Not at a leap, indeed, does he attain to this dignity of life. Causeless suspicions infest him; again and again he snatches himself back, and retreats into spiritual isolation. Like an uncertain swimmer, who, wading into deep water, draws back in sudden alarm as his feet begin to lift themselves buoyantly from the sands, so he is smitten with jealous fear, and hastens to regain his former foothold, just when his immersion in social use and fellowship was becoming complete. But ever as he grows surer of himself, and ever as he rests more trustfully in eternal Reality, he becomes more capable of yielding trust to those who deserve it, and yielding himself to those unto whom he rightly belongs. And so lost and found, so self-given and self-contained, so abandoned to the high uses of life, and by that very act saved, by that act secured to himself in spiritual wholeness, Goethe leaves him at the close of the _Apprenticeship_: for of the _Travels_, which is another mine of suggestion, I do not speak here. To sum all. The whole work climbs steadily to this consummate act of self-surrender without self-dissipation, without self-flattery, without officiousness, and without reserve. But in order that one may give himself nobly, he must nobly have himself to give. To this end there are prerequisites. First, fructification, a rich development of heats and fruitful powers; and of the nature and order of these Goethe aims to give account. Secondly, a due tempering of these by the cold, faithful severities of understanding and experience. Third, as resulting, a high repose in Reality,--high, because one reposes there, not in base compromise with it or with himself, but in hope, in duty, in imagining heroism of heart. Fourthly and finally, comes a relation to one's own being, at once utterly religious and utterly sane, whereby one _commands himself in obedience to the total law and uses of his spirit_. Having achieved this, one may go forward, through further experience and deeper life, to that act of religious and sane self-bestowal, wherein he first becomes, in the full, majestic sense, a man. FOOTNOTES: [A] The citations are from Carlyle's translation. It is of no use to do over again what is already thoroughly done. TWILIGHT. September's slender crescent grows again Distinct in yonder peaceful evening-red. Clearer the stars are sparkling overhead, And all the sky is pure, without a stain. Cool blows the evening wind from out the west, And bows the flowers, the last sweet flowers that bloom,-- Pale asters, many a heavy waving plume Of golden-rod, that bends as if opprest. The summer's songs are hushed. Up the lone shore The weary waves wash sadly, and a grief Sounds in the wind, like farewells fond and brief. The cricket's chirp but makes the silence more.