ngs on the
practical truth of things; how Fiction itself is either an expository
illustrative garment of Fact, or else is of no value to him. Romantic
readers of his Literature are much disappointed in consequence, and
pronounce it bad Literature;--and sure enough, in several senses, it is
not to be called good! Bad Literature, they say; shallow, barren, most
unsatisfactory to a reader of romantic appetites. Which is a correct
verdict, as to the romantic appetites and it. But to the man himself,
this quality of mind is of immense moment and advantage; and forms
truly the basis of all he was good for in life. Once for all, he has no
pleasure in dreams, in parti-colored clouds and nothingnesses. All his
curiosities gravitate towards what exists, what has being and reality
round him. That is the significant thing to him; that he would right
gladly know, being already related to that, as friend or as enemy;
and feeling an unconscious indissoluble kinship, who shall say of what
importance, towards all that. For he too is a little Fact, big as can be
to himself; and in the whole Universe there exists nothing as fact but
is a fellow-creature of his.

That our little Fritz tends that way, ought to give Noltenius,
Finkenstein and other interested parties, the very highest satisfaction.
It is an excellent symptom of his intellect, this of gravitating
irresistibly towards realities. Better symptom of its quality (whatever
QUANTITY there be of it), human intellect cannot show for itself.
However it may go with Literature, and satisfaction to readers of
romantic appetites, this young soul promises to become a successful
Worker one day, and to DO something under the Sun. For work is of an
extremely unfictitious nature; and no man can roof his house with clouds
and moonshine, so as to turn the rain from him.

It is also to be noted that his style of French, though he spelt it so
ill, and never had the least mastery of punctuation, has real merit.
Rapidity, easy vivacity, perfect clearness, here and there a certain
quaint expressiveness: on the whole, he had learned the Art of Speech,
from those old French Governesses, in those old and new French Books
of his. We can also say of his Literature, of what he hastily wrote in
mature life, that it has much more worth, even as Literature, than the
common romantic appetite assigns to it. A vein of distinct sense,
and good interior articulation, is never wanting in that thin-flowing
utteranc