“David,” said he, “has prepared happy days for me by this present.  The young poets have already occupied me the whole week, and afford me new life by the fresh impressions which I receive from them.  I shall make a separate catalogue of these much esteemed portraits and books, and shall give them both a special place in my collection of works of art and my library.”

One could see from Goethe’s manner that this homage from the young poets of France afforded him the heartiest delight.

He then read something from the Studies, by Emile Deschamps.  He praised the translation of the Bride of Corinth, as faithful, and very successful.

“I possess,” said he, “the manuscript of an Italian translation of this poem, which gives the original, even to the rhymes.”

The Bride of Corinth induced Goethe to speak of the rest of his ballads.  “I owe them, in a great measure, to Schiller,” said he, “who impelled me to them, because he always wanted something new for his Horen.  I had already carried them in my head for many years; they occupied my mind as pleasant images, as beautiful dreams, which came and went, and by playing with which my fancy made me happy.  I unwillingly resolved to bid farewell to these brilliant visions, which had so long been my solace, by embodying them in poor, inadequate words.  When I saw them on paper, I regarded them with a mixture of sadness.  I felt as if I were about to be separated for ever from a beloved friend.”

“At other times,” continued Goethe, “it has been totally different with my poems.  They have been preceded by no impressions or forebodings, but have come suddenly upon me, and have insisted on being composed immediately, so that I have felt an instinctive and dreamy impulse to write them down on the spot.  In such a somnambulistic condition, it has often happened that I have had a sheet of paper lying before me all on one side, and I have not discovered it till all has been written, or I have found no room to write any more.  I have possessed many such sheets written crossways, but they have been lost one after another, and I regret that I can no longer show any proofs of such poetic abstraction.”

The conversation then returned to the French literature, and the modern ultra-romantic tendency of some not unimportant men of genius.  Goethe was of opinion that this poetic revolution, which was still in its infancy, would be very favorable to literature, but very prejudicial to the individual authors who effect it.

“Extremes are never to be avoided in any revolution,” said he.  “In a political one, nothing is generally desired in the beginning but the abolition of abuses; but before people are aware, they are deep in bloodshed and horror.  Thus the French, in their present literary revolution, desired nothing at first but a freer form; however, they will not stop there, but will reject the traditional contents