The criticism, which is not so much spoken as felt in reference
to Goethe, instructs us directly in the hope of literature. We feel
that a man gifted like him should not leave the world as he found it.
It is true, though somewhat sad, that every fine genius teaches us
how to blame himself. Being so much, we cannot forgive him for not
being more. When one of these grand monads is incarnated, whom
nature seems to design for eternal men and draw to her bosom, we
think that the old wearinesses of Europe and Asia, the trivial forms
of daily life will now end, and a new morning break on us all. What
is Austria? What is England? What is our graduated and petrified
social scale of ranks and employments? Shall not a poet redeem us
from these idolatries, and pale their legendary lustre before the
fires of the Divine Wisdom which burn in his heart? All that in our
sovereign moments each of us has divined of the powers of thought,
all the hints of omnipresence and energy which we have caught, this
man should unfold and constitute facts.
And this is the insatiable craving which alternately saddens
and gladdens men at this day.
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