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masterpiece, misled by the fascination under the spell of which the author himself composed it. The simplicity of the .men and manners, the beauty of the scenery, and the strong characters which he described, the primitiveness of nature and the originality of the subject, carried Schiller's enthusiasm to an unwonted pitch. There was less need of skillful combinations to chain the attention of the spectators. They passed with delight from one to another of the rural, heroic, charming, touching and sublime scenes, without asking for their artistic disposition. The sentiments most natural to the human heart dropping from the lips of the Swiss mountaineers in words of untaught eloquence, wrought up their sympathies to the highest. If some of the personages did stray into an order of ideas superior to their time or station, if Gessler reasoned too much like a systematic oppressor and Tell justified himself in the manner of a philosopher and even somewhat as a sophist, rapture prevented criticism.

With whatever severity we criticize the faults of his pieces, one glory is forever assured to Schiller, that of having created the great tragedy of Germany and remaining unrivaled in it.

Notwithstanding that murmurs of admiration, forerunners of his renown, often reached the ear of the painter of Wallenstein, Schiller's ardor was sometimes dampened by discouragement, and he doubted his calling, even for tragedy; then cheering up, he supplied by the obstinacy of labor the gifts he thought nature had refused him. Comparison of himself with his ideal rendered him modest. This modesty, which even partook of timidity, was known and respected by the public. In a city where he supposed himself unknown he went to see his Maid of Orleans played. Some one betrayed his name; it was circulated in a whisper through the hall. Schiller was one of the last to go out. He found the crowd of spectators collected before the theater; it opened to give him passage. There was no applause, no bravo; but all heads were uncovered in respectful silence.

As a great poet, Schiller could not be a stranger to any human or social interest. Politics occupied his vast intellect in so far as it lays down general principles for the liberties of the nation; but he was a stranger to questions of modes of application, forms of government, and balance of power; he

directed his attention to the universal laws of society and offered his incense to the sacred liberty of souls. When Schiller proclaimed love for man, love for nations, tolerance, and liberty of speech, he said in other terms, "Ye shall know the truth and the truth shall make you free." In this noble sense Schiller was to the theater, as in all other fields of thought, the herald of liberty.

The question of Schiller's religion is an interesting one, and quite in place in these pages. His youth was coincident with a time of general irreligion. Voltairean ideas were not less prevalent in Germany than in France, and not less fashionable in other courts than in that of Frederick II.; from high society they descended to other classes. Schiller speaks of the universal ridicule of the sacred writings in his preface to the Robbers, and "trusts to have avenged religion and morality in a striking manner by giving over these mockers of Scripture to the indignation of the world in the persons of his most detestable brigands." Voltaireism shed its baneful influence even upon theology. The famous exegete, Paul of Heidelberg, who was Professor at Jena at the same time with Schiller as an expositor of the Gospel, was but a less witty Voltaire. The theologians of Germany, as a class, dazzled and intimidated by Voltaire, as were many French preachers of the day, lowered Christianity, or diluted it in vague generalizations. They destroyed the substance of the religion of Christ and left only its externals standing. Opposed to these were a few exceptions, energetic defenders of Jesus Christ; but a restless melancholy and morose pietism, and a narrow sectarianism, were more frequent. Large and luminous Christianity was little apparent even to an intelligence like that of Schiller.

The young poet, urged on by a philosophic need of harmony, took refuge in ancient Greece, where he thought he found the life of the senses in accord with that of the intellect, the free play of the heart's affections with enjoyment of the fine arts, the exigencies of philosophy with the delights of poetry; and in imbibing the Greek spirit he adopted the mythology of Greece for the religion of his imagination.

This attachment to the promises of nature and the rights of the present life, and the conviction that the Christian religion at times excludes the mere love of beauty, concurred

with other causes to divert still further from it a spirit so worthy to understand it, and so capable of appreciating its essential beauty. During his intimacy with Goethe he went so far as to pursue Christianity with bitterness: there are even times when his correspondence with Goethe exhibits him attacking the historical parts of the Bible.

This estrangement from Christianity was detrimental to the poet, depriving him of many serene, touching, and consoling inspirations. In a poem, highly and justly admired in other respects, what has he said of the religious employment of the bell? A few words of colorless deism. And yet is not its sublimest use that which the Christian Church has given it? The philosopher might ignore this, but the poet should remember it.

