had not right to know: there is no weapon in the armory of universal genius he did not take into his hand, but with peremptory heed that he should not be for a moment prejudiced by his instruments. He lays a ray of light under every fact, and be- tween himself and his dearest property. From him nothing was hid, nothing withholden. The lurking daemons sat to him, and the saint who saw the dzemons; and the metaphysical elements took form. Piety itself is no aim, but only a means whereby through purest inward peace we may at- tain to highest culture.’ And his penetration of every secret of the fine arts will make Goethe still more statuesque. His afiections help him, like wo-


men employed by Cicero to worm out the secret of conspirators. Enmities he has none. Enemy of him you may be, —if so you shall teach him aught which your good-will cannot, were it only what ex- perience will accrue from your ruin. Enemy and welcome, but enemy on high terms. He cannot hate any body; his time is worth too much. Tem- peramental antagonisms may be suffered, but like feuds of emperors, who fight dignifiedly across kingdoms.

His autobiography, under the title of Poetry and Truth out of my Life,” is the expression of the idea, now familiar to the world through the German mind, but a novelty to England, Old and