetic tragedy of titanic revolt—all these and more welled up from a sub-conscious spring of feeling, taking little counsel of the sober intellect. Several minor productions were left unfinished and were afterwards published in fragmentary form. Such is the case with Prometheus, a splendid fragment, in which we get a glimpse of the Titan battling, as the friend of man, against the ever-living gods. Of the works completed and published at this time, aside from Goetz and Werther, the most notable were Clavigo and Stella, prose tragedies in which a fickle lover meets with condign punishment. Another prose tragedy, Egmont, with its hero conceived as a "demonic" nature borne on to his doom by his own buoyancy of spirit, was nearly finished. Most important of all, a considerable portion of Faust, which was to be its author's great life-work, was "stormed out" during these early years at Frankfurt.

The legendary Faust is presented as a bad man who sells his soul to the devil for twenty-four years of power and pleasure, gets what he bargained for, and in the end goes to perdition. Young Goethe conceived his hero differently: not as a bad man on the way to hell, and not—at first—as a good man on the way to heaven. He thought of him rather as a towering personality passionately athirst for transcendental knowledge and universal experience; as a man whose nature contained the very largest possibilities both for good and for evil. It is probable that, when he began to write, Goethe did not intend to anticipate the judgment of God upon Faust's career. The essence of his dramatic plan was to carry his hero through a lifetime of varied experience, letting him sin and suffer grandly, and at last to give him something to do which would seem worth having lived for. After the going down of the curtain, in all probability, he was to be left in the hands of the Eternal Pardoner. Later in life, as we shall see, Goethe decided not only to save his hero, but to make his salvation a part of the dramatic action.

The close of the year 1775 brought a momentous change in Goethe's life and prospects. On the invitation of the young duke Karl August, who had met him and taken a liking to him, he went to visit the Weimar court, not expecting to stay more than a few weeks. But the duke was so pleased with his gifted and now famous guest that he presently decided to keep him in Weimar, if possible, by making him a member of the Council of State. Goethe was the more willing to remain, since he detested his law practise, and his income from authorship was pitifully small. Moreover, he saw in the boyish, impulsive, sport-loving prince a sterling nature that might be led in the ways of wise rulership. For the nonce this was mission enough. He took his seat in the Council in June, 1776, with the title of Councilor of Legation. At first there was not very much for him to do except to familiarize himself with the physical and economic conditions of the little duchy. This he did with a will. He set about studying mineralogy, geology, botany, and was soon observing the homologies of the vertebrate skeleton. Withal he was very attentive to routine business.



One after another important departments of administration were turned over to him, until he became, in 1782, the President of the Chambers and hence the leading statesman of the duchy.

All this produced a sobering and clarifying effect. The inner storm and stress gradually subsided, and the new Goethe—statesman, scientific investigator, man of the world, courtier, friend of princes—came to see that after all feeling was not everything, and that its untrammeled expression was not the whole of art. Form and decorum counted for more than he had supposed, and revolution was not the word of wisdom. Self-control was the only basis of character, and limitation lay at the foundation of all art. To work to make things better, even in a humble sphere, was better than to fret over the badness of the world. Nature's method was that of bit-by-bit progress, and to puzzle out her ways was a noble and fascinating employment. In this general way of thinking he was confirmed by the study of Spinoza's Ethics, a book which, as he said long afterwards, quieted his passions and gave him a large and free outlook over the world. In this process of quieting the passions some influence must be ascribed to Charlotte von Stein, a woman in whom, for some twelve years of his life, he found his muse and his madonna. His letters often address her in terms of idolatrous endearment. She was a wife and a mother, but Weimar society regarded her relation to Goethe as a platonic attachment not to be condemned.

The artistic expression of the new life in Weimar is found in various short poems, notably Wanderer's Nightsong, Ilmenau, The Divine, and The Mysteries; also in a number of plays which were written for the amateur stage of the court circle. The Weimarians were very fond of play-acting, and Goethe became their purveyor of dramatic supplies. It was to meet this demand that he wrote Brother and Sister (Die Geschwister), The Triumph of Sentimentalism, The Fisher-maid, The Birds, and other pieces. Much more important than any of these bagatelles, which were often hastily composed for a birthday celebration or some other festive occasion, are the two fine poetic dramas, Iphigenie and Tasso. The former was first written rather rapidly in stately rhythmic prose and played by the amateurs, with Goethe himself in the role of Orestes, in the spring of 1779. Eight years later, the author being then in Italy, it was recast with great care in mellifluous blank verse. Iphigenie is essentially a drama of the soul, there being little in it of what is commonly called action. A youth who is the prey of morbid illusions, so that his life has become a burden, is cured by finding a noble-minded sister, whose whole being radiates peace and self-possession. The entire power of Goethe's chastened art is here lavished on the figure of his heroine who, by her goodness, her candor, her sweet reasonableness, not only heals her soul-sick brother, but so works on the barbarian king Thoas, who would fain have her for his wife, that he wins a notable victory over himself.

By the end of his first decade in Weimar Goethe began to feel that he needed and had earned a vacation. His conduct of the public business had been highly successful, but he had starved his esthetic nature; for after all Weimar was only a good-sized village that could offer little to the lover of art. Overwork had so told upon him that he was unable to hold himself long to any literary project. He had begun half a dozen important works, but had completed none of them, and the public was beginning to suspect that the author of Goetz and Werther was lost to literature. The effect of the whole situation—that inner conflict between the poetic dreamer and the man of affairs which is the theme of Tasso—was to produce a feeling of depression, as of a bird caught in a net. So acute did the trouble become that he afterwards spoke of it as a terrible disease. In the summer of 1786 he contracted with the Leipzig publisher Goeschen for a new edition of his works in eight volumes; and to gain time for this enterprise he resolved to take a trip to the land upon which he had already twice looked down with longing—once in 1775 and again in 1779—from the summit of the Gotthard.



On the 3d of September, at three o'clock in the morning, he stole away from Karlsbad, where he had been taking the waters, and hurried southward, alone and incognito, over the Alps.

In Italy, where he remained nearly two years, Goethe's mind and art underwent another notable change. He himself called it a spiritual rebirth. Freed from all oppressive engagements, he gave himself to the study of ancient sculpture and architecture, reveled in the splendors of Renaissance painting, and pursued his botanical studies in the enticing plant-world of the Italian gardens. Venice, Naples, Vesuvius, Sicily, the sea, fascinated him in their several ways and gave him the sense of being richer for the rest of his life. Sharing in the care-free existence of the German artist-colony in Rome made him very happy. It not only disciplined his judgment in matters of art and opened a vast new world of ideas and impressions, but it restored the lost balance between the intellectual and duty-bound man on the one hand and the esthetic and sensual man on the other. He resolved never again to put on the harness of an administrative drudge, but to claim the freedom of a poet, an artist, a man of science. To this desire the Duke of Weimar generously assented.

On his return to Weimar, in June, 1788, Goethe made it his first task to finish the remaining works that were called for by his contract with Goeschen. Egmont and Tasso were soon disposed of, but Faust proved intractable. While in Rome he had taken out the old manuscript and written a scene or two, and had then somehow lost touch with the subject. So he decided to revise what he had on hand and to publish a part of the scenes as a fragment. This fragmentary Faust came out in 1790. It attracted little attention, nor was any other of the new works received with much warmth by the public of that day. They expected something like Goetz and Werther, and did not understand the new Goethe, who showed in many ways that his heart was still in Italy and that he found Weimar a little dull and provincial. Thus the greatest of German poets had for the time being lost touch with the German public; he saw that he must wait for the growth of the taste by which he was to be understood and enjoyed. Matters were hardly made better by his taking Christiane Vulpius into his house as his unwedded wife. This step, which shocked Weimar society—except the duke and Herder—had the effect of ending his unwholesome relation to Frau von Stein, who was getting old and peevish. The character of Christiane has often been pictured too harshly. She was certainly not her husband's intellectual peer—he would have looked long for a wife of that grade—and she became a little too fond of wine. On the other hand, she was affectionate, devoted, true, and by no means lacking in mental gifts. She and Goethe were happy together and faithful to each other.

For several years after his return from Italy Goethe wrote nothing that is of much importance in the history of his literary life. He devoted himself largely to scientific studies in plant and animal morphology and the theory of color. His discovery of the intermaxillary bone in the human skull, and his theory that the lateral organs of a plant are but successive phases of the leaf, have given him an assured if modest place in the history of the development hypothesis. On the other hand, his long and laborious effort to refute Newton's theory of the composition of white light is now generally regarded as a misdirection of energy. In his Roman Elegies (1790) he struck a note of pagan sensuality. The pensive distichs, telling of the wanton doings of Amor amid the grandeur that was Rome, were a little shocking in their frank portraiture of the emancipated flesh. The outbreak of violence in France seemed to him nothing but madness and folly, since he did not see the real Revolution, but only the Paris Terror.

