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tariff of 1842, when the tonnage built was less than ever. The embargo upon our external trade operates, of course, like a charm in sinking freights, and diminishing the demand for vessels. At such times, as many as possible are sold abroad, for the trade of other countries, and the "manufacture" ceases. What benefit do the growers of hemp, or the makers of cordage and cables, derive from this state of things? Is it an object to make expensive ships to be kept afloat empty? Assuredly not. Under the new tariff the taxes are diminished. Hence the legitimate desire to build more ships. It appears above that it requires 1000 lbs. of hemp per ton burthen. The registered and enrolled tonnage built in 1842, amounted to 129,083 tons, requiring 3,227 tons of hemp. The tonnage built in 1843 sunk under the tariff to 63,617, requiring but 1,580 tons hemp, a decreased demand of 1,647 tons, a very sufficient cause for the fall in price, which was as follows:

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In 1845, there were 146,017 tons built, requiring 3,504 tons of hemp, an increased demand of 2,000 tons hemp over 1843. Hence the advance in price. While the use of hemp is thus discouraged, Congress puts a tax upon the foreign article to encourage the grower. Suppose Congress, imitating the act of Parliament, of 1750, should enact a sumptuary law prohibiting the use, in the United States, of printed cotton goods for dresses, and should then impose a tax upon the foreign article to protect the domestic printer! would home industry be much encouraged? The high duties imposed by the tariff of 1842, upon canvass, hemp, and cordage, induced ships to buy their sails and rigging abroad. The growers of American hemp finding the demand decreased, asked for protection, when they meant increased consumption. This latter will inevitably result from the high freights now being obtained for produce to Europe. Congress can do nothing in the premises but to remove restrictions upon the homeward cargoes of vessels, and thereby encourage their demand for hemp. Through all departments of industry the same leprosy runs. All manufacturers want to make small quantities at high prices, because the triple saving of raw material, manual labor and transportation, flow from such a result of protection. Without protection they have to turn attention to such improvements as will enable them to "indemnify themselves by larger quantities at less prices," as the Courier judiciously expresses it. The effect of present freights will doubtless be under the new tariff to multiply shipping, both internal and external, until they fall to a proper level, by which means the farmer will obtain his share of the profits on exports. If, however, by any means a change in the now liberal policy of the government should be attempted, the same paralysis will again overtake shipping that the above table indicates, as the consequence of the tariff of 1828 and 1842. It is a self evident fact, that produce cannot be permanently exported in any quantities, unless the proceeds return in the shape of the products of foreign industry. For one year, specie may answer, but not longer. The whole welfare of the farmers and planters, the revenues of the states, and the credit of many of them, depend on the perpetuity of the low tariff, that shipping may increase, and the produce of the United States flow freely into the lap of Europe.

THE LIFE OF GOETHE.

In an article in our last number, on the "Autobiography of Goethe," recently issued in the excellent series of "Books which are Books," by Wiley & Putnam, we promised to recur to the subject, and we now proceed to redeem our pledge. It will be impossible, however, by any such rapid sketch as is suitable to the pages of a magazine, to convey to the reader the remotest conception of the exceeding fullness and richness of Goethe's own masterly outline of his career. He talks truly, as Mr. Carlyle says, like a patriarch instructing his children-genially-sometimes, we might say, even garrulously, but always pleasantly, and with a most charming simplicity and naiveté. Having reached an extreme old age, and been acknowledged universally as the great Corypheus of German literature-the finest modern literature of the world-his friends and admirers, consisting almost of the entire German nation, were naturally desirous that he should relate the history of his life. This he undertook willingly; and as his life spread over the whole period during which German letters were born and had grown into maturity, he was obliged to interweave with his narrative frequent delineations of his most celebrated contemporaries. All the causes that conspired to modify the aspects of general history are touched upon, as well as the local and individual circumstances that controlled his destiny. We do not hesitate to say, that his account of himself is one of the best autobiographies extant, and is, in fact, not only an elaborate portrait of the author himself, but a complete picture-gallery of most of the literary dignities of his father-land.

