t of the broadest world and the most
manifold life will be any longer excluded as unpoetical. I compare the
present literary epoch to a state of violent fever, which is not in
itself good and desirable, but of which improved health is the happy
consequence. That abomination which now often constitutes the whole
subject of a poetical work, will in future only appear as an useful
expedient; aye, the pure and the noble, which is now abandoned for the
moment, will soon be resought with additional ardor."

"It is surprising to me," remarked I, "that even Merimee, who is one of
your favorites, has entered upon this ultra-romantic path, through the
horrible subjects of his _Guzla_."

"Merimee," returned Goethe, "has treated these things very differently
from his fellow-authors. These poems certainly are not deficient in
various horrible _motives_, such as churchyards, nightly crossways,
ghosts and vampires; but the repulsive themes do not touch the intrinsic
merit of the poet. On the contrary, he treats them from a certain
objective distance, and, as it were, with irony. He goes to work with
them like an artist, to whom it is an amusement to try anything of the
sort. He has, as I have said before, quite renounced himself, nay, he
has ever renounced the Frenchman, and that to such a degree that at
first these poems of Guzla were deemed real Illyrian popular poems, and
thus little was wanting for the success of the imposition he had
intended."

"Merimee," continued Goethe, "is indeed a thorough fellow! Indeed,
generally, more power and genius are required for the objective
treatment of a subject than is supposed. Thus, too, Lord Byron,
notwithstanding his predominant personality, has sometimes had the power
of renouncing himself altogether, as may be seen in some of his dramatic
pieces, particularly in his _Marino Faliero_. In this piece one quite
forgets that Lord Byron, or even an Englishman, wrote it. We live
entirely in Venice, and entirely in the time in which the action takes
place. The personages speak quite from themselves and from their own
condition, without having any of the subjective feelings, thoughts, and
opinions of the poet. That is as it should be. Of our young French
romantic writers of the exaggerating sort, one cannot say as much. What
I have read of them--poems, novels, dramatic works--have all borne the
personal coloring of the author, and none of them ever makes me forget
that a Parisian--that a French