University of Virginia Library

In the poem as it was originally written, the allusion to Goethe and Schiller was comprised in the following couplet:

These lines were spoken precisely as they were written, and they were written in entire ignorance of the nature or subject of Mr. Putnam's oration. In consequence of some misapprehension on the part of the audience as to the meaning, which I intended to convey, I have, since the delivery of the poem, thought it best to add the two lines now inserted in the text. I by no means intended to depreciate either poet in favor of the other, any more than I should in the case of Shakspeare and Wordsworth, but merely to hint at a characteristic peculiarity of each. Much as I admired the very eloquent oration by Mr. Putnam, I nevertheless differ from him in his estimate of Goethe, and doubt the truth of his prophecy. I hope I may be pardoned if I linger a moment to express a little more fully my views as to these poets—though I can here but hint at them.

Goethe was eminently an artist,—whose creed was contained in his own words: “It is not the knowledge of what might be, but of what is that forms us.” His chief aim was to reproduce and interpret the actual, and to reflect the passions and character of man. For this end, he labored for more than sixty years with an untiring perseverance, and an irrepressible energy. To his work he brought the most comprehensive intellect, the clearest insight, the best trained senses of any man of his age, and wherever his searching eyes were fixed, their vision was exhausting. He suffered nothing to pass him by without solving its secret. He ransacked nature, and dissected passion. He was indifferent, unsympathizing, egotistical. He was a looker on, beholding calmly from his high tower the battle of Life below, without ever mingling with it; and his reports of it are blinded by no cant, and colored by no prejudice. The gospel which he preached in all his life was Work. He never asked whether anything was good or bad, but only whether it existed. Whatever actually existed in life, he considered to be a fair subject for art. So did Shakspeare. Such is he in his writings. His life and character as a private man, is foreign to my purpose to discuss. But whatever it was, the broadest truths, the most experienced counsel, the most acute philosophy, and the most lucid thoughts fell from his lips, and these the world will not easily let die. In every department it may be really said of him, “nihil tetigit quod non ornavit.” His prose is transparent, idiomatic, and full of magical light and shadow. His poetry corresponds to Milton's parenthetical definition; it is simple, sensuous, passionate. Nor is his faculty single or limited. We find him, at different times, the scientific inquirer, the naturalist, the philosopher, the historian, the novelist, the critic, or all of these at once, the poet. More than anything, he seems to me like an iceberg, cold, transparent, gigantic, but serene, and glittering with the prismatic hues of poetry.

Schiller, on the other hand, is the Priest of the Ideal; who chaunts the high song of Freedom and Perfectability. He is essentially a transcendentalist, who finds his inspiration in Philosophy rather than in Life. His writings are full of lofty aspiration and noble sentiment; but he is rather an eloquent rhetorician, and a poetical philosopher, than a poet. His best poem, was his Life; which, though it was not stainless, was mostly noble. In History and Æsthetics, he expressed his highest power. His Drama contains passionate declamation, and fine sentiment, but little truth to Life. His aim, continually, was to attain the indifferent and objective position of Goethe; but his nature opposed him. Still, one easily sees the influence of Goethe, in comparing The Robbers with Wilhelm Tell.

Schiller, as an artist, is not equal to Goethe; as a man, he was nobler. He is more enthusiastic, and more sympathetic, but less serene, and less wise than Goethe. There is in a great measure, the same species of difference between Goethe and Schiller, as between Milton and Shakspeare. But Schiller was not Miltonian, nor was Goethe Shaksperian. Schiller is rather of all our dramatists, like George Chapman, that old heroic spirit of Elizabeth's time. Schiller strove to realize the divine; Goethe strove to poetize the common. Schiller's endeavor was to evolve the particular from the universal; Goethe's to involve the universal in the particular; and, therefore, the former is allegoric and metaphysic, while the latter is definite and individual. Schiller is always drawing down the sky; Goethe is always sustaining the earth. Goethe sings of Life; Schiller of Truth. Goethe strove to explain and embody what he had and saw; Schiller to reach and express what he neither had nor saw, but only longed for. Goethe is an artist looking round; Schiller is a mystic looking up. The singleness of Schiller is more easily comprehended than the variety and complication of Goethe; he is higher, but not so broad and clear. Finally, Schiller sang of moral and philosophic Truth, and Goethe of Truth, as it was colored in the Prism of Common Life.

Washington Allston is buried in the church-yard, contiguous to the Episcopal Church, in Cambridge. No monument has yet been erected to his memory; and the final resting-place of the painter and poet, who adorned American art, and enriched its literature, whose fame is a public property, and a national glory, is not even designated by a stone. It is to be hoped, that this will not long remain so. Let us not forget that some things are better than money and barter. Let us do honor to him who so truly hath done honor to us. Let us remember, that one of the highest safeguards of morality, and one of the surest incentives to action, is the memory of pure and elevated genius.

Upon the tomb of Giuliano de Medici, at Florence, are the gigantic statues of Day and Night, by Michel Angelo, casts from which are in the Boston Athenæum; and concerning which last we would echo Vasari's remark, “Statua non rara ma unica.” Michel Angelo is the great Christian sculptor, and the only great mind, which, since the palmy days of the Greeks has embodied the spiritual idea of his age in stone. John of Bologna, Canova, Flaxman, Thorwaldsen, the greatest names in modern sculpture, are merely modern Greeks. Their aim is Grecian; their execution is Grecian; their subjects are Grecian; their thought is Grecian; and they are to be judged by Grecian standards. Sculpture is just the same in kind as it was in the time of Pericles; but far inferior in quality.

In painting, have been embodied the different spiritual phases of different ages. Not only is the grand idea of Christianity expressed therein, but even its different modes of Catholicism and Protestanism. There is this great difference between Grecian and Italian painting; that the Greeks expressed outward life; and that the Italian masters expressed the soul. One was the result of observation; the other of feeling.

While painting has thus advanced, sculpture has stood still. No attempt has been made to embody the spiritual idea of our age, except in some few instances; the style of which is imbued with Grecianism. Modern sculpture is so subservient to Grecian, that the human face is generally treated as if it were of no moment in the expression of passion and character: because the Grecians so treated it. We have thousands of Venuses, but no women. Until the subjects of sculpture issue from the heart of the age, and their treatment is imbued with the feeling of the time, sculpture will never be the great art that it once was. It is time that our artists abandoned the exoteric style of the Greeks, and strove to give their works the esoteric significance, which our age demands. Sculpture is now almost nothing but imitation. There are, however, some exceptions. One man there is to which I look forward with a large hope; as the creator of a new and original style, which has Nature for its basis, and which embodies the life and thought of the age. That man is Hiram Powers; who, in my humble estimation, has shown a better and finer genius for sculpture, than any man since Michel Angelo.