of geographical and genealogical manuals,—­all these were polite, cheerful, and friendly men.  Zachariae was the most quiet; Pfeil, an elegant man, who had something almost diplomatic about him, yet without affectation, and with great good humor; Krebel, a genuine Falstaff, tall, corpulent, fair, with prominent, merry eyes, as bright as the sky, always happy and in good spirits.  These persons all treated me in the most handsome manner, partly on Schlosser’s account—­partly, too, on account of my own frank good humor and obliging disposition; and it needed no great persuasion to make me partake of their table in future.  In fact, I remained with them after Schlosser’s departure, deserted Ludwig’s table, and found myself so much the better off in this society, which was limited to a certain number, as I was very well pleased with the daughter of the family, a very neat, pretty girl, and had opportunities to exchange friendly glances with her,—­a comfort which I had neither sought nor found by accident since the mischance with Gretchen.  I spent the dinner-hours with my friends cheerfully and profitably.  Krebel, indeed, loved me, and continued to tease me and stimulate me in moderation:  Pfeil, on the contrary, showed his earnest affection for me by trying to guide and settle my judgment upon many points.

During this intercourse, I perceived through conversation, through examples, and through my own reflections, that the first step in delivering ourselves from the wishy-washy, long-winded, empty epoch, could be taken only by definiteness, precision, and brevity.  In the style which had hitherto prevailed, one could not distinguish the commonplace from what was better; since all were brought down to a level with each other.  Authors had already tried to escape from this wide-spread disease, with more or less success.  Haller and Ramler were inclined to compression by nature:  Lessing and Wieland were led to it by reflection.  The former became by degrees quite epigrammatical in his poems, terse in “Minna,” laconic in “Emilia Galotti,”—­it was not till afterwards that he returned to that serene naivete which becomes him so well in “Nathan.”  “Wieland, who had been occasionally prolix in “Agathon,” “Don Sylvio,” and the “Comic Tales,” becomes condensed and precise to a wonderful degree, as well as exceedingly graceful in “Musarion” and “Idris.”  Klopstock, in the first cantos of “The Messiah,” is not without diffuseness:  in his “Odes” and other minor poems he appears compressed, as also in his tragedies.  By his emulation of the ancients, especially Tacitus, he sees himself constantly forced into narrower limits, by which he at last becomes obscure and unpalatable.  Gerstenberg, a fine but eccentric talent, also distinguishes himself:  his merit is appreciated, but on the whole he gives little pleasure.  Gleim, diffuse and easy by nature, is scarcely once concise in his war-songs.  Ramler is properly more a critic than a poet.  He begins