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fire-splendor as of Mahomet, but in mild celestial radiance;--really a

Prophecy in these most unprophetic times; to my mind, by far the greatest,



though one of the quietest, among all the great things that have come to

pass in them. Our chosen specimen of the Hero as Literary Man would be



this Goethe. And it were a very pleasant plan for me here to discourse of

his heroism: for I consider him to be a true Hero; heroic in what he said



and did, and perhaps still more in what he did not say and did not do; to

me a noble spectacle: a great heroic ancient man, speaking and keeping



silence as an ancient Hero, in the guise of a most modern, high-bred,

high-cultivated Man of Letters! We have had no such spectacle; no man



capable of affording such, for the last hundred and fifty years.

But at present, such is the general state of knowledge about Goethe, it



were worse than useless to attempt speaking of him in this case. Speak as

I might, Goethe, to the great majority of you, would remain problematic,



vague; no impression but a false one could be realized. Him we must leave

to future times. Johnson, Burns, Rousseau, three great figures from a



prior time, from a far inferior state of circumstances, will suit us better

here. Three men of the Eighteenth Century; the conditions of their life



far more resemble what those of ours still are in England, than what

Goethe's in Germany were. Alas, these men did not conquer like him; they



fought bravely, and fell. They were not heroic bringers of the light, but

heroic seekers of it. They lived under galling conditions; struggling as



under mountains of impediment, and could not unfold themselves into

clearness, or victoriousinterpretation of that "Divine Idea." It is



rather the _Tombs_ of three Literary Heroes that I have to show you. There

are the monumental heaps, under which three spiritual giants lie buried.



Very mournful, but also great and full of interest for us. We will linger

by them for a while.



Complaint is often made, in these times, of what we call the disorganized

condition of society: how ill many forces of society fulfil their work;



how many powerful are seen working in a wasteful, chaotic, altogether

unarranged manner. It is too just a complaint, as we all know. But



perhaps if we look at this of Books and the Writers of Books, we shall find

here, as it were, the summary of all other disorganizations;--a sort of



_heart_, from which, and to which all other confusion circulates in the

world! Considering what Book writers do in the world, and what the world



does with Book writers, I should say, It is the most anomalous thing the

world at present has to show.--We should get into a sea far beyond



sounding, did we attempt to give account of this: but we must glance at it

for the sake of our subject. The worst element in the life of these three



Literary Heroes was, that they found their business and position such a

chaos. On the beaten road there is tolerable travelling; but it is sore



work, and many have to perish, fashioning a path through the impassable!

Our pious Fathers, feeling well what importance lay in the speaking of man



to men, founded churches, made endowments, regulations; everywhere in the

civilized world there is a Pulpit, environed with all manner of complex



dignified appurtenances and furtherances, that therefrom a man with the

tongue may, to best advantage, address his fellow-men. They felt that this



was the most important thing; that without this there was no good thing.

It is a right pious work, that of theirs; beautiful to behold! But now



with the art of Writing, with the art of Printing, a total change has come

over that business. The Writer of a Book, is not he a Preacher preaching



not to this parish or that, on this day or that, but to all men in all

times and places? Surely it is of the last importance that _he_ do his



work right, whoever do it wrong;--that the _eye_ report not falsely, for

then all the other members are astray! Well; how he may do his work,



whether he do it right or wrong, or do it at all, is a point which no man

in the world has taken the pains to think of. To a certain shopkeeper,



trying to get some money for his books, if lucky, he is of some importance;

to no other man of any. Whence he came, whither he is bound, by what ways






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