Yet that they were not without foundation I feel again when I turn to the Iphigenia--a work beyond the possibility of negation; a work where a religious meaning not only pierces but enfolds the whole; a work as admirable in art, still higher in significance, more single in expression. There is an English translation (I know not how good) of Goethe's Iphigenia. But as it may not be generally known, I will give a sketch of the drama. Iphigenia, saved, at the moment of the sacrifice made by Agamemnon in behalf of the Greeks, by the goddess, and transferred to the temple at Tauris, appears alone in the consecrated grove. Many years have passed since she was severed from the home of such a tragic fate, the palace of Mycenae. Troy had fallen, Agamemnon been murdered, Orestes had grown up to avenge his death. All these events were unknown to the exiled Iphigenia. The priestess of Diana in a barbarous land, she had passed the years in the duties of the sanctuary, and in acts of beneficence. She had acquired great power over the mind of Thoas, king of Tauris, and used it to protect strangers, whom it had previously been the custom of the country to sacrifice to the goddess. She salutes us with a soliloquy, of which I give a rude translation:-- Beneath your shade, living summits Of this ancient, holy, thick-leaved grove, As in the silent sanctuary of the Goddess, Still I walk with those same shuddering feelings, As when I trod these walks for the first time. My spirit cannot accustom itself to these places; Many years now has kept me here concealed A higher will, to which I am submissive; Yet ever am I, as at first, the stranger; For ah! the sea divides me from my beloved ones, And on the shore whole days I stand, Seeking with my soul the land of the Greeks, And to my sighs brings the rushing wave only Its hollow tones in answer. Woe to him who, far from parents, and brothers, and sisters, Drags on a lonely life. Grief consumes The nearest happiness away from his lips; His thoughts crowd downwards-- Seeking the hall of his fathers, where the Sun First opened heaven to him, and kindred-born In their first plays knit daily firmer and firmer The bond from heart to heart--I question not the Gods, Only the lot of woman is one of sorrow; In the house and in the war man rules, Knows how to help himself in foreign lands, Possessions gladden and victory crowns him, And an honorable death stands ready to end his days. Within what narrow limits is bounded the luck of woman! To obey a rude husband even is duty and comfort; how sad When, instead, a hostile fate drives her out of her sphere! So holds me Thoas, indeed a noble man, fast In solemn, sacred, but slavish bonds. O, with shame I confess that with secret reluctance I serve thee, Goddess, thee, my deliverer. My life should freely have been dedicate to thee,