He wrote two or three very ordinary plays to satirize various phases of the revolutionary excitement—phases that now seem as insignificant as the plays themselves. In 1792 he accompanied the Duke of Weimar on the inglorious Austro-Prussian invasion of France, heard the cannonade at Valmy, and was an interested observer as the allies tumbled back over the Rhine. Perhaps the best literary achievement of these years is the fine hexameter version of the medieval Reynard the Fox.

The year 1794 marks the beginning of more intimate relations between Goethe and Schiller. Their memorable friendship lasted until Schiller's death, in 1805—the richest decade in the whole history of German letters. The two men became in a sense allies and stood together in the championship of good taste and humane idealism. Goethe's literary occupations during this period were very multifarious; a list of his writings in the various fields of poetry, drama, prose fiction, criticism, biography, art and art-history, literary scholarship, and half a dozen sciences, would show a many-sidedness to which there is no modern parallel. Of all this mass of writing only a few works of major importance can even be mentioned here.

In 1796 appeared Wilhelm Meister's Apprenticeship, a novel which captivated the literary class, if not the general public, and was destined to exert great influence on German fiction for a generation to come. It had been some twenty years in the making. In its earlier form it was called Wilhelm Meister's Theatrical Mission.[3] This tells the story of a Werther-like youth who is to be saved from Werther's fate by finding a work to do. His "mission," apparently, is to become a good actor and to promote high ideals of the histrionic art. Incidentally he is ambitious to be a dramatic poet, and his childhood is simply that of Wolfgang Goethe. For reasons intimately connected with his own development Goethe finally decided to change his plan and his title, and to present Wilhelm's variegated experiences as an apprenticeship in the school of life. In the final version Wilhelm comes to the conclusion that the theatre is not his mission—all that was a mistaken ambition. Just what use he will make of his well-disciplined energy does not clearly appear at the end of the story, since Goethe bundles him off to Italy. He was already planning a continuation of the story under the title of Wilhelm Meister's Journeymanship. In this second part the hero becomes interested in questions of social uplift and thinks of becoming a surgeon. Taken as a whole Wilhelm Meister moves with a slowness which is quite out of tune with later ideals of prose fiction. It also lacks concentration and artistic finality. But it is replete with Goethe's ripe and mellow wisdom, and it contains more of his intimate self than any other work of his except Faust.

During this high noon of his life Goethe again took up his long neglected Faust, decided to make two parts of it, completed the First Part, and thought out much that was to go into the Second Part. By this time he had become somewhat alienated from the spirit of his youth, when he had envisaged life in a mist of vague and stormy emotionalism. His present passion was for clearness. So he boldly decided to convert the old tragedy of sin and suffering into a drama of mental clearing-up. The early Faust—the pessimist, murderer, seducer—was to be presented as temporarily wandering in the dark; as a man who had gone grievously wrong in passionate error, but was essentially "good" by virtue of his aspiring nature, and hence, in the Lord's fulness of time, was to be led out into the light and saved. The First Part, ending with the heart-rending death of Margaret in her prison-cell, and leaving Faust in an agony of remorse, was published in 1808. Faust's redemption, by enlarged experience of life and especially by his symbolic union with the Greek Queen of Beauty, was reserved for the Second Part.



The other more notable works of this period are Hermann and Dorothea, a delightful poem in dactylic hexameters, picturing a bit of German still life against the sinister background of the French Revolution, and the Natural Daughter, which was planned to body forth, in the form of a dramatic trilogy in blank verse, certain phases of Goethe's thinking about the upheaval in France. In the former he appears once more as a poet of the plain people, with an eye and a heart for their ways and their outlook upon life. Everybody likes Hermann and Dorothea. On the other hand, the Natural Daughter is disappointing, and not merely because it is a fragment. (Only the first part of the intended trilogy was written.) Goethe had now convinced himself that the function of art is to present the typical. Accordingly the characters appear as types of humanity divested of all that is accidental or peculiar to the individual. The most of them have not even a name. The consequence is that, notwithstanding the splendid verse and the abounding wisdom of the speeches, the personages do not seem to be made of genuine human stuff. As a great thinker's comment on the Revolution the Natural Daughter is almost negligible.

The decade that followed the death of Schiller was for Germany a time of terrible trial, during which Goethe pursued the even tenor of his way as a poet and man of science. He had little sympathy with the national uprising against Napoleon, whom he looked on as the invincible subduer of the hated Revolution. From the point of view of our modern nationalism, which was just then entering on its world-transforming career, his conduct was unpatriotic. But let him at least be rightly understood. It was not that he lacked sympathy for the German people, but he misjudged and underestimated the new forces that were coming into play. As the son of an earlier age he could only conceive a people's welfare as the gift of a wise ruler. He thought of politics as the affair of the great. He hated war and all eruptive violence, being convinced that good would come, not by such means, but by enlightenment, self-control and attending to one's work in one's sphere. To the historian Luden he said in 1813:

"Do not believe that I am indifferent to the great ideas of freedom, people, fatherland. No! These ideas are in us, they are a part of our being, and no one can cast them from him. I too have a warm heart for Germany. I have often felt bitter pain in thinking of the German people, so worthy of respect in some ways, so miserable on the whole. A comparison of the German people with other peoples arouses painful emotions which I try in every way to surmount; and in science and art I have found the wings whereby I rise above them. But the comfort which these afford is after all a poor comfort that does not compensate for the proud consciousness of belonging to a great and strong people that is honored and feared."

In 1808 he published The Elective Affinities, a novel in which the tragic effects of lawless passion invading the marriage relation were set forth with telling art. Soon after this he began to write a memoir of his life. He was now a European celebrity, the dream of his youth had come true, and he purposed to show in detail how everything had happened; that is, how his literary personality had evolved amid the environing conditions. He conceived himself as a phenomenon to be explained. That he called his memoir Poetry and Truth was perhaps an error of judgment, since the title has been widely misunderstood. For Goethe poetry was not the antithesis of truth, but a higher species of truth—the actuality as seen by the selecting, combining, and harmonizing imagination. In themselves, he would have said, the facts of a man's life are meaningless, chaotic, discordant: it is the poet's office to put them into the crucible of his spirit and give them forth as a significant and harmonious whole. The "poetry" of Goethe's autobiography—by far the best of autobiographies in the German language—must not be taken to imply concealment, perversion, substitution, or anything of that gross kind.



It lies in the very style of the book and is a part of its author's method of self-revelation. That he devotes so much space to the seemingly transient and unimportant love-affairs of his youth is only his way of recognizing that the poet-soul is born of love and nourished by love. He felt that these fleeting amorosities were a part of the natural history of his inner being.

And even in the serene afternoon of his life lovely woman often disturbed his soul, just as in the days of his youth. But the poetic expression of his feeling gradually became less simple and direct: he liked to embroider it with musing reflections and exotic fancies gathered from everywhere. Just as he endeavored with indefatigable eagerness of mind to keep abreast of scientific research, so he tried to assimilate the poetry of all nations. The Greeks and Romans no longer sufficed his omnivorous appetite and his "panoramic ability." When Hammer-Purgstall's German version of the Dīwān of Hāfīz came into his hands he at once set about making himself at home in the mental world of the Persian and Arabic poets. Thus arose his Divan (1819), in which he imitated the oriental costume, but not the form. His aim was to reproduce in German verse the peculiar savor of the Orientals, with their unique blend of sensuality, wit, and mystic philosophy. But the feeling—the inner experience—was all his own. The best book of the Divan, the one called Suleika, was inspired by a very real liking for Marianne Willemer, a talented lady who played the love-game with him and actually wrote some of the poems long ascribed to Goethe himself.

At last, in 1824, when he was seventy-five years old, he came back once more to his Faust, the completion of which had long floated before his mind as a duty that he owed to himself and to the world. There was no longer any doubt as to what his great life-work was to be. With admirable energy and with perfect clarity of vision he addressed himself to the gigantic task, the general plan of which and many of the details had been thought out long before. It was finished in the summer of 1831. About sixty years after he had penned the first words of Faust, the disgruntled pessimist at war with life, he took leave of him as a purified soul mounting upward among the saints toward the Ineffable Light, under the mystic guidance of the Eternal-Womanly.

