“In the head, or in the sign?” inquired my fellow student, with a look of mock gravity.
“In both,” cried I, laughing; “in both, no doubt. But I am glad to see you so cheerful. Your appearance this morning makes me entertain hopes of your speedy recovery, and I can almost convince myself, that in a few days we shall be together pursuing our studies and our ramblings, as we have so often and so happily done.”
“I have been entertaining a similar idea, mein freund,” observed Wilhelm; “I feel more cheerful than I have felt for a long time past; and I was beginning to flatter myself into a belief, that the insidious disease was about evacuating its territory. I shall roam among the walls of old Göttingen again. I shall associate with my ancient comrades—shall I not?”
“’Tis a consummation devoutly to be wished by others as well as myself,” said I; “but how liked you the book I lent you?”
“’Tis a brilliant production,” replied my friend; “and of that class of works which affords me most pleasure. ‘Give me the enjoyment of perusing a succession of new works from the graceful pen of Crébillon, and I shall have no other want,’ said Gray. I exclaim, ‘Give me the gratification of reading the finest productions in the imaginative literature of every civilised nation, and there will be little left for me to wish for.’ Nothing elevates and delights me so much as the best of these works, especially if they be tinged with a tone of high romantic feeling. What can be so charming as this mingling of the ideal and the natural? What can take a firmer hold of the mind and of the heart?”
“They certainly do, when ably written, create very powerful impressions;” I observed.
“I have read a considerable portion of the imaginative literature of almost every European nation,” said Wilhelm; “and an extraordinary power of genius it evinces. The prose fictions of the present age produced in Germany and England are wonderfully excellent and abundant. I think the English exceed all others in the combination of judgment with imagination, as seen in the best efforts of Scott, Bulwer, and Godwin. After them come the Germans, and we can proudly boast of Göthe, Lafontaine, Novalis, and Hoffmann. The French have much imagination and very little judgment, as exhibited in the writings of Victor Hugo, Mérimée, Paul de Kock, and Balzac, and are usually distinguished by their sins against good taste. Of Italian imaginative literature, the works I have met with that rise above mediocrity, are, ‘I Promessi Sposi,’ of Manzoni, ‘Ettore Fieramosca,’ of Massino D’Azeglio, and ‘Franco Allegri,’ which do not soar very high. Of the modern fictions of Spain, Portugal, and Holland, I know nothing; nor do I believe that there is any thing to know; but I have seen one or two romantic novels from Russia that possess considerable merit. What I object to in works of this nature, written at the present time, is the too apparent satisfaction of their authors in remaining in the beaten track. A vast majority fill their volumes with characters that have been a thousand times repeated, and with incidents and situations that are familiar to every reader.”
“What would you have them do?” I inquired.
“I would have them strike out a bolder class of subjects,” replied the student. “Instead of being satisfied with attempting illustrations of historical periods, or of an existing state of society, suppose they attempt to describe an imaginary time as well as imaginary characters. If a man possess a powerful imagination, let him conceive the state of the world a thousand years hence, or at any other time remote from the present. I do not mean that he should merely delineate a state of society, or of any section of society; I mean that he should take the most important portions of the civilised world, and picture, as well as he is able, the changes they may undergo, and the state of their peoples, governments, religions, and philosophy.”