Goethe's natural endowments and earlier circumstances were alike adapted to the developement of the Poet. Frankfort-his birthplace-pleasantly seated amid gardens and green fields on the silver-flowing Maine, while bristling with ancient associations, was beginning to be animated with modern activity. Its fairs and coronations; its quaint old customs and fantastic parades; its cloisters, and trenches, and walls, mouldering away with their forgotten uses, contrasted strangely with the bustle of commerce, just awakening from its medieval sleep. Such a blending of imperial and courtly splendors with the substantial, sturdy enterprize of free-burghers, might have impressed any imagination; but on such an one as we have now to deal with, its effects were peculiarly striking. Our little Wolfgang, with an organization so sensitive, that already, in his ninth week, as Bettina amusingly tells us, he had strange troubled dreams, who could be convulsed by a look at the moon, and whom the presence of any deformity vehemently moved, yet passionately affectionate withal, and insatiable in his thirst for nursery rhymes and tales, (of which the good mother had an abundance,) was richly nourished and expanded by both the gloom and the glitter of his native city. A genial, black-haired, black-eyed, handsome child, he absorbed all influences with a keen relish, yet in calm thoughtfulness. The healthful soul in his vigorous body accepted whatever life presented with grateful joy. For the most part, he saw existence on the sunnier side, in long rambles into the country with cheerful friends; in rural avocations and sports; in views of art; in coronation-magnificence, and in the various pleasures that wait on competence; yet the darker aspects were not wanting, as we find, in those fearful visits to the Jews quarter; in the skulls of state criminals, grinning from the highways; in the burnings of books; in the seven years' war, with its excitements and

terrors, and chiefly in that famous earthquake at Lisbon, which spread consternation over the world. He had early glimpses of the awful antagonisms of life, and they set him pondering precociously on the realities of the universe into which he was born. Perhaps we cannot illustrate this better than by quoting what he says of one of these dark events :

"But an extraordinary event deeply disturbed the Boy's peace of mind, for the first time. On the 1st November, 1755, the earthquake at Lisbon took place, and spread a prodigious alarm over the world, long accustomed to peace and quietude. A great and magnificent capital, which was, at the same time, a trading and mercantile city, is smitten, unwarned, with a most fearful calamity. The earth heaves and sinks, the sea roars upward, ships dash together, houses tumble, bringing with them churches and towers; the royal palace is in part swallowed by the waters, the bursting land seems to vomit flames, whilst smoke and fire are seen everywhere amid the ruins. Sixty thousand men, a moment since in ease and comfort, go down together, and he alone was fortunate who was no longer capable of a thought or feeling about the disaster. The flames rage on, and with them rage troops of desperadoes, once concealed but now set at large by the event. The wretched survivors are exposed without protection to pillage, massacre, and every wrong: and thus, on all sides, Nature asserts her unchecked and impetuous will.

"Intimations of this accident had spread themselves over a wide extent of country, much more quickly than the authentic report; slight agitations had been felt in many places: in several springs, particularly those of a mineral nature, an unusual receding of the waters had been remarked; and for these reasons, a greater effect was produced by the accounts themselves, which were rapidly circulated, at first in general terms, but finally with all the dreadful particulars. Thereupon, the religious were not wanting in reflections, nor the philosophic in comforting assurances, nor the priesthood in warnings. So stupendous an event arrested the attention of the world for a long time; and as additional and more detailed accounts came from every quarter of the extensive effects of this explosion, our minds already aroused by the misfortunes of strangers, began to be more and more anxious about themselves and their friends. Doubtless, the demon of terror had never before diffused so swift and general an alarm over the earth.

