The old Eternal Genius who built
the world has confided himself more to this man than to any other. I
dare not say that Goethe ascended to the highest grounds from which
genius has spoken. He has not worshipped the highest unity; he is
incapable of a self-surrender to the moral sentiment. There are nobler
strains in poetry than any he has sounded. There are writers poorer
in talent, whose tone is purer, and more touches the heart. Goethe can
never be dear to men. His is not even the devotion to pure truth; but
to truth for the sake of culture. He has no aims less large than the
conquest of universal nature, of universal truth, to be his portion;
a man not to be bribed, nor deceived, nor overawed; of a stoical self-
command and self-denial, and having one test for all men,--What can
you teach me? All possessions are valued by him for that only; rank,
privileges, health, time, being itself.
He is the type of culture, the amateur of all arts, and sciences, and
events; artistic, but not artist; spiritual, but not spiritualist.
There is nothing he had not right to know; there is no weapon in the
army 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.
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