Goethe died March 18, 1832. The story that his last words were "more light" is probably nothing more than a happy invention.

Admirers of the great German see more in him than the author of the various works which have been all too briefly characterized in the preceding sketch. His is a case where, in very truth, the whole is more than the sum of the parts. Goethe is the representative of an epoch. He stands for certain ideals which are not those of the present hour, but which it was of inestimable value to the modern man to have thus nobly worked out and exemplified in practice. Behind and beneath his writings, informing them and giving them their value for posterity, is a wonderful personality which it is a delight and an education to study in the whole process of its evolution. By way of struggle, pain and error, like his own Faust, he arrived at a view of life, in which he found inspiration and inner peace. It is outlined in the verses which he placed before his short poems as a sort of motto:

Wide horizon, eager life, Busy years of honest strife, Ever seeking, ever founding, Never ending, ever rounding, Guarding tenderly the old, Taking of the new glad hold, Pure in purpose, light of heart, Thus we gain—at least a start.



POEMS

GREETING AND DEPARTURE[4] (1771)

My heart throbbed high: to horse, away then! Swift as a hero to the fight! Earth in the arms of evening lay then, And o'er the mountains hung the night, Now could I see like some huge giant The haze-enveloped oak-tree rise, While from the thicket stared defiant The darkness with its hundred eyes.

The cloud-throned moon from his dominion Peered drowsily through veils of mist. The wind with gently-wafting pinion Gave forth a rustling strange and whist. With shapes of fear the night was thronging But all the more my courage glowed; My soul flamed up in passionate longing And hot my heart with rapture flowed.

I saw thee; melting rays of pleasure Streamed o'er me from thy tender glance, My heart beat only to thy measure, I drew my breath as in a trance. The radiant hue of spring caressing Lay rosy on thy upturned face, And love—ye gods, how rich the blessing! I dared not hope to win such grace.

To part—alas what grief in this is!— In every look thy heart spoke plain. What ecstasy was in thy kisses! What changing thrill of joy and pain! I went. One solace yet to capture, Thine eyes pursued in sweet distress. But to be loved, what holy rapture! To love, ah gods, what happiness!



THE HEATHROSE[5] (1771)

Once a boy a Rosebud spied, Heathrose fair and tender, All array'd in youthful pride,— Quickly to the spot he hied, Ravished by her splendor. Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, Heathrose fair and tender! Said the boy, "I'll now pick thee Heathrose fair and tender!" Rosebud cried "And I'll prick thee, So thou shalt remember me, Ne'er will I surrender!" Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, Heathrose fair and tender! But the wanton plucked the rose, Heathrose fair and tender; Thorns the cruel theft oppose, Brief the struggle and vain the woes, She must needs surrender. Rosebud, rosebud, rosebud red, Heathrose fair and tender!

MAHOMET'S SONG[6] (1773)

[This song was intended to be introduced in a dramatic poem entitled Mahomet, the plan of which was not carried out by Goethe. He mentions that it was to have been sung by Ali toward the end of the piece, in honor of his master, Mahomet, shortly before his death, and when at the height of his glory, of which it is typical.]

See the rock-born stream! Like the gleam Of a star so bright! Kindly spirits High above the clouds Nourished him while youthful In the copse between the cliffs.

Young and fresh, From the clouds he danceth Down upon the marble rocks; Then tow'rd heaven Leaps exulting.

Through the mountain-passes Chaseth he the color'd pebbles, And, advancing like a chief, Draws his brother streamlets with him In his course.

In the vale below 'Neath his footsteps spring the flowers, And the meadow In his breath finds life.

Yet no shady vale can stay him, Nor can flowers, Round his knees all softly twining With their loving eyes detain him; To the plain his course he taketh, Serpent-winding.

Eager streamlets Join his waters. And now moves he O'er the plain in silv'ry glory, And the plain in him exults, And the rivers from the plain, And the streamlets from the mountain, Shout with joy, exclaiming: "Brother, Brother, take thy brethren with thee. With thee to thine aged father, To the everlasting ocean, Who, with arms outstretching far, Waiteth for us; Ah, in vain those arms lie open To embrace his yearning children; For the thirsty sand consumes us In the desert waste; the sunbeams Drink our life-blood; hills around us Into lakes would dam us! Brother, Take thy brethren of the plain, Take thy brethren of the mountain With thee, to thy father's arms!"—

Let all come, then!— And now swells he Lordlier still; yea, e'en a people Bears his regal flood on high! And in triumph onward rolling, Names to countries gives he,—cities Spring to light beneath his foot.

Ever, ever, on he rushes, Leaves the towers' flame-tipp'd summits, Marble palaces, the offspring Of his fulness, far behind.

Cedar-houses bears the Atlas On his giant shoulders; flutt'ring In the breeze far, far above him Thousand flags are gaily floating, Bearing witness to his might.

And so beareth he his brethren, All his treasures, all his children, Wildly shouting, to the bosom Of his long-expectant sire.

PROMETHEUS[7] (1774)

Cover thy spacious heavens, Zeus, With clouds of mist, And, like the boy who lops The thistles' heads, Disport with oaks and mountain-peaks; Yet thou must leave

My earth still standing; My cottage too, which was not raised by thee, Leave me my hearth, Whose kindly glow By thee is envied.

I know nought poorer Under the sun, than ye gods! Ye nourish painfully, With sacrifices And votive prayers, Your majesty; Ye would e'en starve, If children and beggars Were not trusting fools. While yet a child, And ignorant of life, I turned my wandering gaze Up tow'rd the sun, as if with him There were an ear to hear my wailing, A heart, like mine To feel compassion for distress.

Who help'd me Against the Titans' insolence? Who rescued me from certain death, From slavery? Didst thou not do all this thyself, My sacred glowing heart? And glowedst, young and good, Deceived with grateful thanks To yonder slumbering one?

I honor thee! and why? Hast thou e'er lighten'd the sorrows Of the heavy laden? Hast thou e'er dried up the tears



Of the anguish-stricken? Was I not fashion'd to be a man By omnipotent Time, And by eternal Fate, Masters of me and thee?

Didst thou e'er fancy That life I should learn to hate, And fly to deserts, Because not all My blossoming dreams grew ripe?

Here sit I, forming mortals After my image; A race resembling me, To suffer, to weep, To enjoy, to be glad, And thee to scorn, As I!

THE WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONG[8] (1776)

Thou who comest from on high, Who all woes and sorrows stillest, Who, for two-fold misery, Hearts with twofold balsam fillest, Would this constant strife would cease! What avails the joy and pain? Blissful Peace, To my bosom come again!

THE SEA-VOYAGE[9] (1776)

Many a day and night my bark stood ready laden; Waiting fav'ring winds, I sat with true friends round me, Pledging me to patience and to courage, In the haven.

And they spoke thus with impatience twofold: "Gladly pray we for thy rapid passage, Gladly for thy happy voyage; fortune In the distant world is waiting for thee, In our arms thou'lt find thy prize, and love too, When returning."

And when morning came, arose an uproar And the sailors' joyous shouts awoke us; All was stirring, all was living, moving, Bent on sailing with the first kind zephyr.

And the sails soon in the breeze are swelling, And the sun with fiery love invites us; Fill'd the sails are, clouds on high are floating, On the shore each friend exulting raises Songs of hope, in giddy joy expecting Joy the voyage through, as on the morn of sailing, And the earliest starry nights so radiant.

But by God-sent changing winds ere long he's driven Sideways from the course he had intended, And he feigns as though he would surrender, While he gently striveth to outwit them, To his goal, e'en when thus press'd, still faithful.

But from out the damp gray distance rising, Softly now the storm proclaims its advent, Presseth down each bird upon the waters, Presseth down the throbbing hearts of mortals. And it cometh. At its stubborn fury, Wisely ev'ry sail the seaman striketh; With the anguish-laden ball are sporting Wind and water.

And on yonder shore are gather'd standing, Friends and lovers, trembling for the bold one: "Why, alas, remain'd he here not with us! Ah, the tempest I Cast away by fortune! Must the good one perish in this fashion? Might not he perchance * * *. Ye great immortals!"

Yet he, like a man, stands by his rudder; With the bark are sporting wind and water, Wind and water sport not with his bosom: On the fierce deep looks he, as a master,— In his gods, or shipwreck'd, or safe landed, Trusting ever.

TO THE MOON[10] (1778)

Bush and vale thou fill'st again With thy misty ray, And my spirit's heavy chain Casteth far away.

