"Germans themselves I present, to the humbler dwelling I lead

you,

Where with Nature as guide man is natural still." 1

This exquisite poem has been translated into English hexameters with great fidelity by Miss Ellen Frothing

ham.

"Iphigenie auf Tauris" handles a Greek theme, exhibits Greek characters, and was hailed on its first appearance as a genuine echo of the Greek drama. Mr. Lewes denies it that character; and certainly it is not Greek, but Christian, in sentiment. It differs from the extant drama of Euripides, who treats the same subject, in the Christian feeling which determines its dénouement. . .

A large portion of Goethe's productions have taken the dramatic form; yet he cannot be said, theatrically speaking, to have been, like Schiller, a successful dramatist. His plays, with the exception of "Egmont" and the First Part of "Faust," have not commanded the stage; they form no part, I believe, of the stock of any German theatre. The characterizations are striking, but the positions are not dramatic. Single scenes in some of them are exceptions,—like that in "Egmont," where Clara endeavors to rouse her fellow-citizens to the rescue of the Count, while Brackenburg seeks to restrain her, and several of the scenes in the First Part of

1 From the Elegy entitled "Hermann und Dorothea."

"Faust." But, on the whole, the interest of Goethe's dramas is psychological rather than scenic. Especially is this the case with "Tasso," one of the author's noblest works, where the characters are not so much actors as metaphysical portraitures. Schiller, in his plays, had always the stage in view.

Goethe, on the contrary,

wrote for readers, or cultivated, reflective hearers, not

spectators.

When I say, then, that Goethe, compared with Schiller, failed of dramatic success, I mean that his talent did not lie in the line of plays adapted to the stage as it is; or if the talent was not wanting, his taste did not incline to such performance. He was no playwright.

But there is another and higher sense of the word dramatic, where Goethe is supreme, - the sense in which Dante's great poem is called Commedia, a play. There is a drama whose scope is beyond the compass of any earthly stage, a drama not for theatre-goers, to be seen on the boards, but for intellectual contemplation of men and angels. Such a drama is "Faust," of which I shall speak hereafter.

Of Goethe's prose works, I mean works of prose fiction, the most considerable are two philosophical novels," Wilhelm Meister" and the " Elective Affinities."

In the first of these the various and complex motives which have shaped the composition may be comprehended in the one word education, the education

In accordance so he may be

of life for the business of life. The main thread of the narrative traces through a labyrinth of loosely connected scenes and events the growth of the hero's character, — a progressive training by various influences, passional, intellectual, social, moral, and religious. These are represented by the personnel of the story. with this design, the hero himself, if called, has no pronounced traits, is more negative than positive, but is brought into contact with many very positive characters. His life is the stage on which these characters perform. A ground is thus provided for the numerous portraits of which the author's large experience furnished the originals, and for lessons of practical wisdom derived from his close observation of men and things and his lifelong reflection thereon.

"Wilhelm Meister," if not the most artistic, is the most instructive, and in that view, next to "Faust," the most important, of Goethe's works. In it he has embodied his philosophy of life, a a philosophy far enough removed from the epicurean views which ignorance has ascribed to him,- a philosophy which is best described by the term ascetic. Its keynote is Renunciation. "With renunciation begins the true life," was the author's favorite maxim; and the second part of "Wilhelm Meister" the Wanderjahre. bears the collateral title Die Entsagenden; that is, the "Renouncing or the "Self-denying." The characters that figure in

this second part-most of whom have had their training in the first-form a society whose principle of union is self-renunciation and a life of beneficent activity.

The most fascinating character in " Wilhelm Meister” -the wonder and delight of the reader-is Mignon, the child-woman, a pure creation of Goethe's genius, without a prototype in literature. Readers of Scott will remember Fenella, the elfish maiden in "Peveril of the Peak." Scott says in his Preface to that novel: "The character of Fenella, which from its peculiarity made a favorable impression on the public, was far from being original. The fine sketch of Mignon in Wilhelm Meister's Lehrjahre - a celebrated work from the pen of Goethe-gave the idea of such a being. But the copy will be found to be greatly different from my great prototype; nor can I be accused of borrowing anything save the general idea.”

As I remember Fenella, the resemblance to Mignon is merely superficial. A certain weirdness is all they have in common. The intensity of the inner life, the unspeakable longing, the cry of the unsatisfied heart, the devout aspiration, the presentiment of the heavenly life which characterize Mignon are peculiar to her; they constitute her individuality. Wilhelm has found her a kidnapped child attached to a strolling circus company, and has rescued her from the cruel hands of the manager.

Thenceforth she clings to him with a passionate devotion, in which gratitude for her deliverance, filial affection, and the love of a maiden for her hero are strangely blended. Afflicted with a disease of the heart, she is subject to terrible convulsions, which increase the tenderness of her protector for the doomed child. After one of these attacks, in which she had been suffering frightful pain, we read:

"He held her fast.

Her whole

She wept; and no tongue can express the force of those tears. Her long hair had become unfastened and hung loose over her shoulders. being seemed to be melting away. . . . At last she raised herself up. A mild cheerfulness gleamed from her face. 'My father!' she cried, 'you will not leave me! You will be my father! I will be your child.' Softly, before the door, a harp began to sound. The old Harper was bringing his heartiest songs as an evening sacrifice to his friend."

Then bursts on the reader that world-famed song, in which the soul of Mignon, with its unconquerable yearnings, is forever embalmed,-"Kennst du das Land":

"Know'st thou the land that bears the citron's bloom?
The golden orange glows 'mid verdant gloom,

A gentle wind from heaven's deep azure blows,
The myrtle low, and high the laurel grows,

Know'st thou the land? 1

Oh, there! oh, there!

Would I with thee, my best beloved, repair."

1 Literally, "Know'st thou it well?" But the word "well," in this case, does not answer to the German wohl.