than this substitution of devotion, or rather this pretence of devotion, for real and substantial goodness. Yet are there those, and the number, it may be feared, is not small, who think to compound with certain forms and acts of piety for the undeniable delinquencies and transgressions of their lives; who on no account would omit their daily prayers, or the worship of the temple, absent themselves from the Lord's supper, or even omit the evening lecture or the occasional conference, but who do not scruple, as long as they can hope for concealment, to be dishonest in their business, severe in their exactions, censorious in their judgments, inconsiderate and unrelenting to the dependent and unhappy. But let no one imagine that he holds the least claim to the name of Christian, or has yet known anything of the life of God in his soul, if there be found within him anything of this. If religion exert within us any true, any life-giving power, it will exhibit itself in the most common relations and offices of life. It will make us better men, and better members of society; more peaceable and industrious, more kind and meek and forgiving, more temperate and pure.

It also enters into a just view of this religion, to regard it, not only as in itself an inward principle, operating on the heart and the life, but as having within itself the sources of its own satisfactions. According to the fine expression of the apostle, it is a life hidden with Christ in God.' It does not seek the regards, nor does it depend for its rewards, on men. It may be passed in much obscurity, far from the gaze, and wholly without the honors of the world; for its witness is in heaven, and its praise, not of men, but of God. It has within itself unfailing subjects for thought; enduring and inexhaustible resources of solace and enjoyment. For it implies a faith that overcomes the world, and makes him who has nothing, the possessor of all things. 'How,' says an eloquent father of the early days of the church, 'how can you disturb him, whose heart is established in the belief of an everlasting life, and the peace of a Christian's hope? Bring him word, "Your estate is ruined; "Yet my inheritance," says he, "is safe."- "Your wife, your child, or your nearest friend is dead;"-"Yet my Father lives." Bring him thes ummons, "You yourself must die; "-" Well, then, I go to my Father and to my inheritance;" and though he pass through the valley of the shadow of death, he will fear no evil, for God is with him, and when Christ, who is his life, shall appear, he also shall appear with him in glory.'

But there is still another view of this subject, which we must not altogether omit. The whole spirit and character delineated in the work before us, or intended by other expressions, usually employed in similar treatises such as heavenly-mindedness, spirituality, vital religion, &c., are produced by principles of general acknowledgment, with which the distinctions of a disputed theology have little or no concern. The life of God in the soul is formed by having the love of God shed abroad in the heart; by filial views of his parental character and law; by faith in his perfect providence, his unerring wisdom, and his fatherly goodness; by a practical conviction of his impartial judgment, followed by an exact retribution according to character; and, lastly, by the hope of immortality. Who will doubt, that in these grand, simple doctrines, are included all that is essential to life and godliness? Who, that is not an utter stranger to their influence, may not find in these glorious truths the relief of his cares, the solace of his sorrows, the correction of his sin, the sanctification and improvement of his soul? Are not these the truths, which, incomparably beyond any of the doubtful questions of the day, make the gospel what it is, the unspeakable gift, and, through their regenerating and sustaining influence, the power of God unto salvation?

ART. V.-Goethe's Werke. Schauspiel. [Goethe's Works. Iphigenia in Tauris. A Drama.]

Iphigenie auf Tauris. Ein

THE works of Goethe form an integral and important portion of German literature. During his long literary reign of more than half a century, he has given to the world a series of works, astonishing for their variety, depth and power, each one strengthening the impression made by its predecessor. His name has long been familiar as household words to every individual of Germany's thirty millions, and the ever deepening sound of his fame has found an occasional echo from the most distant quarters of the world. And now, having arrived almost to the utmost verge of human life, he has paused to review the splendid career he has been permitted to pass through, and affix the

final seal of immortality to his productions. Schiller, Wieland, Klopstock, and those other literary giants who have made Weimar the Athens of Modern Europe, have long rested in the silence of the tomb. Of that constellation, one star only, but that the brightest of all, yet remains, shining on with a pure and steady lustre, amidst the flood of softened and reflected light that still lingers over the horizon where those kindred stars have set. The Arch-duke of Weimar, the patron of Goethe's youth and the friend of his manhood, has lately been laid in the sepulchre of his princely line, with the remains of Schiller on one side, and a cenotaph, destined ere long to be the resting-place of the poet of Frankfort, on the other. Standing in this interesting and solemn relation to the generation that has been and the generation that is, this literary Nestor is still heard, with a reverence bordering upon worship, among those whose fathers' hearts were kindled to enthusiasm by his strains, as they came fresh and burning from his lips. The actors in the great literary drama of which Weimar has been the theatre, have all departed save one, and in the common course of things, his death must soon be the touching epilogue.