Thou dost o'er my fields extend Thy sweet soothing eye, Watching like a gentle friend, O'er my destiny.

Vanish'd days of bliss and woe Haunt me with their tone, Joy and grief in turns I know, As I stray alone.

Stream beloved, flow on! Flow on! Ne'er can I be gay! Thus have sport and kisses gone, Truth thus pass'd away.

Once I seem'd the lord to be Of that prize so fair! Now, to our deep sorrow, we Can forget it ne'er.

Murmur, stream, the vale along, Never cease thy sighs; Murmur, whisper to my song Answering melodies!

When thou in the winter's night Overflow'st in wrath, Or in spring-time sparklest bright, As the buds shoot forth.

He who from the world retires, Void of hate, is blest; Who a friend's true love inspires, Leaning on his breast!

That which heedless man ne'er knew, Or ne'er thought aright, Roams the bosom's labyrinth through, Boldly into night.

THE FISHERMAN[11] (1778)

The waters rush'd, the waters rose, A fisherman sat by, While on his line in calm repose He cast his patient eye. And as he sat, and hearken'd there, The flood was cleft in twain, And, lo! a dripping mermaid fair Sprang from the troubled main.

She sang to him, and spake the while "Why lurest thou my brood, With human wit and human guile From out their native flood? Oh, couldst thou know how gladly dart The fish across the sea, Thou wouldst descend, e'en as thou art, And truly happy be!

Do not the sun and moon with grace Their forms in ocean lave? Shines not with twofold charms their face, When rising from the wave? The deep, deep heavens, then lure thee not,— The moist yet radiant blue,— Not thine own form,—to tempt thy lot 'Midst this eternal dew?"

The waters rush'd, the waters rose, Wetting his naked feet; As if his true love's words were those, His heart with longing beat. She sang to him, to him spake she, His doom was fix'd, I ween; Half drew she him, and half sank he, And ne'er again was seen.



THE WANDERER'S NIGHT-SONG[12] (1780)

[Written at night on the Kickelhahn, a hill in the forest of Ilmenau, on the walls of a little hermitage where Goethe composed the last act of his Iphigenie.]

Hush'd on the hill Is the breeze; Scarce by the zephyr The trees Softly are press'd; The woodbird's asleep on the bough. Wait, then, and thou Soon wilt find rest.

THE ERL-KING[13] (1782)

Who rides there so late through the night dark and drear? The father it is, with his infant so dear; He holdeth the boy tightly clasp'd in his arm, He holdeth him safely, he keepeth him warm.

"My son, wherefore seek's thou thy face thus to hide?" "Look, father, the Erl-King is close by our side! Dost see not the Erl-King, with crown and with train?" "My son, 'tis the mist rising over the plain."

"Oh come, thou dear infant! oh come thou with me! Full many a game I will play there with thee; On my strand, lovely flowers their blossoms unfold, My mother shall grace thee with garments of gold."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not hear The words that the Erl-King now breathes in mine ear?" "Be calm, dearest child, 'tis thy fancy deceives; 'Tis the sad wind that sighs through the withering leaves."

"Wilt go, then, dear infant, wilt go with me there? My daughters shall tend thee with sisterly care; My daughters by night their glad festival keep, They'll dance thee, and rock thee, and sing thee to sleep."

"My father, my father, and dost thou not see, How the Erl-King his daughters has brought here for me?" "My darling, my darling, I see it aright, 'Tis the aged gray willows deceiving thy sight."

"I love thee, I'm charm'd by thy beauty, dear boy! And if thou'rt unwilling, then force I'll employ." "My father, my father, he seizes me fast, Full sorely the Erl-King has hurt me at last."

The father now gallops, with terror half wild, He grasps in his arms the poor shuddering child; He reaches his court-yard with toil and with dread,— The child in his arms finds he motionless, dead.

THE GODLIKE[14] (1783)

Noble be man, Helpful and good! For that alone Distinguisheth him From all the beings Unto us known.

Hail to the beings, Unknown and glorious, Whom we forebode! From his example Learn we to know them!

For unfeeling Nature is ever On bad and on good The sun alike shineth; And on the wicked, As on the best, The moon and stars gleam.

Tempest and torrent, Thunder and hail, Roar on their path, Seizing the while, As they haste onward, One after another.

Even so, fortune Gropes 'mid the throng— Innocent boyhood's Curly head seizing,— Seizing the hoary Head of the sinner.

After laws mighty, Brazen, eternal, Must all we mortals Finish the circuit Of our existence.

Man, and man only Can do the impossible He 'tis distinguisheth, Chooseth and judgeth; He to the moment Endurance can lend.

He and he only The good can reward, The bad can he punish, Can heal and can save; All that wanders and strays Can usefully blend.

And we pay homage To the immortals As though they were men, And did in the great, What the best, in the small, Does or might do.

Be the man that is noble, Both helpful and good, Unweariedly forming The right and the useful, A type of those beings Our mind hath foreshadow'd!

MIGNON[15] (1785)

[This universally known poem is also to be found in Wilhelm Meister.]

Know'st thou the land where the fair citron blows, Where the bright orange midst the foliage glows, Where soft winds greet us from the azure skies, Where silent myrtles, stately laurels rise, Know'st thou it well?

'Tis there, 'tis there, That I with thee, beloved one, would repair.

Know'st thou the house? On columns rests its pile, Its halls are gleaming, and its chambers smile, And marble statues stand and gaze on me: "Poor child! what sorrow hath befallen thee?" Know'st thou it well?

'Tis there, 'tis there, That I with thee, protector, would repair!

Know'st thou the mountain, and its cloudy bridge? The mule can scarcely find the misty ridge; In caverns dwells the dragon's olden brood, The frowning crag obstructs the raging flood. Know'st thou it well?

'Tis there, 'tis there, Our path lies—Father—thither, oh repair!

PROXIMITY OF THE BELOVED ONE[16] (1795)

I think of thee, whene'er the sun his beams O'er ocean flings; I think of thee, whene'er the moonlight gleams In silv'ry springs.

I see thee, when upon the distant ridge The dust awakes; At midnight's hour, when on the fragile bridge The wanderer quakes.

I hear thee, when yon billows rise on high, With murmur deep. To tread the silent grove oft wander I, When all's asleep.

I'm near thee, though thou far away mayst be— Thou, too, art near! The sun then sets, the stars soon lighten me, Would thou wert here!

THE SHEPHERD'S LAMENT[17] (1802)

Up yonder on the mountain, I dwelt for days together; Looked down into the valley, This pleasant summer weather.

My sheep go feeding onward, My dog sits watching by; I've wandered to the valley, And yet I know not why.

The meadow, it is pretty, With flowers so fair to see; I gather them, but no one Will take the flowers from me.

The good tree gives me shadow, And shelter from the rain; But yonder door is silent, It will not ope again!

I see the rainbow bending, Above her old abode, But she is there no longer; They've taken my love abroad.

They took her o'er the mountains, They took her o'er the sea; Move on, move on, my bonny sheep, There is no rest for me!

NATURE AND ART[18] (1802)

Nature and art asunder seem to fly, Yet sooner than we think find common ground; In place of strife, harmonious songs resound, And both, at one, to my abode draw nigh. In sooth but one endeavor I descry: Then only, when in ordered moments' round Wisdom and toil our lives to Art have bound, Dare we rejoice in Nature's liberty. Thus is achievement fashioned everywhere: Not by ungovernable, hasty zeal Shalt thou the height of perfect form attain. Husband thy strength, if great emprize thou dare; In self-restraint thy masterhood reveal, And under law thy perfect freedom gain.

COMFORT IN TEARS[19] (1803)

How is it that thou art so sad When others are so gay? Thou hast been weeping—nay, thou hast! Thine eyes the truth betray.

"And if I may not choose but weep Is not my grief mine own? No heart was heavier yet for tears— O leave me, friend, alone!"

Come join this once the merry band, They call aloud for thee, And mourn no more for what is lost, But let the past go free.

"O, little know ye in your mirth, What wrings my heart so deep! I have not lost the idol yet, For which I sigh and weep."

Then rouse thee and take heart! thy blood Is young and full of fire; Youth should have hope and might to win, And wear its best desire.

"O, never may I hope to gain What dwells from me so far; It stands as high, it looks as bright, As yonder burning star."

Why, who would seek to woo the stars Down from their glorious sphere? Enough it is to worship them, When nights are calm and clear.

"Oh, I look up and worship too— My star it shines by day— Then let me weep the livelong night The while it is away."

