his own room, while her husband Söller, is at the masquerade. Unluckily, Söller has determined to rob Alcest that very night. He enters the room by stealth opens the escritoire - takes the money is alarmed by a noise. hides himself in an alcove, and then sees his father-in-law, the landlord, enter the room! The old man, unable to resist a burning curiosity to know the contents of a letter which Alcest has received that day, has come to read it in secret. But he in turn is alarmed by the appearance of his daughter, and, letting the candle fall, he escapes. Söller is now the exasper

ated witness of an interview between Alcest and his wife: a situation which, like the whole of the play, is a mixture of the ludicrous and the painful - very dramatic and very unpleasant.

On the following day the robbery is discovered. Sophie thinks the robber is her father: he returns her the compliment — nay, more, stimulated by his eager curiosity, he consents to inform Alcest of his suspicion in return for the permission to read the contents of the mysterious letter. A father sacrificing his daughter to gratify a paltry curiosity is too gross; it is the only trait of juvenility in the piece - a piece otherwise prematurely old. Enraged at such an accusation, Sophie retorts the charge upon her father, and some unamiable altercations result. The piece winds up by the selfbetrayal of Söller, who, intimating to Alcest that he was present during a certain nocturnal interview, shields himself from punishment. The moral is "Forget and forgive among fellow sinners."

CHAPTER II.

MENTAL CHARACTERISTICS.

THE two dramatic works noticed toward the close of the last chapter may be said to begin the real poetic career of their author, because in them he drew from his actual experience. They will furnish us with a text for some remarks on his peculiar characteristics, the distinct recognition of which will facilitate the comprehension of his life and writings. We make a digression, but the reader will find that in thus swerving from the direct path, we are only tacking to fill our sails with wind.

Frederick Schlegel (and after him Coleridge) aptly said that every man was born either a Platonist or an Aristotelian. This distinction is often expressed in the terms subjective and objective intellects. Perhaps we shall best define these by calling the objective intellect one which is eminently impersonal, and the subjective intellect one which is eminently personal; the former disengaging itself as much as possible from its own prepossessions, striving to see and represent objects as they exist; the other viewing all objects in the light of its own feelings and preconceptions. It is needless to add that no mind can be exclusively objective, nor exclusively subjective; but every mind has a more or less dominant tendency in one of these directions. We see the contrast in Philosophy, as in Art. The realist argues from Nature upwards, starting from reality, and never long losing sight of it, but even in the adventurous flights of hypothesis and speculation

striving to make his hypothesis correspond with realities. The idealist starts from some conception, and seeks in realities only visible illustrations of a deeper existence. The achievements of modern Science, and the masterpieces of Art, prove that the grandest generalisations and the most elevated types can only be reached by the former method; and that what is called the "ideal school," so far from having the superiority which it claims, is only more lofty in its pretensions; the realist, with more modest pretensions, achieves loftier results. The Objective and Subjective, or, as they are also improperly called, the Real and Ideal, are thus contrasted as the termini of two opposite lines of thought. In Philosophy, in Morals, and in Art, we see a constant antagonism between these two tendencies. Thus in Morals the Platonists are those who seek the highest morality out of human nature, instead of in the healthy development of all human tendencies, and their due coördination; they hope, in the suppression of integral faculties, to attain some superhuman standard. They superpose ab extra, instead of trying to develop ab intra. They draw from their own minds, or from the dogmas handed to them by tradition, the notion of a mould, into which they attempt to fuse the activity of Nature.

If this school had not in its favour the imperious instinct of progress, and aspirations after a better, it would not hold its ground. But it satisfies that craving, and thus deludes many minds into acquiescence. The poetical and enthusiastic disposition most readily acquiesces preferring to overlook what man is, in its delight of contemplating what the poet makes him. To such a mind all conceptions of man must have a halo round them-half mist, half sunshine; the hero must be a Demigod, in whom no valet de chambre can find a failing: the villain must be a Demon, for whom no charity can find an excuse.

Not to extend this to a dissertation, let me at once say that Goethe belonged to the objective class. "Everywhere in Goethe," said Franz Horn, "you are on firm land or island; nowhere the infinite sea." A better characterisation was never written in one sentence. In every page of his works may be read a strong feeling for the real, the concrete, the living; and a repugnance as strong for the vague, the abstract, or the supersensuous. His constant striving was to study Nature, so as to see her directly, and not through the mists of fancy, or through the distortions of prejudice to look at men, and into them-to apprehend things as they were. In his conception of the universe he could not separate God from it, placing God above it, beyond it, as the philosophers did who represented God whirling the universe round his finger, "seeing it go." Such a conception revolted him. He animated the universe with God; he animated fact with divine life; he saw in Reality the incarnation of the Ideal; he saw in Morality the high and harmonious action of all human tendencies; he saw in Art the highest representation of Life. Nature, Nature, Nature, is everywhere the burden of his striving. It was to him an inexhaustible mystery and delight; its commonest details were of divine significance. To overlook and undervalue the facts of Nature, and to fix attention on fleeting personal impressions, or purely individual fancies, was a sign of decadence at every period of history. "No one merits the name of a poet, nor of a philosopher, unless he can assimilate Nature, and paint it or explain it." He boasted that, unlike so many of his contemporaries, he had "never thought about thinking;" and had carefully avoided mingling his personality with the great impersonality of Nature. His vision was all directed outwards. we look through his works with critical attention, we shall observe the objective tendency determining

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first, his choice of subjects; secondly, his handling of character; and, thirdly, his style. Intimately connected with this concreteness is another characteristic of his genius. His imagination was not, like that of many poets, incessantly at work in the combination and recombination of images which could be accepted for their own sake. It demanded the confrontation with fact; it moved with ease only on the secure ground of Reality. In science there are men whose active imaginations carry them into hypothesis and speculation, all the more easily because they do not bring hypothesis to the stern test of fact. The mere delight in combining ideas suffices them: provided the deductions are logical, they seem almost indifferent to their truth. There are poets of this order; indeed most poets are of this order. Goethe was of a quite opposite tendency. In him an imperious desire for reality controlled the errant facility of imagination. "The first and last thing demanded of Genius," he says, "is love of truth."

Hence we see why he was led to portray men and women instead of demigods and angels; no Posas and Theklas, but Egmonts and Clärchens. Hence also his portraitures carry their moral with them, in them, but have no moral superposed, -no accompanying verdict as from some outside judge. His drama is without a chorus. Further, and this is a point to be insisted on, his style both in poetry and prose, is subject to the same law. It is vivid with pictures, but it has scarcely any extraneous imagery. Most poets describe object by metaphors or comparisons; Goethe seldom tells you what an object is like, he tells you what it is. Shakespeare is very unlike Goethe in this respect. The prodigal luxuriance of his imagery often entangles, in its overgrowth, the movement of his verse. It is true, he also is eminently concrete; he sees the real object vividly, and he makes us see it vividly; but he