"The Boy, who was compelled to put up with frequent repetitions of the whole matter, was not a little staggered, God, the Creator and Sustainer of Heaven and Earth, whom the leading articles of the Creed declared so wise and benignant, having given both the just and unjust a prey to the same destruction, did not seem to manifest himself, by any means, in a fatherly character. In vain the young mind strove to resist these impressions, which became all the more impossible, since the wise and scripture-learned could not themselves agree as to the light in which such phenomena should be regarded."

Fortunately, his father was of a rigid, didactic turn, which enabled him to control all distracting and morbid sensibilities in the son: but what was still better, this father had an eye and hand for art, coupled with great zeal for knowledge. Thus, our young hero was stubbornly indoctrinated into half a dozen languages, in science and history, and especially in music, drawing, dancing, horsemanship, and other graceful accomplishments. He received it all with a certain light facility, as seed sown into a soil of infinite riches and depth. But more advantageous than this stern discipline of one parent, was the warm affection and fancy of the other-his genuine, goodsouled mother, whose kindly overflowing heart and exhaustless legendary memory, fused and glorified his multitudinous acquisitions. She fed his eager mind with the dear and noble literature of the nursery, with ballads and sketches of old song from the dread depths of Scandinavian fable, with puppet-shows that open a new paradisaical world to childish imagination, and with the subduing music of a mother's love. Add to this, that the social position of the family drew about it the best and rarest men-men of strong decided natures, of cultivation and of character,-whose houses were fur

nished with pictures and books, and whose talk abounded in the ripest fruits of reading and thought. These sometimes checked, but more often aroused the enthusiasm, while they elicited the intellect, of the Boy. In executing their little orders to artists and tradesmen, he on the other hand was brought in contact with the humbler classes, where he saw life in its narrowness and degradation-not with indifference, however, but with earnest sympathy, his mind struggling painfully to penetrate the causes of social woe and sorrow. It was, too, on one of these excursions, from his own charmed circle into the nether regions of Want and Despair, that he was led to that first passion, which imparts so singular a romance and pathos to his childish life. The episode of his attachment to Gretchen, so full of simplicity, fervor and distress, runs through the story of his youth like a silver-thread, which is suddenly cut by remorseless Fate. The fair Spirit of his young desire, after a few months of sweet, childish affection, on the night of that solitary kiss, the first and the last, mysteriously withdraws, amid the illuminations of an unparalleled Festival, like a lovely phantom, and is seen by him no more. All his sacred visions and bright etherial dreams now fade in the blackness of Darkness. He flings himself upon his bed, and lies inconsolable for many weary weeks, in the alternations of fever and anguish. Then came the consuming grief, which withers the young heart, then came the dark thoughts which show us the tragic nature of this world, which tell man of his limitations and his littleness, yet unfold to him, through the infinity of his affections, the depth, the grandeur and the power of his soul. Goethe was strong, both in body and mind, and passed unhurt through the Baptism of Fire, through which, with various results, we all must pass. In solitude communing with his spirit,-in long, lonely forest rambles, where he imbibed the healing influences of Nature, while tracing her forms with his pencil, or pouring out his emotions in song, he was gradually restored to himself. But the experience of that sorrow never entirely passed away and in long years after, when the passionate Boy had become the world-famous Man, the vanished Gretchen re-appeared as the sad, but sweet and imperishable Figure of the "Faust."

Thus, the childhood of Goethe, was marked by manifold and deep experiences, but on the whole was a joyful, happy one-a vigorous genial individuality lapped in an element of graceful enjoyment, never indolent or weak, but controlling its destiny,-a well-trained, self-sustained Life, in the midst of a prosperous outward.

Goethe's youth was a continuation of the same favorable, external influences, controlled by his strong inward force. His being was more than vegetation on a fertile soil, and beneath kindly skies. It was like all true lives-a perpetual growth-a re-action between outward objects and his inward spirit, in which the latter absorbs and assimilates the former, just to the degree that is proper for its healthy developement. Nor was this process an easy one to him; for considering the chaotic state of the German mind at that period, a painful and vigilant struggle was needed for a young man to keep himself true to Nature and to God.