EPILOGUE TO SCHILLER'S "SONG OF THE BELL"[20]

[This fine piece, written originally in 1805, on Schiller's death, was altered and recast by Goethe in 1815, on the occasion of the performance on the stage of the Song of the Bell. Hence the allusion in the last verse.]

To this city joy reveal it! Peace as its first signal peal it!

(Song of the Bell—concluding lines).

And so it proved! The nation felt, ere long, That peaceful signal, and, with blessings fraught, A new-born joy appeared; in gladsome song To hail the youthful princely pair we sought; While in the living, ever-swelling throng Mingled the crowds from every region brought, And on the stage, in festal pomp arrayed, The HOMAGE OF THE ARTS[21] we saw displayed.

When, lo! a fearful midnight sound I hear, That with a dull and mournful echo rings. And can it be that of our friend so dear It tells, to whom each wish so fondly clings? Shall death o'ercome a life that all revere? How such a loss to all confusion brings! How such a parting we must ever rue! The world is weeping—shall not we weep, too?

He was our own! How social, yet how great Seemed in the light of day his noble mind! How was his nature, pleasing yet sedate, Now for glad converse joyously inclined, Then swiftly changing, spirit-fraught elate, Life's plan with deep-felt meaning it designed, Fruitful alike in counsel and in deed! This have we proved, this tested, in our need.

He was our own! O may that thought so blest O'ercome the voice of wailing and of woe! He might have sought the Lasting, safe at rest In harbor, when the tempest ceased to blow. Meanwhile his mighty spirit onward pressed Where goodness, beauty, truth, forever grow; And in his rear, in shadowy outline, lay The vulgar, which we all, alas, obey!

Now doth he deck the garden-turret fair Where the stars' language first illumed his soul, As secretly yet clearly through the air On the eterne, the living sense it stole; And to his own, and our great profit, there Exchangeth to the seasons as they roll; Thus nobly doth he vanquish, with renown, The twilight and the night that weigh us down.

Brighter now glowed his cheek, and still more bright, With that unchanging, ever-youthful glow,— That courage which o'ercomes, in hard-fought fight, Sooner or later, every earthly foe,— That faith which, soaring to the realms of light, Now boldly presseth on, now bendeth low, So that the good may work, wax, thrive amain, So that the day the noble may attain.

Yet, though so skilled, of such transcendent worth, This boarded scaffold doth he not despise; The fate that on its axis turns the earth From day to night, here shows he to our eyes, Raising, through many a work of glorious birth, Art and the artist's fame up toward the skies. He fills with blossoms of the noblest strife, With life itself, this effigy of life.

His giant-step, as ye full surely know, Measured the circle of the will and deed, Each country's changing thoughts and morals, too, The darksome book with clearness could he read; Yet how he, breathless 'midst his friends so true, Despaired in sorrow, scarce from pain was freed,— All this have we, in sadly happy years, For he was ours, bewailed with feeling tears.

When from the agonizing weight of grief He raised his eyes upon the world again, We showed him how his thoughts might find relief From the uncertain present's heavy chain, Gave his fresh-kindled mind a respite brief, With kindly skill beguiling every pain, And e'en at eve when setting was his sun, From his wan cheeks a gentle smile we won.

Full early had he read the stern decree, Sorrow and death to him, alas, were known; Ofttimes recovering, now departed he,— Dread tidings, that our hearts had feared to own! Yet his transfigured being now can see Itself, e'en here on earth, transfigured grown. What his own age reproved, and deemed a crime, Hath been ennobled now by death and time.

And many a soul that with him strove in fight, And his great merit grudged to recognize, Now feels the impress of his wondrous might, And in his magic fetters gladly lies; E'en to the highest hath he winged his flight, In close communion linked with all we prize. Extol him then! What mortals while they live But half receive, posterity shall give.

Thus is he left us, who so long ago,— Ten years, alas, already!—turned from earth; We all, to our great joy, his precepts know, Oh, may the world confess their priceless worth! In swelling tide toward every region flow The thoughts that were his own peculiar birth; He gleams like some departing meteor bright, Combining, with his own, eternal light.

ERGO BIBAMUS![22] (1810)

For a praiseworthy object we're now gathered here, So, brethren, sing: ERGO BIBAMUS! Tho' talk may be hushed, yet the glasses ring clear, Remember then, ERGO BIBAMUS! In truth 'tis an old, 'tis an excellent word, With its sound befitting each bosom is stirred, And an echo the festal hall filling is heard, A glorious ERGO BIBAMUS!

I saw mine own love in her beauty so rare, And bethought me of: ERGO BIBAMUS; So I gently approached, and she let me stand there, While I helped myself, thinking: BIBAMUS! And when she's appeared, and will clasp you and kiss, Or when those embraces and kisses ye miss, Take refuge, till found is some worthier bliss, In the comforting ERGO BIBAMUS!

I am called by my fate far away from each friend; Ye loved ones, then: ERGO BIBAMUS! With wallet light-laden from hence I must wend, So double our ERGO BIBAMUS! Whate'er to his treasure the niggard may add, Yet regard for the joyous will ever be had, For gladness lends ever its charms to the glad, So, brethren, sing: ERGO BIBAMUS!

And what shall we say of to-day as it flies? I thought but of: ERGO BIBAMUS! 'Tis one of those truly that seldom arise, So again and again sing: BIBAMUS! For joy through a wide-open portal it guides, Bright glitter the clouds as the curtain divides, And a form, a divine one, to greet us in glides, While we thunder our: ERGO BIBAMUS.

THE WALKING BELL[23] (1813)

A child refused to go betimes To church like other people; He roamed abroad, when rang the chimes On Sundays from the steeple.

His mother said: "Loud rings the bell, Its voice ne'er think of scorning; Unless thou wilt behave thee well, 'Twill fetch thee without warning."

The child then thought: "High over head The bell is safe suspended—" So to the fields he straightway sped As if 'twas school-time ended.

The bell now ceased as bell to ring, Roused by the mother's twaddle; But soon ensued a dreadful thing!— The bell begins to waddle.

It waddles fast, though strange it seem; The child, with trembling wonder, Runs off, and flies, as in a dream; The bell would draw him under.

He finds the proper time at last, And straightway nimbly rushes To church, to chapel, hastening fast Through pastures, plains, and bushes.

Each Sunday and each feast as well, His late disaster heeds he; The moment that he hears the bell, No other summons needs he.

FOUND[24] (1813)

Once through the forest Alone I went; To seek for nothing My thoughts were bent.

I saw i' the shadow A flower stand there; As stars it glisten'd, As eyes 'twas fair.

I sought to pluck it,— It gently said: "Shall I be gather'd Only to fade?"

With all its roots I dug it with care, And took it home To my garden fair.

In silent corner Soon it was set; There grows it ever, There blooms it yet.

HATEM[25] (1815)

Locks of brown, still bind your captive In the circle of her face! I, beloved sinuous tresses, Naught possess that's worth your grace—

But a heart whose love enduring Swells in youthful fervor yet: Snow and mists envelop Etna, Making men the fire forget.

Yonder mountain's pride so stately Thou dost shame like dawn's red glow; And its spell once more bids Hatem Thrill of spring and summer know.

Once more fill the glass, the flagon! Let me drink to my desire. If she find a heap of ashes, Say, "He perished in her fire!"

REUNION[26] (1815)

Can it be, O star transcendent, That I fold thee to my breast? Now I know, what depths of anguish May in parting be expressed. Yes, 'tis thou, of all my blisses Lovely, loving partner—thou! Mindful of my bygone sorrows, E'en the present awes me now.

When the world in first conception Lay in God's eternal mind, In creative power delighting He the primal hour designed. When he gave command for being, Then was heard a mighty sigh Full of pain, as all creation Broke into reality.

Up then sprang the light; and darkness Doubtful stood apart to gaze; All the elements, dividing Swiftly, took their several ways. In confused, disordered dreaming Strove they all for freedom's range— Each for self, no fellow-feeling; Single each, and cold and strange.

Lo, a marvel—God was lonely! All was still and cold and dumb. So he framed dawn's rosy blushes Whence should consolation come— To refresh the troubled spirit Harmonies of color sweet: What had erst been forced asunder Now at last could love and meet.

Then, ah then, of life unbounded Sight and feeling passed the gates; Then, ah then, with eager striving Kindred atoms sought their mates. Gently, roughly they may seize them, So they catch and hold them fast: "We," they cry, "are now creators— Allah now may rest at last!"

