of itself. The former preaches the necessity of individual salvation in order to bring about the kingdom of heaven, the latter preaches the necessity of individual self-development in order to raise mankind to a higher level. The former is democratic, the latter is aristocratic; but both are opposed to spiritual tyranny of any sort. To both the inner motive, the mental effort, the moral striving, are the things which decide the worth of a man. Both believe in the essential goodness of human nature, which makes it possible for us to preserve our better self even in error and sin; nay, to attain, through error and sin, to deeper insights and loftier ideals.

The third place among Goethe's larger works I should give to "The Elective Affinities." With the exception of Tolstoï's "Anna Karénina,” I know of no other literary production which brings before us with equally inexorable truthfulness the tragic conflict between elemental instinct and the moral law. But while in Tolstoï's "Anna Karénina" we are confronted with utter hopelessness and annihilation, we are led in Goethe's "Elective Affinities" from moral ruin to moral victory. Ottilie, the heroine of the novel, is one of those sensitive natures to whom all knowledge comes by intuition, none through reflection; who act only under the stress of an irresistible impulse. Sure of her own feelings for Edward, assured, moreover, that Edward and Charlotte desire nothing more fervently than a divorce, she does not question the legitimacy of her feelings. Thus she lives on, in her dreamy, plant-like fashion, welcoming every opportunity of meeting her beloved, turning to him as to the light of day, unconscious of the catastrophe that awaits them both; but all of a sudden she comes to see that she has unwittingly sinned, and henceforth her only thought is expiation. She renounces the world; she is going to devote herself to the instruction of the young; for who is better fitted for guiding the young than he who through misfortune has come to know the joy of self-possession? And when she is thwarted in this through Edward's mad desire to win her at any cost, there is nothing left for her but to die. She dies like a saint, by the mere resolve not to live, passing over gradually and placidly into the sphere of the spiritual.

Had Goethe written nothing but "Faust," "Wilhelm Meister," and 66 The Elective Affinities," he would have done enough to entitle him to the foremost place among the literary exponents of the modern view of the world as a living, spiritual organism. But it may truly be said that all his other works, from "Werther " to "Iphigenie," and from "Tasso" to the "Westöstlicher Divan," are imbued with this same exalted conception of human life. Probably no man ever looked at life from so broad a point of view and with so little bias probably no man ever felt more deeply the divineness of the universe. And surely no other man of the last one hundred and fifty years has rounded out his own personality more consistently and completely.

It is wonderful to see how this personality passed through every conceivable phase of human development without ever losing or exhausting itself; so that the octogenarian could indeed, with the eagerness of a youth, look forward to death as the last and highest consummation. The storm-and-stress enthusiast changes into an admirer of classic antiquity, the impassioned poet into a patient investigator, the son of nature into a statesman and cabinet minister. But here the chain is not broken. The admirer of classic antiquity returns to the worship of the Middle Ages and revels in romantic melodies; the scientist turns poet once more, and glorifies in sublime rhythms the new conception of life which the study of nature has disclosed to him; the statesman becomes a patron of poetry and art, and lays the foundation of a truly national stage which at the same time is to embrace the best of all the literatures of the world. And thus is ushered in the last period of this great life, a period of complete universality, in which the smallest and the greatest, the oldest and the newest, the most distant and the nearest, nature and art, politics and religion, the life of the individual and that of nations, seem to lie spread out with equal clearness before the eye of the serene and joyful patriarch, while there is only one unfulfilled desire disturbing the calmness of his soul-the boundless and indomitable desire for the infinite. Truly, the commemoration of such a life as this belongs not to Germans alone, but to the whole civilized world.

noon was warm to the point of discomfort; indeed, the heat had been so unusual for a succession of days that an almost unprecedented concession was made in the matter of dress. The morning papers announced that the Prince of Wales would not wear the customary frock coat and high hat a hint which was promptly acted upon, and for once London saw a great concourse of gentlemen in short coats and straw hats. To many Americans the ubiquity of the straw hat, even on the stand set apart for Oxford and Cambridge, must have seemed in its way a most suggestive indication of the change of English feeling.

The heat, which Americans found less trying than their hosts, did not in the least interfere with the interest of the occasion, or diminish the crowds which streamed into the great field and inclosed it in deep lines of eager spectators. London is so vast that the concentration of ten thousand people at a given point does not sensibly lower the tide of moving life in any great thoroughfare; but to those who were going to West Kensington on

that warm afternoon by carriage, hansom, "growler," "bus," or underground, it seemed as if the whole city were pouring itself westward. Cabs and carriages in continuous streams set down their occupants at the two entrances. The crowd was great, but there was no discomfort, and not the least disorder. Even the "half-crown crowd," which stood across one side of the field against the background of houses for three hours in the blazing sun, was not only patient but respectful. It was not a college crowd, and it mistook the American 'rah! 'rah! 'rah! early in the afternoon for irony, and attempted a very unsuccessful imitation of the familiar college cheer; but it soon found out its mistake, and was not slow to applaud American success.

