The Sorrows of Young Verther - Johann Wolfgang Von Goethe

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Title: The Sorrows of Young Wer

Author: J.W. von Goethe

Editor: Nathen Haskell Dole

Translator: R.D. Boylan

Release Date: January 2, 2009 [E

Language: English

Character set encoding: ASCII

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Produced by Michael Potter, Ire

THE

SORROWSOF YOUNG



WERTHER

By J.W. von

Goethe

Translated by R.D.

Boylan

Edited by Nathen



Haskell Dole

PREFACE

BOOK I

BOOK

II.



PREFACE

I have carefully collected whatever have been able to learn of the story o

poor Werther, and here present it to you

knowing that you will thank me for it. Tohis spirit and character you cannot refus

our admiration and love: to his fate yo

will not deny your tears.

And thou, good soul, who sufferest th

same distress as he endured once, draw

comfort from his sorrows; and let thi

ittle book be thy friend, if, owing t



fortune or through thine own fault, tho

canst not find a dearer companion.



BOOK I

MAY 4.

How happy I am that I am gone! M

dear friend, what a thing is the heart oman! To leave you, from whom I hav

been inseparable, whom I love s

dearly, and yet to feel happy! I know you

will forgive me. Have not otheattachments been specially appointed b

fate to torment a head like mine? Poo

Leonora! and yet I was not to blame

Was it my fault, that, whilst the peculia

charms of her sister afforded me a

agreeable entertainment, a passion fo

me was engendered in her feeble heart



And yet am I wholly blameless? Did

not encourage her emotions? Did I no

feel charmed at those truly genuin

expressions of nature, which, though buittle mirthful in reality, so often amused

us? Did I not—but oh! what is man, tha

he dares so to accuse himself? My dea

friend I promise you I will improve;

will no longer, as has ever been m

habit, continue to ruminate on ever

petty vexation which fortune madispense; I will enjoy the present, an

he past shall be for me the past. N

doubt you are right, my best of friends

here would be far less sufferinamongst mankind, if men—and Go

knows why they are so fashioned—di

not employ their imaginations s



assiduously in recalling the memory o

past sorrow, instead of bearing thei

present lot with equanimity. Be kind

enough to inform my mother that I shalattend to her business to the best of m

ability, and shall give her the earlies

nformation about it. I have seen my aun

and find that she is very far from bein

he disagreeable person our friend

allege her to be. She is a lively, cheerfu

woman, with the best of hearts. explained to her my mother's wrong

with regard to that part of her portio

which has been withheld from her. Sh

old me the motives and reasons of heown conduct, and the terms on which sh

s willing to give up the whole, and t

do more than we have asked. In short,



cannot write further upon this subject a

present; only assure my mother that al

will go on well. And I have agai

observed, my dear friend, in this triflinaffair, that misunderstandings and

neglect occasion more mischief in th

world than even malice and wickedness

At all events, the two latter are of les

frequent occurrence.

In other respects I am very well of

here. Solitude in this terrestrial paradis

s a genial balm to my mind, and th

oung spring cheers with its bounteou

promises my oftentimes misgiving hearEvery tree, every bush, is full o

flowers; and one might wish himsel

ransformed into a butterfly, to floa

about in this ocean of perfume, and fin



his whole existence in it.

The town itself is disagreeable; bu

hen, all around, you find anexpressible beauty of nature. Thi

nduced the late Count M to lay out

garden on one of the sloping hills whic

here intersect each other with the moscharming variety, and form the mos

ovely valleys. The garden is simple

and it is easy to perceive, even upo

our first entrance, that the plan was no

designed by a scientific gardener, but b

a man who wished to give himself u

here to the enjoyment of his owsensitive heart. Many a tear have

already shed to the memory of it

departed master in a summer-hous

which is now reduced to ruins, but wa



his favourite resort, and now is mine.

shall soon be master of the place. Th

gardener has become attached to m

within the last few days, and he wilose nothing thereby.