So with rosy wings of morning Towards thy lips my being moves; Sets the starry night a thousand Glowing seals upon our loves. We are as we should be—parted Ne'er on earth in joy or pain; And no second word creative E'er can sunder us again!

PROOEMION[27] (1816)

In His blest name, who was His own creation, Who from all time makes making His vocation; The name of Him who makes our faith so bright, Love, confidence, activity, and might; In that One's name, who, named though oft He be, Unknown is ever in Reality: As far as ear can reach, or eyesight dim, Thou findest but the known resembling Him; How high soe'er thy fiery spirit hovers, Its simile and type it straight discovers; Onward thou'rt drawn, with feelings light and gay, Where e'er thou goest, smiling is the way; No more thou numberest, reckonest no time, Each step is infinite, each step sublime. What God would outwardly alone control, And on His finger whirl the mighty Whole? He loves the inner world to move, to view Nature in Him, Himself in Nature, too, So that what in Him works, and is, and lives, The measure of His strength, His spirit gives. Within us all a universe doth dwell; And hence each people's usage laudable, That every one the Best that meets his eyes As God, yea, e'en his God, doth recognize; To Him both earth and heaven surrenders he, Fears Him, and loves Him, too, if that may be.

THE ONE AND THE ALL[28] (1821)

Called to a new employ in boundless space, The lonely monad quits its 'customed place And from life's weary round contented flees. No more of passionate striving, will perverse And hampering obligations, long a curse: Free self-abandonment at last gives peace.

Soul of the world, come pierce our being through! Across the drift of things our way to hew Is our appointed task, our noblest war. Good spirits by our destined pathway still Lead gently on, best masters of our will, Toward that which made and makes all things that are. To shape for further ends what now has breath, Let nothing harden into ice and death, Works endless living action everywhere. What has not yet existed strives for birth— Toward purer suns, more glorious-colored earth: To rest in idle stillness naught may dare. All must move onward, help transform the mass, Assume a form, to yet another pass; 'Tis but in seeming aught is fixed or still. In all things moves the eternal restless Thought; For all, when comes the hour, must fall to naught If to persist in being is its will.

LINES ON SEEING SCHILLER'S SKULL[30] (1826)

[This curious imitation of the ternary metre of Dante was written at the age of seventy-seven.]

Within a gloomy charnel-house one day I viewed the countless skulls, so strangely mated, And of old times I thought that now were gray. Close packed they stand that once so fiercely hated, And hardy bones that to the death contended, Are lying crossed,—to lie forever, fated. What held those crooked shoulder-blades suspended? No one now asks; and limbs with vigor fired, The hand, the foot—their use in life is ended. Vainly ye sought the tomb for rest when tired; Peace in the grave may not be yours; ye're driven Back into daylight by a force inspired; But none can love the withered husk, though even A glorious noble kernel it contained.

To me, an adept, was the writing given Which not to all its holy sense explained. When 'mid the crowd, their icy shadows flinging, I saw a form that glorious still remained, And even there, where mould and damp were clinging, Gave me a blest, a rapture-fraught emotion, As though from death a living fount were springing. What mystic joy I felt! What rapt devotion! That form, how pregnant with a godlike trace! A look, how did it whirl me toward that ocean Whose rolling billows mightier shapes embrace! Mysterious vessel! Oracle how dear! Even to grasp thee is my hand too base, Except to steal thee from thy prison here With pious purpose, and devoutly go Back to the air, free thoughts, and sunlight clear. What greater gain in life can man e'er know Than when God-Nature will to him explain How into Spirit steadfastness may flow, How steadfast, too, the Spirit-Born remain.

A LEGACY[31] (1829)

No living atom comes at last to naught! Active in each is still the eternal Thought: Hold fast to Being if thou wouldst be blest. Being is without end; for changeless laws Bind that from which the All its glory draws Of living treasures endlessly possessed.

Unto the wise of old this truth was known, Such wisdom knit their noble souls in one; Then hold thou still the lore of ancient days! To that high power thou ow'st it, son of man, By whose decree the earth its circuit ran And all the planets went their various ways. Then inward turn at once thy searching eyes;

Thence shalt thou see the central truth arise From which no lofty soul goes e'er astray; There shalt thou miss no needful guiding sign— For conscience lives, and still its light divine Shall be the sun of all thy moral day. Next shalt thou trust thy senses' evidence, And fear from them no treacherous offence While the mind's watchful eye thy road commands: With lively pleasure contemplate the scene And roam securely, teachable, serene, At will throughout a world of fruitful lands. Enjoy in moderation all life gives: Where it rejoices in each thing that lives Let reason be thy guide and make thee see. Then shall the distant past be present still, The future, ere it comes, thy vision fill— Each single moment touch eternity. Then at the last shalt thou achieve thy quest, And in one final, firm conviction rest: What bears for thee true fruit alone is true. Prove all things, watch the movement of the world As down the various ways its tribes are whirled; Take thou thy stand among the chosen few. Thus hath it been of old; in solitude The artist shaped what thing to him seemed good, The wise man hearkened to his own soul's voice. Thus also shalt thou find thy greatest bliss; To lead where the elect shall follow—this And this alone is worth a hero's choice.



INTRODUCTION TO HERMANN AND DOROTHEA

Hermann and Dorothea is universally known and prized in Germany as no other work of the classical period of German literature except Goethe's Faust and Schiller's Wilhelm Tell, and, although distinctively German in subject and spirit, it early became and is still a precious possession of all the modern world. It marks the culmination of the renaissance in the literary art of Germany and perhaps of Europe.

Schiller hailed it as the pinnacle of Goethe's and of all modern art. A. W. Schlegel in 1797 judged it to be a finished work of art in the grand style, and at the same time intelligible, sympathetic, patriotic, popular, a book full of golden teachings of wisdom and virtue. Two generations later one of the leading historians of German literature declared that there is no other poem that comes so near to the father of all poetry (Homer) as this, none in which Greek form and German content are so intimately blended, and that this is perhaps the only poem which without explanation and without embarrassment all the modern centuries could offer to an ancient Greek to enjoy. In the view of the end of the nineteenth century, expressed by a distinguished philosopher-critic, this work is a unique amalgam of the artistic spirit, objectivity, and contemplative clearness of Homer with the soul-life of the present, the heart-beat of the German people, the characteristic traits which mark the German nature.

As Longfellow's Evangeline, treating in the same verse-form of the dactylic hexameter and in a way partly epic and partly idyllic a story of love and domestic interests in a contrasting setting of war and exile, was modeled on Hermann and Dorothea, so the latter poem was suggested by J. H. Voss' idyl Luise, published first in parts in 1783 and 1784 and as a whole revised in 1795. Of his delight in Luise Goethe wrote to Schiller in February, 1798: "This proved to be much to my advantage, for this joy finally became productive in me, it drew me into this form (the epic), begot my Hermann, and who knows what may yet come of it." But Luise is not really epic; it is without action, without unity, without any large historical outlook,—a series of minutely pictured, pleasing idyllic scenes.

In contrast herewith Goethe's purpose was in his own words, "in an epic crucible to free from its dross the purely human existence of a small German town, and at the same time mirror in a small glass the great movements and changes of the world's stage." This purpose he achieved in the writing of Hermann and Dorothea at intervals from September, 1796, through the summer of 1797, in the autumn of which year the poem was published.

The main sources from which the poet drew his material are four. In the first place the theme was invented by him out of an anecdote of the flight of Protestant refugees from the Archbishopric of Salzburg in 1731-1732. On the basis of this anecdote he drew the original outlines of the meeting and union of the lovers. Secondly, as a consequence of the French Revolution, Germans were forced to flee from German territory west of the Rhine. Goethe was present with Prussian troops in France in 1792, and observed the siege of Mainz in 1793. Hence his knowledge of war and exile, with their attendant cruelties and sufferings. Thirdly, the personal experiences of his own life could not but contribute to his description of the then German present. Features of Frankfurt and Ilmenau reappear. The characters show traits of Goethe's parents, and possibly something of his wife is in Dorothea. Hermann's mother bears the name of the poet's and reveals many of her qualities. But some of these are given to the landlord-father, while the elder Goethe's pedantry and petty weaknesses are shown in the apothecary. The poet's experiences in the field are realistically reproduced in many particulars of character and incident, as are doubtless also his mother's vivid reports of events in Frankfurt during July and August, 1796. We may feel sure too that it was the occurrences of this summer that led Goethe to transform the short, pure idyl of his first intention into a longer epic of his own present. The fourth source is literary tradition, which we may trace back through the verse idyl of Voss to the prose idyl of Gessner, thence through the unnatural Arcadian pastorals of the seventeenth and earlier centuries to the great Greek creators,—Theocritus, of the idyl, and Homer, of the epic.

