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pledge myself always to insert, as I have space, articles sent me, whatever the peculiar doctrines they advocate, when they possess the requisite literary merit, and discuss topics, which, in my judgment, are worth examining. The fact, that any given paper from a contributor is inserted, must never be regarded as a proof that the editor approves its doctrines. It is merely a proof that he thinks it presents an aspect of a great subject which it is well to contemplate. The doctrines of the Review will, of course, be those of its editor. These, he trusts, will secure to it the requisite degree of unity and consistency. My wish is, so far as my limits admit, to afford an opportunity to every one who has a word to utter, of uttering it freely. With these remarks, I send the Review forth again, to find such reception as the public shall see proper to give it.

EDITOR.

ART. II.- Conversations with Goethe, in the last years of his Life. Translated from the German of Eckermann. By S. M. FULLER. Boston. 1839.

THIS Volume has added another valuable link to the extensive, yet fragmentary chain of memorials which the public already possess in relation to Goethe, and one which may perhaps assist us toward the better interpretation of a character which is, as yet, more talked of than understood among us. Yet, the number of works on the subject, which have been published since his death, would seem to furnish ample materials for the construction of a clue to guide us through all its intricacies. Writers are every day coming forward to present us with the result of their researches in this rich field of investigation. Some few have returned with information, that it is but a dry

and parched land, in which there is no water. Others, again, have found there everflowing, exhaustless springs, at which they have drunken freely, and felt their spirits quickened and refreshed. There has been much sincere, heartfelt eulogium, much decided, unmitigated condemnation. Mr. Dwight, in his notes to the songs and lyrics of Goethe, has proved himself so eloquent an interpreter of the Oracle, that we cannot but regret he had not written more fully on the subject. In Miss Fuller's preface to this volume, there is much just and comprehensive thought expressed in few words. Here is neither affected humility, nor arrogant dictation. She tells us distinctly and simply, what Goethe has been to her own mind, and she does this with so much calmness and candor- she discovers so fine an insight into his modes of thinking, so true a sympathy with his character and genius, that we look forward with increased. interest to the more complete delineation of them which we have been led to expect from her.

It is interesting to compare these several transcripts of the same individual, represented under such different lights, and from such various points of observation. From the volume which Miss Fuller has so admirably translated, we derive much information respecting Goethe, which could have been obtained in no other way. Eckermann here portrays him to us in a new attitude, and under new relations. From the true and pure heart of this young disciple, we may behold his mighty spirit reflected, like some high and remote star, seen as mirrored in the calm and transparent bosom of a placid lake. Yet we should not neglect to make due allowance for the refraction which the rays of light must necessarily undergo in their transmission through even so pure a medium.

We have been warned against trusting to the verisimilitude of this delineation of Goethe's mind, on the ground of its having been drawn by the hand of one who loved him, and have been told that we must maintain towards the individual, whom we would fully

understand and appreciate, an entire neutrality of feeling,- a maxim in which we have little faith. We believe, on the contrary, that no character reveals itself to us in all its completeness and beauty, until it is viewed by the full, clear, and mellow light of love; that no mirror reflects so faithfully, as the loving heart. Not only do a thousand delicate, evanescent shades of character, a thousand latent traits of goodness and beauty reveal themselves to the keenly apprehensive, and ever watchful eye of love, which would have escaped an indifferent observer; but is it not also true, in another and far higher sense, that love is the true interpreter of Humanity? May we not venture to hope that those qualities in the character of an individual, which excite our love and veneration, are indeed its inherent and essential elements, while the faults and blemishes, which seem so prominent to cavillers and critics, are but its accidental and adventitious accessories, depending on the circumstances and influences of the moment. There is a passage in Mr. Emerson's address to the Divinity Students of Cambridge, which has more than once been pointed out to us, as one to which it is difficult, if not impossible, to attach any definite meaning, but which to us seems radiant with a divine significance. The passage is simply this," Good is positive, evil only privative, not absolute.' Do not these words express a profound truth? Nay, do they not even furnish an adequate solution of the one great problem, the existence and origin of evil, since they teach. that evil is but imperfection, the absence and negation. of good, (in a greater or less degree the necessary condition of all created beings,) even as in the natural world cold is the absence of heat, and darkness of light? What should we think of a naturalist, who, instead of seeking to observe the phenomena, and analyze the elements of light and heat, should turn all his attention to the study and contemplation of their opposites? Carlyle says, "of even unwise admiration, much may be hoped, for much good is really