At the head, or, as the English would say, the top, of the field was the stand reserved for the Blues-Oxford and Cambridge men and their friends; next came the royal box, in which appeared conspicuously the Prince of Wales and the American Ambassador-both affable and on easy terms with the distinguished com

pany about them, but Mr. Choate seemed a little more at home than any one else. To the right, straight across the long field, stretched the stands set apart to Yale and Harvard, and a stroll along the front of these stands made one wonder if any body was at home in the States on that particular afternoon. It was an enthusiastic company, and, it may be added, a very good-looking one. He who failed to think well of American girls on that walk must have been dead not only to patriotic feeling, but to many and obvious charms of feature, carriage, and dress. Across the bottom of the field stretched a dense mass of "half-crown" witnesses, including many university men, but made up largely of men and youths attracted by the element of contest; on the opposite side of the field, and completing the immense quadrangle, was the general stand. and a long stretch of level track.

Long before the first hammer was thrown the great field was full to overflowing; the strains from the band stationed in front of the royal box were softened by the distance, while edges

and outlines everywhere were a little dimmed by the rays of the heat. The place was so large and the distance to be traversed so long that one wondered if any contagion of feeling would cross the wide spaces; but, again and again, as the contests went on, cheers seemed to roll in waves around the great quadrangle. At the upper end of the field were two flagstaffs, and the alternate appearance of the Stars and Stripes and the Union Jack was greeted with peals of applause from parts of the field so remote that they seemed like peals of distant thunder.

The men, as they came strolling into the field, were watched with deep interest; Oxford and Cambridge distinguishable by the white dress of the men, trimmed with light or dark blue, the Harvard and Yale representatives in crimson or blue "sweaters." The Americans were confident of their ability to make a great fight, and were not without hope of winning five of the nine events. As so often happens, they failed at the very point where they were most confident of success. It was assumed that the half-mile ace

would fall to Harvard, and this belief seemed to be shared by the Englishmen. To the surprise of both sides, the race went to a Cambridge man. If Harvard had come in first, the Stars and Stripes would have gone to the head of the staff five times instead of one, and there would have been a great American jubilee in London that evening.

The fates had, however, decreed other wise, and the Americans were obliged to be content with the consciousness that they had given their competitors a deal of good, hard work. The hundred yards race, the hurdle race, the high jump, and throwing the hammer went to the Americans, and when the last event on the programme was reached the contest was still undecided. The runners were conscious that they had a three-mile race before them, and started off at an easy pace, the Englishmen a little in the lead, with the Americans at their heels. For two miles there was no change of position, although two men dropped out. When the runners entered on the last mile the interest began to deepen, and when, on the second lap of the final mile, Yale suddenly passed Cambridge and took the lead, a half-mile of American enthusiasm broke into ecstatic shouts. But the advance could not be held; with an ease which drew cheers from friend and foe alike, the Cambridge runner suddenly shot ahead of his competitor, and, in a vast circle of excited spectators, completed the course and won

the race.

Then came the most picturesque moment in the day; the moment when the

crowd, disregarding all barriers, swept in one great wave across the field in a frantic desire to honor the victor. The latter was protected by his friends from an enthusiasm which was likely to become uncomfortable if suffered to rise to its full height. That mob of young men represented the best life of two countries, and its generous zeal to honor success won by hard work was characteristic of the English race on both sides of the sea. The crowd melted away as quietly as it had gathered; and the great field, which has been the scene of so many well-fought fights, was soon as quiet as those other fields, far from the great city, where larks were rising that warm summer afternoon.

The courtesies shown the Americans after the games were many, and of a kind which seemed to express the kinship which the best Englishmen are recogniz ing upon all occasions. The men were of a kind to give their countrymen genuine satisfaction. They stood for the best in bearing and manners as well as in opportunity. There was, apparently, little to choose between the representatives of the English and American universities. The men were conspicuously well-made, wholesome, and attractive, with the unmistakable look of gentlemen. Athletics are often overdone; but the self-restraint, discipline, and hard work which lie behind such contests as those at Kensington show the fiber which has given the English speaking race pre-eminence, not only in influence, but in responsibility in the affairs of the world. London, July, 1899.