From whatever source derived, the materials were transmuted and combined by Goethe's genius into a broad, full picture of German life, with characters typical of the truly human and of profound ethical importance, interpreting to the attentive reader the significance of life for the individual, the family, the nation.

HERMANN AND DOROTHEA (1797)[32]

TRANSLATED BY ELLEN FROTHINGHAM

CALLIOPE

FATE AND SYMPATHY

Truly, I never have seen the market and street so deserted! How as if it were swept looks the town, or had perished! Not fifty Are there, methinks, of all our inhabitants in it remaining.

What will not curiosity do! here is every one running, Hurrying to gaze on the sad procession of pitiful exiles. Fully a league it must be to the causeway they have to pass over, Yet all are hurrying down in the dusty heat of the noonday. I, in good sooth, would not stir from my place to witness the sorrows Borne by good, fugitive people, who now, with their rescued possessions, Driven, alas! from beyond the Rhine, their beautiful country, Over to us are coming, and through the prosperous corner Roam of this our luxuriant valley, and traverse its windings. "Well hast thou done, good wife, our son in thus kindly dispatching, Laden with something to eat and to drink, and with store of old linen, 'Mongst the poor folk to distribute; for giving belongs to the wealthy. How the youth drives, to be sure! What control he has over the horses! Makes not our carriage a handsome appearance,—the new one? With comfort, Four could be seated within, with a place on the box for the coachman. This time, he drove by himself. How lightly it rolled round the corner!" Thus, as he sat at his ease in the porch of his house on the market, Unto his wife was speaking mine host of the Golden Lion.

Thereupon answered and said the prudent, intelligent housewife: "Father, I am not inclined to be giving away my old linen: Since it serves many a purpose; and cannot be purchased for money, When we may want it. To-day, however, I gave, and with pleasure, Many a piece that was better, indeed, in shirts and in bed-clothes; For I was told of the aged and children who had to go naked. But wilt thou pardon me, father? thy wardrobe has also been plundered. And, in especial, the wrapper that has the East-Indian flowers, Made of the finest of chintz, and lined with delicate flannel, Gave I away: it was thin and old, and quite out of the fashion."

Thereupon answered and said, with a smile, the excellent landlord: "Faith! I am sorry to lose it, my good old calico wrapper, Real East-Indian stuff: I never shall get such another. Well, I had given up wearing it: nowadays, custom compels us Always to go in surtout, and never appear but in jacket; Always to have on our boots; forbidden are night-cap and slippers."



"See!" interrupted the wife; "even now some are yonder returning, Who have beheld the procession: it must, then, already be over. Look at the dust on their shoes! and see how their faces are glowing! Every one carries his kerchief, and with it is wiping the sweat off. Not for a sight like that would I run so far and so suffer, Through such a heat; in sooth, enough shall I have in the telling."

Thereupon answered and said, with emphasis, thus, the good father: "Rarely does weather like this attend such a harvest as this is. We shall be bringing our grain in dry, as the hay was before it. Not the least cloud to be seen, so perfectly clear is the heaven; And, with delicious coolness, the wind blows in from the eastward. That is the weather to last! over-ripe are the cornfields already; We shall begin on the morrow to gather our copious harvest."

Constantly, while he thus spoke, the crowds of men and of women Grew, who their homeward way were over the market-place wending; And, with the rest, there also returned, his daughters beside him, Back to his modernized house on the opposite side of the market, Foremost merchant of all the town, their opulent neighbor, Rapidly driving his open barouche,—it was builded in Landau. Lively now grew the streets, for the city was handsomely peopled. Many a trade was therein carried on, and large manufactures. Under their doorway thus the affectionate couple were sitting, Pleasing themselves with many remarks on the wandering people. Finally broke in, however, the worthy housewife, exclaiming: "Yonder our pastor, see! is hitherward coming, and with him Comes our neighbor the doctor, so they shall every thing tell us; All they have witnessed abroad, and which 'tis a sorrow to look on."

Cordially then the two men drew nigh, and saluted the couple; Sat themselves down on the benches of wood that were placed in the doorway, Shaking the dust from their feet, and fanning themselves with their kerchiefs. Then was the doctor, as soon as exchanged were the mutual greetings, First to begin, and said, almost in a tone of vexation: "Such is mankind, forsooth! and one man is just like another, Liking to gape and to stare when ill-luck has befallen his neighbor. Every one hurries to look at the flames, as they soar in destruction; Runs to behold the poor culprit, to execution conducted: Now all are sallying forth to gaze on the need of these exiles, Nor is there one who considers that he, by a similar fortune, May, in the future, if not indeed next, be likewise o'ertaken. Levity not to be pardoned, I deem; yet it lies in man's nature."

Thereupon answered and said the noble, intelligent pastor; Ornament he of the town, still young, in the prime of his manhood.

He was acquainted with life,—with the needs of his hearers acquainted; Deeply imbued he was with the Holy Scriptures' importance, As they reveal man's destiny to us, and man's disposition; Thoroughly versed, besides, in best of secular writings. "I should be loath," he replied, "to censure an innocent instinct, Which to mankind by good mother Nature has always been given. What understanding and reason may sometimes fail to accomplish, Oft will such fortunate impulse, that bears us resistlessly with it. Did curiosity draw not man with its potent attraction, Say, would he ever have learned how harmoniously fitted together Worldly experiences are? For first what is novel he covets; Then with unwearying industry follows he after the useful; Finally longs for the good by which he is raised and ennobled. While he is young, such lightness of mind is a joyous companion, Traces of pain-giving evil effacing as soon as 'tis over. He is indeed to be praised, who, out of this gladness of temper, Has in his ripening years a sound understanding developed; Who, in good fortune or ill, with zeal and activity labors: Such an one bringeth to pass what is good, and repaireth the evil."

Then broke familiarly in the housewife impatient, exclaiming: "Tell us of what ye have seen; for that I am longing to hear of!"

"Hardly," with emphasis then the village doctor made answer, "Can I find spirits so soon after all the scenes I have witnessed. Oh, the manifold miseries! who shall be able to tell them? E'en before crossing the meadows, and while we were yet at a distance, Saw we the dust; but still from hill to hill the procession Passed away out of our sight, and we could distinguish but little. But when at last we were come to the street that crosses the valley, Great was the crowd and confusion of persons on foot and of wagons. There, alas! saw we enough of these poor unfortunates passing, And could from some of them learn how bitter the sorrowful flight was, Yet how joyful the feeling of life thus hastily rescued. Mournful it was to behold the most miscellaneous chattels,— All those things which are housed in every well-furnished dwelling, All by the house-keeper's care set up in their suitable places, Always ready for use; for useful is each and important.— Now these things to behold, piled up on all manner of wagons, One on the top of another, as hurriedly they had been rescued. Over the chest of drawers were the sieve and wool coverlet lying; Thrown in the kneading-trough lay the bed, and the sheets on the mirror. Danger, alas! as we learned ourselves in our great conflagration Twenty years since, will take from a man all power of reflection, So that he grasps things worthless and leaves what is precious behind him. Here, too, with unconsidering care they were carrying with them Pitiful trash, that only encumbered the horses and oxen; Such as old barrels and boards, the pen for the goose, and the bird-cage. Women and children, too, went toiling along with their bundles, Panting 'neath baskets and tubs, full of things of no manner of value: So unwilling is man to relinquish his meanest possession. Thus on the dusty road the crowded procession moved forward, All confused and disordered. The one whose beasts were the weaker, Wanted more slowly to drive, while faster would hurry another. Presently went up a scream from the closely squeezed women and children, And with the yelping of dogs was mingled the lowing of cattle, Cries of distress from the aged and sick, who aloft on the wagon, Heavy and thus overpacked, upon beds were sitting and swaying. Pressed at last from the rut and out to the edge of the highway, Slipped the creaking wheel; the cart lost its balance, and over Fell in the ditch. In the swing the people were flung to a distance, Far off into the field, with horrible screams; by good fortune Later the boxes were thrown and fell more near to the wagon. Verily all who had witnessed the fall, expected to see them Crushed into pieces beneath the weight of trunks and of presses. So lay the cart all broken to fragments, and helpless the people. Keeping their onward way, the others drove hastily by them, Each thinking only of self, and carried away by the current. Then we ran to the spot, and found the sick and the aged,— Those who at home and in bed could before their lingering ailments Scarcely endure,—lying bruised on the ground, complaining and groaning, Choked by the billowing dust and scorched by the heat of the noonday."