in it; but unwise contempt is itself a negation. Nothing can come of it, for it is nothing."

We will not, then, refuse to learn what we can of a great man, because it comes to us, as in the present instance, through the mediation of a devoted disciple, but thankfully receive what, with so much simplicity and good faith, Eckermann has here confided to us.

To trace the progress of a life like Goethe's, through all the bright stages of its culmination and decline, from the rich but misty light of its dawn, to the calm, serene, golden glories of its setting, would be a study of profound interest to every, thoughtful observer. The life of a man of genius is ever a life of conflict; ever is it exposed to trials and temptations, of which obtuser and calmer natures do not even dream. Montaigne says truly of the dangerous gift of genius, that "it is a sharp sword, which, if its possessor knows not how to arm himself with it discreetly and soberly, will pierce him to the heart." The man of "timeserving mediocrity," moulded and manufactured after safe conventional rules and formulas, treads the broad. high-ways, and beaten paths of life, with a mechanical, unquestioning conformity, looking neither to the right nor the left, neither before nor after, and asking only, "what shall he eat, what shall he drink, and wherewithal shall he be clothed." Occupied with the immediate and the palpable, he heeds not the sad changes, the fearful contrasts, and all the mysterious, contradictory phenomena of human life. He feels no heart-sickening discrepancy between the wants of the spirit, and the actual condition of the external world. No bright vision of beauty and love exists within his own mind, to pale the splendor of the outward, and make him dissatisfied with reality. He knows nothing of those weary struggles, by which energetic and sensitive spirits exhaust themselves in a ceaseless conflict with the actual.

The Promethean ardor of genius, chained to the hard and sterile rock of reality, feels itself preyed upon by the vulture of unsatisfied desires, which pant

after the ideal. Byron, Burns, Cowper, Shelley, Tasso, and Rousseau, what a succession of shining beacons are here, to warn the beholder of those peculiar dangers to which minds, thus highly gifted and finely organized, are exposed! Too often, while sitting at the feast of life, like the stranger guest at the Egyptian banquet, their eyes are turned sadly upon the veiled memorial of mortality, where, from beneath its embroidered pall, the hollow visage of death seems to mock them with its ghastly and spectral gaze. Too often neglectful of the cheering intercourse, and all the kindly, familiar charities of social life, they stand solitary and apart in a wild and visionary world, brooding in misanthropic gloom over the perplexing mysteries of life, questioning the past and the future, and sending forth their proud thoughts to "wander through eternity." We turn away with a sigh from the story of their lives, and are almost tempted to believe that there is some fatal and necessary connexion between genius, error, and suffering.

When we see the noble and the gifted, who went forth in the morning of life with loving hearts, and eager, expectant spirits, in search of knowledge and happiness, returning ere midday from their fruitless quest, with energies prematurely wasted, with blanched cheek and blighted hope; sick at heart and sullied, perhaps, in fame; then a deep oppression seizes us; we no longer trust ourselves to think; we would fain cease to feel; but nature, kind and friendly nature, will not leave us to nourish our sick fancies. She wins us out of these dark moods, for the most part, whether we will or not. And she does this most successfully, she most effectually cheers and strengthens us, by showing us examples of great men, who have borne unblenching the heat and burden of the day; men who have passed from hope to faith through the fiery trial of doubt. And even such an one to us is Goethe.

The history of a mind thus highly dowered, of a soul penetrated with the bright ideal of goodness

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