MAY 10.

A wonderful serenity has take

possession of my entire soul, like thes

sweet mornings of spring which I enjo

with my whole heart. I am alone, anfeel the charm of existence in this spot

which was created for the bliss of soul

ike mine. I am so happy, my dear friend

so absorbed in the exquisite sense o

mere tranquil existence, that I neglect m

alents. I should be incapable of drawin

a single stroke at the present moment



and yet I feel that I never was a greate

artist than now. When, while the lovel

valley teems with vapour around me

and the meridian sun strikes the uppesurface of the impenetrable foliage of m

rees, and but a few stray gleams stea

nto the inner sanctuary, I throw mysel

down among the tall grass by th

rickling stream; and, as I lie close to th

earth, a thousand unknown plants ar

noticed by me: when I hear the buzz ohe little world among the stalks, an

grow familiar with the countles

ndescribable forms of the insects an

flies, then I feel the presence of thAlmighty, who formed us in his ow

mage, and the breath of that universa

ove which bears and sustains us, as



floats around us in an eternity of bliss

and then, my friend, when darknes

overspreads my eyes, and heaven an

earth seem to dwell in my soul anabsorb its power, like the form of

beloved mistress, then I often think wit

onging, Oh, would I could describ

hese conceptions, could impress upo

paper all that is living so full and war

within me, that it might be the mirror o

my soul, as my soul is the mirror of thnfinite God! O my friend—but it is to

much for my strength—I sink under th

weight of the splendour of these visions

MAY 12.

I know not whether some deceitfu

spirits haunt this spot, or whether it b



he warm, celestial fancy in my ow

heart which makes everything around m

seem like paradise. In front of the hous

s a fountain,—a fountain to which I abound by a charm like Melusina and he

sisters. Descending a gentle slope, yo

come to an arch, where, some twent

steps lower down, water of the cleares

crystal gushes from the marble rock. Th

narrow wall which encloses it above

he tall trees which encircle the spot, anhe coolness of the place itself,—

everything imparts a pleasant bu

sublime impression. Not a day passes o

which I do not spend an hour there. Thoung maidens come from the town t

fetch water,—innocent and necessar

employment, and formerly th



occupation of the daughters of kings. A

take my rest there, the idea of the ol

patriarchal life is awakened around me

see them, our old ancestors, how theformed their friendships and contracte

alliances at the fountain-side; and I fee

how fountains and streams were guarde

by beneficent spirits. He who is

stranger to these sensations has neve

really enjoyed cool repose at the side o

a fountain after the fatigue of a wearsummer day.

MAY 13.

You ask if you shall send me books

My dear friend, I beseech you, for th

ove of God, relieve me from such

oke! I need no more to be guided



agitated, heated. My heart ferment

sufficiently of itself. I want strains to lul

me, and I find them to perfection in m

Homer. Often do I strive to allay thburning fever of my blood; and you hav

never witnessed anything so unsteady, so

uncertain, as my heart. But need

confess this to you, my dear friend, wh

have so often endured the anguish o

witnessing my sudden transitions fro

sorrow to immoderate joy, and fromsweet melancholy to violent passions?

reat my poor heart like a sick child, an

gratify its every fancy. Do not mentio

his again: there are people who woulcensure me for it.

MAY 15.



The common people of the plac

know me already, and love me

particularly the children. When at first

associated with them, and inquired in friendly tone about their various trifles

some fancied that I wished to ridicul

hem, and turned from me in exceedin

ll-humour. I did not allow tha

circumstance to grieve me: I only fe

most keenly what I have often befor

observed. Persons who can claim certain rank keep themselves coldl

aloof from the common people, a

hough they feared to lose thei

mportance by the contact; whilst wantodlers, and such as are prone to ba

oking, affect to descend to their leve

only to make the poor people feel thei



mpertinence all the more keenly.