Thereupon answered and said the kind-hearted landlord, with feeling: "Would that our Hermann might meet them and give them refreshment and clothing! Loath should I be to behold them: the looking on suffering pains me. Touched by the earliest tidings of their so cruel afflictions, Hastily sent we a mite from out of our super-abundance, Only that some might be strengthened, and we might ourselves be made easy. But let us now no longer renew these sorrowful pictures Knowing how readily fear steals into the heart of us mortals, And anxiety, worse to me than the actual evil. Come with me into the room behind, our cool little parlor, Where no sunbeam e'er shines, and no sultry breath ever enters Through its thickness of wall. There mother will bring us a flagon Of our old eighty-three, with which we may banish our fancies. Here 'tis not cosey to drink: the flies so buzz round the glasses." Thither adjourned they then, and all rejoiced in the coolness.

Carefully brought forth the mother the clear and glorious vintage, Cased in a well-polished flask, on a waiter of glittering pewter, Set round with large green glasses, the drinking cups meet for the Rhine wine. So sat the three together about the highly waxed table, Gleaming and round and brown, that on mighty feet was supported. Joyously rang at once the glasses of landlord and pastor, But his motionless held the third, and sat lost in reflection, Until with words of good-humor the landlord challenged him, saying,— "Come, sir neighbor, empty your glass, for God in His mercy Thus far has kept us from evil, and so in the future will keep us. For who acknowledges not, that since our dread conflagration, When He so hardly chastised us, He now is continually blessing, Constantly shielding, as man the apple of His eye watches over, Holding it precious and dear above all the rest of His members? Shall He in time to come not defend us and furnish us succor? Only when danger is nigh do we see how great is His power. Shall He this blooming town which He once by industrious burghers Built up afresh from its ashes, and afterward blessed with abundance, Now demolish again, and bring all the labor to nothing?"

Cheerfully said in reply the excellent pastor, and kindly: "Keep thyself firm in the faith, and firm abide in this temper; For it makes steadfast and wise when fortune is fair, and when evil, Furnishes sweet consolation and animates hopes the sublimest."

Then made answer the landlord, with thoughts judicious and manly: "Often the Rhine's broad stream have I with astonishment greeted, As I have neared it again, after travelling abroad upon business. Always majestic it seemed, and my mind and spirit exalted. But I could never imagine its beautiful banks would so shortly Be to a rampart transformed, to keep from our borders the Frenchman, And its wide-spreading bed be a moat all passage to hinder. See! thus nature protects, the stout-hearted Germans protect us, And thus protects us the Lord, who then will be weakly despondent? Weary already the combatants, all indications are peaceful. Would it might be that when that festival, ardently longed for, Shall in our church be observed, when the sacred Te Deum is rising, Swelled by the pealing of organ and bells, and the blaring of trumpets,— Would it might be that that day should behold my Hermann, sir pastor, Standing, his choice now made, with his bride before thee at the altar, Making that festal day, that through every land shall be honored, My anniversary, too, henceforth of domestic rejoicing! But I observe with regret, that the youth so efficient and active Ever in household affairs, when abroad is timid and backward. Little enjoyment he finds in going about among others; Nay, he will even avoid young ladies' society wholly; Shuns the enlivening dance which all young persons delight in."

Thus he spoke and listened; for now was heard in the distance Clattering of horses' hoofs drawing near, and the roll of the wagon, Which, with furious haste, came thundering under the gateway.

TERPSICHORE

HERMANN

Now when of comely mien the son came into the chamber, Turned with a searching look the eyes of the preacher upon him, And, with the gaze of the student, who easily fathoms expression, Scrutinized well his face and form and his general bearing. Then with a smile he spoke, and said in words of affection: "Truly a different being thou comest! I never have seen thee Cheerful as now, nor ever beheld I thy glances so beaming. Joyous thou comest, and happy: 'tis plain that among the poor people Thou hast been sharing thy gifts, and receiving their blessings upon thee."

Quietly then, and with serious words, the son made him answer: "If I have acted as ye will commend, I know not; but I followed That which my heart bade me do, as I shall exactly relate you. Thou wert, mother, so long in rummaging 'mong thy old pieces, Picking and choosing, that not until late was thy bundle together; Then, too, the wine and the beer took care and time in the packing. When I came forth through the gateway at last, and out on the high-road, Backward the crowd of citizens streamed with women and children, Coming to meet me; for far was already the band of the exiles. Quicker I kept on my way, and drove with speed to the village, Where they were meaning to rest, as I heard, and tarry till morning. Thitherward up the new street as I hasted, a stout-timbered wagon, Drawn by two oxen, I saw, of that region the largest and strongest; While, with vigorous steps, a maiden was walking beside them, And, a long staff in her hand, the two powerful creatures was guiding, Urging them now, now holding them back; with skill did she drive them.



Soon as the maiden perceived me, she calmly drew near to the horses, And in these words she addressed me: 'Not thus deplorable always Has our condition been, as to-day on this journey thou seest. I am not yet grown used to asking gifts of a stranger, Which he will often unwillingly give, to be rid of the beggar. But necessity drives me to speak; for here, on the straw, lies Newly delivered of child, a rich land-owner's wife, whom I scarcely Have in her pregnancy, safe brought off with the oxen and wagon. Naked, now in her arms the new-born infant is lying, And but little the help our friends will be able to furnish, If in the neighboring village, indeed, where to-day we would rest us, Still we shall find them; though much do I fear they already have passed it. Shouldst thou have linen to spare of any description, provided Thou of this neighborhood art, to the poor in charity give it.'

"Thus she spoke, and the pale-faced mother raised herself feebly Up from the straw, and toward me looked. Then said I in answer 'Surely unto the good, a spirit from heaven oft speaketh, Making them feel the distress that threatens a suffering brother. For thou must know that my mother, already presaging thy sorrows, Gave me a bundle to use it straightway for the need of the naked.' Then I untied the knots of the string, and the wrapper of father's Unto her gave, and gave her as well the shirts and the linen. And she thanked me with joy, and cried: 'The happy believe not Miracles yet can be wrought: for only in need we acknowledge God's own hand and finger, that leads the good to show goodness. What unto us He has done through thee, may He do to thee also!' And I beheld with what pleasure the sick woman handled the linens, But with especial delight the dressing-gown's delicate flannel. 'Let us make haste,' the maid to her said, 'and come to the village, Where our people will halt for the night and already are resting. There these clothes for the children I, one and all, straightway will portion.' Then she saluted again, her thanks most warmly expressing, Started the oxen; the wagon went on; but there I still lingered, Still held the horses in check; for now my heart was divided Whether to drive with speed to the village, and there the provisions Share 'mong the rest of the people, or whether I here to the maiden All should deliver at once, for her discreetly to portion. And in an instant my heart had decided, and quietly driving After the maiden, I soon overtook her, and said to her quickly: 'Hearken, good maiden;—my mother packed up not linen-stuffs only Into the carriage, that I should have clothes to furnish the naked; Wine and beer she added besides, and supply of provisions: Plenty of all these things I have in the box of the carriage. But now I feel myself moved to deliver these offerings also Into thy hand; for so shall I best fulfil my commission. Thou wilt divide them with judgment, while I must by chance be directed.' Thereupon answered the maiden: 'I will with faithfulness portion These thy gifts, that all shall bring comfort to those who are needy.' Thus she spoke, and quickly the bog of the carriage I opened, Brought forth thence the substantial hams, and brought out the breadstuffs, Bottles of wine and beer, and one and all gave to the maiden. Willingly would I have given her more, but the carriage was empty. All she packed at the sick woman's feet, and went on her journey. I, with my horses and carriage, drove rapidly back to the city."

Instantly now, when Hermann had ceased, the talkative neighbor Took up the word, and cried: "Oh happy, in days like the present, Days of flight and confusion, who lives by himself in his dwelling, Having no wife nor child to be clinging about him in terror! Happy I feel myself now, and would not for much be called father; Would not have wife and children to-day, for whom to be anxious. Oft have I thought of this flight before; and have packed up together All my best things already, the chains and old pieces of money That were my sainted mother's, of which not one has been sold yet. Much would be left behind, it is true, not easily gotten. Even the roots and the herbs, that were with such industry gathered, I should be sorry to lose, though the worth of the goods is but trifling. If my purveyor remained, I could go from my dwelling contented. When my cash I have brought away safe, and have rescued my person, All is safe: none find it so easy to fly as the single."