Goethe was sent to the University at Leipsig at a time when opinion on all subjects was undergoing a singular ferment. Full of buoyancy, of hope, of wild, uncouth provincial life, yet glowing with the consciousness of uncommon strength, "he had," as Wieland said afterwards, “he had the devil in him at times, and could fling out before and behind like a young colt." He seemed prepared for all fortunes,-for fun and frolic, for adventure, for study, for logic, and even for love and religion. Among the musty professors, and the wild break-neck, but withal, intellectual students, he was at home with all-a young acknowledged giant, secretly glorying in his

strength, now and then using it in very grotesque fashions, yet docile, pretensionless, thirsting for all sorts of knowledge; but above all, possessed of a great, free, loving and laughing heart.

German literature was very much in the same inchoate confused condition as himself-in the flush of a mighty youth, striving to emancipate itself from the swaddling bands of childhood, from timidity, imitation, and awkwardness, and dashing forward to a career of original and self-sustained power. Long stifled under the pressure of foreign corruptions, both German thought and German language were in a state of almost helpless perplexity. There were, as yet, no clear and fixed rules of criticism; no established theories of art; not even a definite understanding of the boundaries and aims of the different modes of creative effort. Neither poetry, nor painting, nor architecture could be said to have a conscious existence. Every man wrought in a way of his own, without regard to propriety or truth of manner, in a style overloaded with foreign idioms and French frivolities. A watery deluge, says our author, swelled up to the very top of the Teutonic Parnassus. Yet the light of a better literature had begun to dawn. One by one stars of greater or less magnitude managed to emerge from the prevailing obscurity. Gunther, Gotesched, Gellert, Gessner, each in his line, did something to bring back the nation of writers from the stateliness of Roman decorum, and the tinsel of French glitter, to nature and truth. But the most complete revolution was effected by three men, very different from each other-Klopstock, Lessing and Wieland. The effort was long and difficult, and gave rise to an incessant battle of words.

Goethe, with constitutional ardor, threw himself into the thickest of the fight. He penetrated to the very heart of the mysteries, which baffled inferior intellects. His good sense, his prodigious attainments in both ancient and modern learning; but more than these, the unerring instincts of the born poet and leader, enabled him to unravel the webs of the critics, and open the inner and deeper principles of art. Having been early taught in the school of the noble old Hebrew prophets and singers, and more recently too, having entered the charmed circle of Shakspeare's genius, he contemptuously broke through the entanglements of a formal and shallow pedantry, and soared away into the clearer regions of true poetic art. He saw the barrenness, the constraint, the utter futility of the prescriptive principles which then prevailed; he saw that artists were laboring over the stiff and hard shell of the matter, not even suspecting the existence of a kernel; and then, with doubt, it must be confessed, with hesitation, with manifold trial and sorrow, and perplexities, he labored faithfully, but surely, into higher conceptions of the aims and means of art. Yet his attention was not exclusively confined to the literary and artistic strivings of himself and his contemporaries. All the sciences, and nearly all learning, along with civil society itself, partook of the general confusion, and Goethe's nature was such that it could not rest till all was set right in his head. Medicine, philosophy, jurisprudence, religion, were pursued with almost as much fidelity as art, and he endeavored, with the same native and decided force, to master and mould their elements into unity. And the singular triumph of his activity, and the great beauty of his power, was, that all these tormenting and momentous inquiries were carried on, and in some sort settled in his mind, in the midst of a most exuberant and joyous outward life. Curious adventures, such as are known only to the roystering student life of Germany; frequent and frolicsome rambles by flood and field; tavern scenes; distant admiring visits to famous structures, even to manufactories and mines; love-commitments, that stirred the profoundest depths of emotion, and constant interest in all the doings of courts and cottages, alternated with protracted studies, with deep, almost agonising questionings of

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