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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

the riddles of history and the world. The following extract lets us into some of his pursuits in youth :

:

"My father was personally pretty comfortable. He was in good health, spent a great part of the day in my sister's instruction, wrote at the description of his travels, and was longer in tuning his lute than in playing on it. He concealed, moreover, as well as he could, his vexation at finding instead of a healthy, active son, who was now ready to take his degree and run through that course of life which had been prescribed for him, an invalid, whose mind seemed more out of order than his body. He did not conceal his wish that they should be expeditious with my cure; but I had to be specially on my guard in his presence against any expressions of hypochondria, for then he would become passionate and bitter.

"Under these circumstances, my mother, of a very lively and cheerful natural disposition, spent many tedious days. Her little housekeeping was soon taken care of. The mind of the good lady, secretly never unoccupied, wished to discover something of interest, and this she found in her religion, which she embraced the more fondly, as her most excellent female friends were humble, devoted Christians from education and from the heart. At the head of these stood the Fräulein von Klettenberg. She is the same person whose conversations and letters suggested the "Confessions of a Beautiful Soul," which are found incorporated in Wilhelm Meister. She was slenderly formed, and of the middle size; a hearty natural demeanor had been made still more pleasing by the manners of the world and the court. Her very neat dress reminded you of the costume of the Herrnhut ladies. Her serenity and peace of mind never left her. She looked upon her sickness as a necessary component part of her transitory earthly existence; she suffered with the greatest patience, and, in her painless intervals, was lively and communicative. Her favorite, indeed, perhaps her only topics of conversation, were the moral experiences which may be gained by a man who keeps watch over himself; in these, too, the religious sentiments were included, which, in a very pleasing and ingenious manner, she considered as divided into natural and supernatural. It scarcely needs more to call back to the remembrance of those who are fond of such representations, that complete delineation of Christian character which was perfected within her soul. Owing to the quite peculiar course which she had taken from her youth up, the distinguished rank in which she had been born and educated, and the quickness and originality of her mind, she did not agree very well with the other ladies who were travelling upon the same road to their eternal happiness. Frau Griesbach, the best of them, seemed too austere, too dry, too learned; she knew, thought, and comprehended more than the others, who contented themselves with the developement of their feelings, and she was therefore burdensome to them, since it was not every one who either could or would carry so great an apparatus with them on the road to bliss. But for this reason the most of them were somewhat monotonous, since they confined themselves to a certain terminology which might well have been compared to that of the latter enthusiasts. Fräulein von Klettenberg went on her way betwixt both extremes, and seemed, with some self-complacency, to reflect herself in the image of Count Zinzendorf, whose opinions and actions bore witness to a lofty birth and a distinguished rank. She found in me what she needed, a lively young creature, striving after an unknown happiness, who, although he could not think himself an extraordinary sinner, yet found himself in no comfortable condition, and was perfectly healthy neither in body nor mind. She was delighted with what Nature had given me, as well as with many things which I had given myself. And though she conceded to me many excellencies, this was by no means humiliating to her: for, in the first place, she never thought of emulating one of our sex; and secondly, she believed that in regard to religious culture, she was very much in advance of me. My unrest, my impatience, my strivings, my longings, my investigations, musings and vacillations, she interpreted in her own way, and did not conceal from me her conviction, but plainly assured me that all this proceeded from my not being at peace with God. Now, I had believed from youth up that I stood upon very good terms with my God. I even fancied to myself that, after my various trials, He might rather be in arrears to me; and I was daring enough to think that I might have some things to forgive Him. This presumption was grounded on my infinite good-will, to which, as it seemed to me, He should have given better

assistance. It may be imagined how often I and my friend fell into disputes on this subject, which were always carried on in the friendliest way, however, and, like my conversations with the old Rector, often ended with her saying: "that I was a fool of a fellow, for whom many allowances must be made.”

"I was still sorely troubled with the tumour in my neck; and as the physician and surgeon thought good first to disperse this excrescence, afterwards, as they said, to draw it to a head, and at last to open it; so for a long time I had to endure rather inconvenience than pain, although towards the end of the cure, the continual touching with lunar caustic and other corrosive substances could not but give me very disagreeable prospects for every fresh day. The physician and surgeon both belonged to the Pious Separatists, although both were of highly different natural characters. The surgeon, a slender, well-built man, of easy and skilful hand, was unfortunately somewhat hectic-yet he endured his condition with truly Christian patience, and did not suffer his disease to interfere with the exercise of his profession. The physician, besides being abstruse, was an inexplicable, sly-looking, friendly-spoken man, who had gained himself a peculiar degree of confidence in our pious circle. His activity and attention were very consoling to the sick; but more than all, by this he extended his practice, by showing in secret some mysterious medicines prepared by himself, of whose efficacy no one could speak, since, with us, the physicians are strictly prohibited from putting up their own prescriptions. He was not so reserved with certain powders, which may have been some kind of tonic; but it was among the true believers alone that we heard of that powerful salt which could only be applied in cases of the greatest danger, although no one had yet seen it or experienced its effects. To excite and strengthen our faith in the possibility of such a universal remedy, the physician, wherever he found any susceptibility for such things, had recommended certain mystical books on chemical-alchemy to his patients, and given them to understand that only by studying these could any one proceed so far as to gain this treasure for his own; which was the more necessary, as the mode of its preparation could not be communicated for medical, but especially for moral reasons; and that in order to comprehend, produce and make use of this great result, one must know the secrets of Nature in connexion, as it was not a particular but an universal remedy, and might be produced under different forms and in different ways. My friend had listened to these enticing words. The health of the body was nearly allied to the health of the soul; and could a greater benefit, a greater mercy be shown towards others, than by making herself mistress of a reniedy by which so many a pain might be assuaged, so many a danger averted? She had already secretly studied Welling's Opus mago-cabbalisticum, in which, however, as the author himself immediately darkens and removes the light he imparts, she was looking about for a friend who might bear her company in this alternation of glare and gloom. It needed small incitement to inoculate me also with this disease. I procured the work, which, like all writings of this kind, I could trace in a direct line up to its parent stock, the New-Platonic school. I took the greatest pains in this book to notice most precisely the obscure allusions by which the author refers from one place to another, and by which he gives promises of revealing what he conceals, and to mark down on the margin the number of the page where those passages were to be found which should explain each other. But even then the book still remained dark and unintelligible enough; except that at last one studied himself into a certain terminology, and according to his own fancy, contrived to get something out of it to talk about at least, if not to understand. The afore-mentioned work makes very honorable mention of its predecessors, and we were incited to investigate those original sources themselves. We turned to the works of Theophrastus Paracelsus and Basilius Valentinus; as well as of Helmont, Starkey, and others, whose doctrines and directions, resting more or less upon nature and imagination, we attempted to see into and follow out. We were particularly pleased with the Aurea Catena Homeri, in which, though perhaps in fantastical fashion, Nature is represented in a beautiful combination: and thus, sometimes together, sometimes by ourselves, we employed much time in those out-of-the-way subjects, and spent the evenings of a long winter, during which I was compelled to keep my chamber, very agreeably, since we three, my mother being closeted with us, were more delighted with these secrets, than we could have been at their elucidation."

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