GOETHE; OR, THE WRITER. 271

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-

7

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