When Schiller considers the destiny of man, the doctrine he has wrought out for himself does not impart to him consolation, or give him calm. Wishing to enjoy the present, he finds himself obliged to sacrifice it for the future: he then falls back upon resignation, but his resignation is sad. He who had sung so well of joy in its highest sense, though with somewhat melancholy accents, sees only the hardship of the sacrifice to which he submits, for Christianity alone can accomplish it with joy; only Christianity can re-establish the harmony of our existence.

But the man was better than his doctrine. The impressions he had received from his early religious instruction were not all effaced. His first poem had been inspired by the near approach of his first communion. It had pained him to yield his taste for theology and the pastoral calling to the demands of family interests. In his correspondence with Körner, in which his inmost feelings are most fully discovered, he speaks of the soul, of God and Providence, with as much warmth as the vicar of Savoy, and of prayer with more confidence in its efficacy. The Song to Joy is a hymn to the Father of men: Schiller had the faith of the heart.

As he advanced in the career of thought and occupied himself less with the historical element of Christianity, he grew to sympathize more with its moral idealism. The Christian religion appeared to him as replacing the law, the impératif catégorique of Kant, by a free inclination for good, the reign of moral beauty in the outward life, and holiness in the heart.

A more complete religious progress is revealed to us in his poems of the last period, the idea of eternity as opposed to the transitoriness of human affairs and the deceptions of life finding a larger place in them. Old age does not explain this change, for Schiller died in his forty-sixth year; neither can we attribute it to the failure of his health, for he had been an invalid fifteen years; besides, his latest productions bear the impress of the energy and lucidity of his mind. It was a religious development in accordance with his character. Always affectionate, careful and delicate in his family and friendly relations, he was so in a still higher degree in the last months of his life. "At that time," says one of his biographers, "the sanction of religion seemed to rest on all his life. Supporting pain with a heroic patience and evenness of disposition, he was the most amiable of men throughout his illness." "An inexpressible sweetness," writes the sister of his wife, "pervaded his entire being, and manifested itself in his judgments and feelings the peace of God abode with him."

As his end approached he thought of it with concern only with respect to provision for his family. On the eighth of May, 1805, toward evening, he asked to have the curtains raised that he might see the setting sun; he looked upon its last beams lovingly; it was his farewell to nature. To the inquiry as to how he felt, "Better and better, more and more serene," he replied. He prayed several times in the night that his death might not be lingering. He expired the next morning. When he had breathed his last, a celestial peace seemed to glorify his countenance.

The news of his death cast a gloom over all Weimar. Every family seemed afflicted. The premature departure of the great poet was universally deplored.

Considering his career as a whole, Schiller stands as the complete representative of intellectual Germany. His idealism, his seriousness and moral warmth, reflect the best instincts of his nation. It is true that in the high classes of literature, aristocracy of intellect and taste places Goethe as a poet and artist above Schiller; but Schiller is much more the man for all classes. His popularity is unrivaled. The Germans commonly call Goethe "the prince of poets," and Schiller "our poet." The common people may not always understand him,

but in reading him they have a perception of a grandeur that elevates them, and of the love borne them by a mind of the first order and truly sovereign. Everybody retains in both memory and heart some thoughts of Schiller's which encourage, console, and fortify, and raise the spirit above the clouds into a pure heaven. Thus his is the highest praise that can be awarded genius: that he has exalted his nation by the diffusion of great ideas. How enviable that fame which is continued from generation to generation in the love of all things true, honest, just, pure, lovely, of good report, in which there is virtue, and which are worthy of praise !

ART. VI.-EARLY METHODISM AND EARLY AMERICA: JAMES WATT AND JOHN WESLEY.

In the year 1757 John Wesley, traveling and preaching, night and day, throughout the United Kingdom, arrived in Glasgow. He "walked to its College, saw the new library, with the collection of pictures," and admired examples of the art of Raphael, Vandyke, and Rubens. Had he possessed the foresight of the Hebrew seers, he would have paused, as he crossed the University quadrangle, to admire a coming and nobler proof of genius; for it was in this same year that a young man, obscure, diffident, but with a mind burdened with mighty anticipations, and destined to become recognized as a chief benefactor of the human race, came to Glasgow to seek employment as an artisan, where failing to find it among the citizens, he found sympathy in the learned Faculty of the University, and was allowed a humble chamber within its walls. The room is reached from the quadrangle by a spiral stairway, and is still preserved, in its original rudeness, as too sacred to be altered. In the court below, he put out a sign as "Mathematical Instrument Maker to the University." He lived on poor fare, and eked out his subsistence by combining, with his work for the Faculty, the manufacture of musical instruments; he made organs, and repaired flutes, guitars, and violins; but, mean

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