ams of the poet's life,--of him who is not merely a
pen-poet, but a living lyric, a poet in heart and soul. "And this life
of true glory," cries the heart of Wilhelm, "may be mine, _mine_!" A
gentle and magnanimous egoism, but still an egoism. But the due
subjection of this self-feeling will come duly; in the qualifications
that even now make it lovely the sure promise of that is contained.

Fourth in order appears a much prettier figure, namely, Philanthropy,
the loving desire to serve man. It is, indeed, at first, sufficiently
sweeping and ambitious. No half-way work, no boy's play here! He will
regenerate the race; he will ennoble humanity, without sparing one
caitiff of them all; he will establish it on some perpetual mount of
transfiguration; and all by the magic of stage effect. No boy's play!

All this, too, is noble and vital. With exquisite appreciation Goethe
depicts it, seeing well how vital it is in essence,--seeing, too, how
vapory it is in form. Who knows better than he that to crave service,
and to crave it in love, and to crave it without limit, is of the very
substance of all that enriches man? To whomsoever this divine longing is
foreign all the profound uses of life are foreign; he is barren as
beach-sand.

Humanity, however, is not swung away from its mud-moorings so easily;
probably would only go adrift and come to wreck, if it were: witness the
French Revolution. Sing, bird, in the tree-tops! but when you fly, think
not to make the pines fly with you! It is only by slow vital
assimilations that man is ameliorated. We do our best in digging and
fertilizing a little about the roots, or in bearing pollen, like bees,
from flower to flower. We do our best by a little meek furtherance of
Nature. And this meekness of labor is no less necessary for ourselves
than for those we would serve. Ambitious world-mending is, on one side,
self-flattery.

Meanwhile horrible tragedies of charlatanism, or terrible tragedies of
disgust and despair await an incontinent enthusiasm for the _role_ of
Providence.

Wilhelm's nature has now been greatly enriched. But all that has
enriched has also imperilled. Imagination, love, self-feeling, and
philanthropy have stored his breast with golden wealth; but they are one
and all making over that wealth to a false tendency. Long before this,
however, Goethe has brought in chastening, tempering forces, by which
these riches may be economized.

First, and in the person of Jarn