last spirit permitted to depart. I was not carried away, instructed, delighted more than by other works, but I was there, living there, whether as the platan tree, or the architect, or any other observing part of the scene. The personages live too intensely to let us live in them, they draw around themselves circles within the circle, we can only see them close, not be themselves. 66 Others, it would seem, on closing the book, exclaim, 99 what an immoral book! I well remember my own thought: "It is a work of Art!" At last I understood that world within a world, that ripest fruit of human nature, which is called Art. With each perusal of the book my wonder and delight at this wonderful fulfillment of design grew. I understood why Goethe was well content to be called Artist, and his works, works of art, rather than revelations. At this moment, remembering what I then felt, I am inclined to class all my negations just written on this paper as stuff, and to look upon myself for thinking them, with as much contempt as Mr. Carlyle or Mrs. Austin, or Mrs. Jameson might do, to say nothing of the German Goetheans. Yet that they were not without foundation I feel again when I turn to the Iphigenia; a work beyond the possibility of negation; a work where a religious meaning not only pierces but enfolds the whole; a work as admirable in art, still higher in significance, more single in expression. There is an English translation (I know not how good) of Goethe's Iphigenia. But as it may not be generally known, I will give a sketch of the drama. Iphigenia, saved at the moment of the sacrifice made by Agamemnon in behalf of the Greeks, by the goddess, and transferred to the temple at Tauris, appears alone in the consecrated grove. Many years have passed since she was severed from the home of such a tragic fate, the palace of Mycena. Troy had fallen, Agamemnon been murdered, Orestes had grown up to avenge his death. All these events were unknown to the exiled Iphigenia. The priestess of Diana in a barbarous land, she had passed the years in the duties of the sanctuary, and in acts of beneficence. She had acquired great power over the mind of Thoas, king of Tauris, and used it to protect strangers, whom it had previously been the custom of the country to sacrifice to the goddess. She salutes us with a soliloquy, of which this is a rude translation. Beneath your shade, living summits Of this ancient, holy, thick-leaved grove, As in the silent sanctuary of the Goddess, Yet ever am I, as at first, the stranger; Seeking with my soul the land of the Greeks, And to my sighs brings the rushing wave only Its hollow tones in answer. Woe to him who, far from parents, and brothers, and sisters, Drags on a lonely life. Grief consumes The nearest happiness away from his lips; His thoughts crowd downwards Seeking the hall of his fathers, where the Sun In the first plays knit daily firmer and firmer In the house and in the war man rules, Knows how to help himself in foreign lands, And an honorable death stands ready to end his days. In solemn, sacred, but slavish bonds. O with shame I confess that with secret reluctance I serve thee, Goddess, thee, my deliverer; My life should freely have been dedicate to thee, But I have always been hoping in thee, O Diana, Who didst take in thy soft arms me, the rejected daughter Of the greatest king; yes, daughter of Zeus, I thought if thou gavest such anguish to him, the high hero, The godlike Agamemnon; Since he brought his dearest, a victim, to thy altar, That, when he should return, crowned with glory, from Ilium, ures, His spouse, Electra, and the princely son, Me also thou wouldst restore to mine own, Saving a second time me, whom from death thou didst save, These are the words and thoughts, but how give an idea of the sweet simplicity of expression in the original, where every word has the grace and softness of a flower petal. She is interrupted by a messenger from the king, who prepares her for a visit from himself of a sort she has dreaded. Thoas, who has always loved her, now left childless by the calamities of war, can no longer resist his desire to reanimate by her presence his desert house. He begins by urging her to tell him the story of her race, which she does in a way that makes us feel as if that most famous tragedy had never before found a voice, so simple, so fresh in its naiveté is the recital. Thoas urges his suit undismayed by the fate that hangs over the race of Tantalus. Was it the same Tantalus, Whom Jupiter called to his council and banquets, In whose talk so deeply experienced, full of various learning, The