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It might have been thought that the religious element in Goethe's ideal would have saved it in America, if anywhere, from destruction; for we are a religious, or at least, as Mr. Dickinson would say, a superstitious people. Goethe's sympathetic approval of the theory that the human spirit tends toward a point of gravity at the centre of our universe, is consonant with permanent human needs; so is his sense of form, of beauty, of dignity. But whether it be the effect of democracy, of a childlike desire for novelty, of an undisciplined impatience with tradition, or of self-confidence in our power to create new forms of religion that shall more fully satisfy our own needs, or whatever the cause, the reasonableness, the conservatism, the restraint that mark the religious element in Goethe's ideal, have accomplished nothing to maintain that ideal with us.

So far it would appear that the causes which have combined to overthrow Goethe's ideals are scarcely more American than European; and that theory is confirmed by the popular attitude toward Goethe's ideals in Germany, where they seem to have fared no better than elsewhere. The old gods of serenity and beauty, Goethe and Beethoven, have been taken down from their pedestals, and Bismarck and Wagner have been

set up in their stead. The ideal of duty toward self has certainly not suffered loss of power, but the self that is the object of duty is a self of dominion, not over fate and inward lack of harmony, but of dominion over other men. The heroic model is no longer that of Phoebus Apollo, but of a sinewed and muscular Thor. Domination, not harmony, is the teaching of the most eminent German of letters since Schopenhauer. It is true that Nietzsche is the greatest upholder of aristocracy since Goethe; but Nietzsche did not care for measure, proportion, harmony, pure beauty. The whole development of Germany, the most brilliant there has been since that of Italy of the Renaissance, — in energy, in material well-being, in orderliness, in science, in selfconfidence, in ambition, has moved far from the conception of full-minded completeness of character, intellect, and spirit, which Goethe taught in confidence that, like light in the dark, like warmth in the cold, such completeness would receive the gratitude and honor of men.

Are we not forced to the conclusion that the Zeitgeist is opposed to Goethe's ideals, that Mr. Dickinson's criticism fits democracy and its attendant phenomena rather than America? Is it not democracy rather than America that is

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'contemptuous of ideas, but amorous of devices"? The Latin democratic countries must be excepted, for Latins have a natural gift for form and a special respect for intellectual accomplishment that colors even their democracy; besides, democracy comes to them more naturally than to northern peoples. But if Mr. Dickinson had been travelling in Australia, New Zealand, or Canada, would he not have come to very much the same conclusion?

Our neglect to follow Goethe's ideal, however, remains our own fault, even if other democratic countries have committed the same fault. We have brought Mr. Dickinson's criticism on our own heads. We must profit by that criticism, and return to Goethe's ideal. Some steps to be taken are obvious. First of all we must fully satisfy the democratic desires of the Zeitgeist by making the spirit of pure democracy prevail in all matters of politics and economics, either by giving pure democracy supreme power over these matters, or, supposing that there is some other way to accomplish the same result, then by giving supreme power to the forces that can put such other way into effect. Then, when democracy shall have received its due, it must no longer seek to lay its hand on literature, art, higher

education, pure science, philosophy, manners. And then, when the mass of men are politically and economically free, we must preserve the sacred fire of intellectual light by setting apart a priesthood, a body of intellectual men who shall worship the God of truth and him alone. Our professors at Harvard, Yale, and elsewhere, for instance, constitute, or should constitute, such a priesthood; but the public is not satisfied to have them serve the sacred flame: the public wishes them to apply that sacred flame to furnaces and dynamos. We do need, as Mr. Dickinson implies, intellectual traditions of generations of educated men; those traditions should be taught as a sacred cult; and their priests should be held in special reverence. Those priests should be most honored when they serve intellectual concerns in which the public sees no profit, such as philosophy and the classics. We do need, as a quickening fountain, in the midst of us, a spirit of reverence for intellectual beauty. Had such a spirit of reverence existed among us, should we have been so exposed to Mr. Lowes Dickinson's criticisms, and should we now be almost as remote from Goethe as from Dante or Plato?

THE CLASSICS AGAIN

A DIALOGUE CONCERNING THE LOEB CLASSICAL

BROWN, a historian.

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LIBRARY 1

JONES, a clergyman.

ROBINSON, a dilettante

Scene, Brown's apartment

BROWN; enter JONES

BROWN. HOW d' do, Jones, delighted to see you. I hope that you are very well.

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JONES. Very well, my dear boy, and you? How are you getting on with your work? Have you the German microscope under your eye? Are you putting the atomic theory to use in history? [Enter ROBINSON]

ROBINSON.

How d' do, how d' do? How are you, parson? And how are you, Mommsen Gregorovius Macaulay?

BROWN.

I have been loafing lately. I felt the need of contrast, of looking about me a little

1 The Loeb Classical Library. Edited by T. F. PAGE and W. H. D. ROUSE.

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