“Well, then,—‘Evening-Bells.’”
“‘Evening-Bells?’ Ah, indeed. That is an idea! There is something so soft and soothing about the word. I’ll make a note of the suggestion. But we should have to have a critical supplement. I have been thinking we might call it ‘The Distiller.’”
“It is very expressive,” I replied; “it is quite customary in these times to subject books to a chemical process of review or criticism; the distillation is carried on until the spirit sought for has evaporated, or until the learned chemist can announce to the world what all the different elements were that combined in the decoction he analysed. But with such a name the paper might appear to smell of the gin-shop. How would it strike you to call it ‘The Critical Chimney-Sweep’?”
The publisher gazed at me in silence for a moment, and then embraced me with emotion. “An idea,” he cried; “a remarkable idea! What a volume of meaning there is in the word! German literature is the chimney, our reviewers are the sweepers: they scrape down the literary soot, to preserve the house from fire. It must be an extremely radical paper; it must be striking, that is the first thing. ‘The Critical Chimney-Sweep!’ And we will bring the art critiques under the promising title, ‘The Artistic Night-Watch.’” Hastily putting down the names, he continued: “Sir, my guardian-angel has brought you to my door; when I sit by my table writing my mind seems blocked up, but I have often noticed that when I once begin to speak, my thoughts flow like a stream. So when you were speaking of Walter Scott and his influence a glorious idea arose within me. I will make a German Walter Scott.”
“How so? Are you too going to write a novel?”
“I? Dear me, no; I have something better to do; and one? no, twenty! If I only had my thoughts all ordered. I am going to procure a great Unknown, and this mysterious personage is to consist of a party of novel-writers; do you understand?”
“It is not quite clear to me, I confess. How will you——?”
“There is nothing that cannot be accomplished with money; I shall address myself to, say, six or eight clever men who have already made their mark in writing novels, invite them here, and offer the proposal that they should join to produce this Walter Scott. They choose the historical subjects and characters, discuss the secondary figures to be introduced, and then——”
“Ah, now I understand your glorious plan; then you will erect a factory like the one at Scheeran. You will send for cuts of all the most romantic scenery in Germany; the costumes of old times can be procured at Berlin; legends and songs can be found in the Boys’ Wonderhorn, and other collections. You engage two or three dozen of aspiring young men; your sexavirat, the great Unknown, gives the general plot of the novels, here and there he models and corrects an important character; the twenty-four or thirty-six others write the dialogue, picture towns, scenes, buildings, after nature——”
“And,” he interrupted me gleefully, “as the one has more talent for the delineation of scenery, the other for costumes, the third for conversation, the fourth or fifth for comedy, others for the tragic——”