Gods delighted as in the speech of oracles? IPHIGENIA. It is the same, but the Gods should not Converse with men, as with their equals. The mortal race is much too weak Not to turn giddy on unaccustomed heights. He was not ignoble, neither a traitor, But for a servant too great, and as a companion Of the great Thunderer only a man. So was His fault also that of a man, its penalty Severe, and poets sing― Presumption And faithlessness cast him down from the throne of Jove Into the anguish of ancient Tartarus; Ah, and all his race bore their hate. THOAS. Bore it the blame of the ancestor or its own? IPHIGENIA. Truly the vehement breast and powerful life of the Titan Were the assured inheritance of son and grandchild, But the Gods bound their brows with a brazen band, Moderation, counsel, wisdom, and patience Were hid from their wild, gloomy glance, Each desire grew to fury, And limitless ranged their passionate thoughts. Iphigenia refuses with gentle firmness to give to gratitude what was undue. Thoas leaves her in anger, and, to make her feel it, orders that the old, barbarous custom be renewed, and two strangers just arrived be immolated at Diana's altar. Iphigenia, though distressed, is not shaken by this piece of tyranny. She trusts her heavenly protectress will find some way for her to save these unfortunates without violating her truth. The strangers are Orestes and Pylades, sent thither by the oracle of Apollo, who bade them go to Tauris and bring back "The Sister," thus shall the heaven-ordained parricide of Orestes be expiated, and the Furies cease to pursue him. The Sister they interpret to be Dian, Apollo's sister, but Iphigenia, sister to Orestes, is really meant. The next act contains scenes of most delicate workmanship, first between the light-hearted Pylades, full of worldly resource and ready tenderness, and the suffering Orestes, of far nobler, indeed heroic nature, but less fit for the day, and more for the ages. In the first scene the characters of both are brought out with great skill, and the nature of the bond between "the butterfly and the dark flower" distinctly shown in few words. The next scene is between Iphigenia and Pylades. Pylades, though he truly answers the questions of the priestess about the fate of Troy and the house of Agamemnon, does not hesitate to conceal from her who Orestes really is, and manufactures a tissue of useless falsehoods with the same readiness that the wise Ulysses showed in exercising his ingenuity on similar occasions. It is said, I know not how truly, that the modern Greeks are Ulyssean in this respect, never telling straight-forward truth, when deceit will answer the purpose; and if they tell any truth, practising the economy of the king of Ithaca, in always reserving a part for their own use. The character which this denotes is admirably hit off with few strokes in Pylades, the fair side of whom Iphigenia thus paints in a later scene. Bless, ye Gods, our Pylades, And whatever he may undertake! He is the arm of the youth in battle, The light-giving eye of the aged man in the council. For his soul is still; it preserves The holy possession of Repose unexhausted, Help and advice to those tossed to and fro. Iphigenia leaves him in sudden agitation, when informed of the death of Agamemnon. Returning, she finds in his place Orestes, whom she had not before seen, and draws from him by her artless questions the sequel to this terrible drama wrought by his hand. After he has concluded his narrative in the deep tones of cold anguish; she cries, Immortals, you who your bright days through Only for this have you all these years Kept me separate from men, and so near yourselves, Given me the childlike employment to cherish the fires on your altars. That my soul might, in like pious clearness, Be ever aspiring towards your abodes, That only later and deeper I might feel The anguish and horror that have darkened my house. O, Stranger Speak to me of the unhappy one, tell me of Orestes. And called to the ancient daughters of Night, Pursue that man of crime. He is yours. They obey, their hollow eyes Darting about with vulture eagerness, They stir themselves in their black dens, From corners their companions Doubt and Remorse steal out to join them, In its cloudy volumes rolls The eternal contemplation of the irrevocable, From which they had long been banished by an early curse. They pause never except to gather more power to dismay. IPHIGENIA. Unhappy man, thou art in like manner tortured, And feelest truly what he, the poor fugitive, suffers! ORESTES. What sayest thou, what meanest of "like manner." |