The most striking trait of Goethe's genius, is its unrivalled versatility. In every department of literature he has tried his power, and with wonderful success. He possesses, what belongs only to the most gifted minds, the power of entering into, and identifying himself completely with every mode and phasis of human life. His intellect is as varied in its compass, as the phenomena of the physical, moral and spiritual world, that have so often passed in review before it. The learned and the ignorant are equally charmed with the thousand-fold creations of his muse. The critic most deeply versed in the refinements of an enlightened age, finds in his lightest effusions matter for grave reflection. The untaught child of nature meets in them the feelings of the heart so truly given, the master tones of humanity so stirringly uttered, that his own soul responds at once to the appeal. His works display none of that egotism that runs through the productions of inferior minds, though all are stamped with the undying impression of his peculiar genius. His mind has traversed in every direction the vast domains of knowledge, and made them contribute of their choicest materials to the sightly edifice of his fame. Scarce a strain of poetry has ever been uttered, to which his ear has not listened; scarce a specimen of creative art exists, which

his eye has not accurately scanned; scarce a system of physical or intellectual science has been devised, that his searching and curious reason has not sifted. And such is the true education for a poet of this age. It is one of the greatest mistakes of shallow speculators, that extensive and progressive knowledge is at war with the inspirations of the muse. An appeal to literary history would show that poetry has, on the whole, steadily advanced with the advance of intellectual refinement. The sophism springs from the ex parte evidence of the bad taste, and corrupt and degenerate literature, founded on certain transient extravagances that pass away with the temporary modes of thought in which they originated. But genuine poetry began with the inspiration of external nature, as uttered with matchless grace in the earliest strains of the Grecian muse, and has ever since proceeded inward, aspiring to sway the spiritual nature of men, and speaking in a deeper and more solemn tone, in proportion as the worlds of mind and heart have been unfolded.

The command which Goethe has attained over the resources of his native language, constitutes one of his strongest claims to attention. In some respects the German is the most difficult of all modern dialects, and it is fully mastered by very few among the numerous authors who have adorned it. But Goethe's comprehensive mind has grasped it in its almost boundless variety. His wondrous reach of thought and power seems to have become coextensive with its wide and deep significance. He therefore moulds it to whatever form he pleases; plain narrative flows along in even, unbroken, harmonious sentences; description, in his hands, glows with hues as bright, and features as distinct, as those of the prototype; passion, whether dark and stormful, or sad and subdued; the proud bearing of the hero, and the boundless devotedness of the lover; the throbbing aspirations of youth, and the calm thoughtfulness of manhood,— all find, under his pen, exact, appropriate and powerful expression, rich and magical imagery, and beautiful illustrations springing up unbidden and thronging around them. Some of his lyrical pieces are among the noblest specimens of that branch of the poetic art. Many of his songs rival in melody the softness of the far-famed Tuscan music. In the novel, no German writer can be placed by his side. In criticism, his beautiful and profound examination of Hamlet, in Wilhelm Meister, ranks him at least on a level with Schiller, Lessing and the Schlegels.

VOL. VIII.-N. S, VOL. III. NO. II.

25

In the drama Goethe's productions are so various and distinct, and each one so superior in some respects to every other of the kind in German literature, that we find it difficult to imagine them all the works of a single mind, however gifted and versatile. His Faust is a production teeming with wonders and requiring long and deep study to comprehend. The doubt, darkness and despair, to which modern inquiries have in many cases unhappily led; the dim twilight of the mind between ancient and unsuspecting faith, and the light which intellect, as if rousing from the slumber of ages, attempted to let in upon the region of thought, even to its most sacred and mysterious recesses; the many dismal forms that appeared, spright-like, to the mental eye, before it had adapted itself to the new and dazzling influx; the disappointment of raised expectations and satiated appetites; the struggling between hope that will not die, and skepticism that will not let us hope in peace; the headlong recklessness with which the mind rushes to the attainment of a long meditated and almost despaired of aim, even at the price of its eternal salvation-are all embodied in this fearfully significant character. In Goetz von Berlichingen, the poet labors successfully to accomplish another and a different aim. The rough bravery, the daring chivalrous spirit of an early German age, are dramatically represented, yet in accordance with strict historical truth. The poet prepared himself for this flight, by a long and severe study of the manners, institutions, laws and history of the feudal times; and hence his accuracy of costume, character and spirit. In Egmont, we have scenes from vulgar life alternating with the deepest tragedy, somewhat in the manner of Shakspeare. We are led into the streets of Brussels, and hear the murmuring of a discontented populace described with that wonderful exactness and power of language which we have said is one of Goethe's most striking characteristics. But the most beautiful portion of this romantic drama, is the picture of feminine devotedness to a beloved object, exhibited in the exquisitely drawn character of Clara. We do not remember, in the whole circle of dramatic poetry, a finer or a truer display of the high qualities of woman, the unconquerable attachment, which no pressure of external adversity, prostration of honorable hopes, loss of the pomp and splendor of fortune belonging to a princely name, arrest, imprisonment and a dishonored death, can destroy or affect, except to heighten, than Goethe has embodied by the master touches that make up this