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864 SKETCHES.
the novels have sown, note also the seeds of noble plants,
of shading trees, which have since grown and become de-
veloped? And now, wlien the soul has grown older and
calmer, has it not often been awaked by the novel to warm
sympathy with man’s joys and sufferings, and did not the
novel call forth kindly and generous feelings? Yes, yes,
it is so, and the result of it all is that —
Novels certainly must have a sensible, good aim; must
have the right of citizenship in the world.
But, what is it they really aim at? Do they want merely
to amuse, to awaken sympathy, to excite the imagination,
to light up playfully the depth of the human soul, and the
innumerable winding passages and mazes in life’s laby-
rinth? Are they to be looked upon as resembling those
millions of butterflies which, coaxed out of the chrysalides
by the warm sun-rays, flutter about, delighting us a short
time with their splendor and with the brilliancy. of their
colors, and then die? Nothing more? Impossible. There
must be something more in it. But what ?
Think only, if those legions from all nations and coun-
tries should have an invisible leader, a commander-in-chief
round whose standard they gather, for whose plans they
fight, consciously or unconsciously, bravely or timidly,
according to circumstances. Butif this is so, I must look
to this leader, the Napoleon of the novel arniy, to discover
the movements of the grand army and its object.
A bright idea !
Goethe searched for the primeval plant; the philologist
is seeking for the primeval language ; the Finnish exorcists
searched for the primeval word of things, and I went in
search of the primeval novel.
I called up the spirits which have made the greatest
impression upon ine, from Grandison, Joseph Andrews,
Corinna, and Rousseau’s beautiful Héloise, up to the variety
of works of our own days, and I adjured the Spirit of these
spirits to reveal to me his nature and his aim.
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