I know very well that we are not al

equal, nor can be so; but it is my opiniohat he who avoids the common people

n order not to lose their respect, is a

much to blame as a coward who hide

himself from his enemy because he feardefeat.

The other day I went to the fountain

and found a young servant-girl, who haset her pitcher on the lowest step, an

ooked around to see if one of he

companions was approaching to place

on her head. I ran down, and looked a

her. "Shall I help you, pretty lass?" said

. She blushed deeply. "Oh, sir!" sh

exclaimed. "No ceremony!" I replied



She adjusted her head-gear, and I helped

her. She thanked me, and ascended th

steps.

MAY 17.

I have made all sorts o

acquaintances, but have as yet found nsociety. I know not what attraction

possess for the people, so many of the

ike me, and attach themselves to me

and then I feel sorry when the road wpursue together goes only a shor

distance. If you inquire what the peopl

are like here, I must answer, "The sam

as everywhere." The human race is but

monotonous affair. Most of them labou

he greater part of their time for mer

subsistence; and the scanty portion o



freedom which remains to them s

roubles them that they use ever

exertion to get rid of it. Oh, the destin

of man!

But they are a right good sort o

people. If I occasionally forget mysel

and take part in the innocent pleasurewhich are not yet forbidden to th

peasantry, and enjoy myself, fo

nstance, with genuine freedom an

sincerity, round a well-covered table, o

arrange an excursion or a danc

opportunely, and so forth, all thi

produces a good effect upon mdisposition; only I must forget that ther

ie dormant within me so many othe

qualities which moulder uselessly, and

which I am obliged to keep carefull



concealed. Ah! this thought affects m

spirits fearfully. And yet to be

misunderstood is the fate of the like o

us.

Alas, that the friend of my youth i

gone! Alas, that I ever knew her! I migh

say to myself, "You are a dreamer toseek what is not to be found her

below." But she has been mine. I hav

possessed that heart, that noble soul, i

whose presence I seemed to be mor

han I really was, because I was all that

could be. Good heavens! did then

single power of my soul remaiunexercised? In her presence could I no

display, to its full extent, that mysteriou

feeling with which my heart embrace

nature? Was not our intercourse a



perpetual web of the finest emotions, o

he keenest wit, the varieties of which

even in their very eccentricity, bore th

stamp of genius? Alas! the few years bywhich she was my senior brought her t

he grave before me. Never can I forge

her firm mind or her heavenly patience.

A few days ago I met a certain youn

V—, a frank, open fellow, with a mos

pleasing countenance. He has just left th

university, does not deem himsel

overwise, but believes he knows mor

han other people. He has worked hard

as I can perceive from mancircumstances, and, in short, possesses

arge stock of information. When h

heard that I am drawing a good deal, an

hat I know Greek (two wonderful thing



for this part of the country), he came t

see me, and displayed his whole store o

earning, from Batteaux to Wood, from

De Piles to Winkelmann: he assured mhe had read through the first part o

Sultzer's theory, and also possessed

manuscript of Heyne's work on the stud

of the antique. I allowed it all to pass.

I have become acquainted, also, wit

a very worthy person, the district judge

a frank and open-hearted man. I am tol

t is a most delightful thing to see him i

he midst of his children, of whom he ha

nine. His eldest daughter especially ihighly spoken of. He has invited me t

go and see him, and I intend to do so o

he first opportunity. He lives at one o

he royal hunting-lodges, which can b



reached from here in an hour and a hal

by walking, and which he obtained leav

o inhabit after the loss of his wife, as i

s so painful to him to reside in town anat the court.

There have also come in my way

few other originals of a questionablsort, who are in all respects undesirable

and most intolerable in thei

demonstration of friendship. Good-bye

This letter will please you: it is quit

historical.

MAY 22.

That the life of man is but a dream

many a man has surmised heretofore; an

, too, am everywhere pursued by thi



feeling. When I consider the narrow

imits within which our active an

nquiring faculties are confined; when

see how all our energies are wasted iproviding for mere necessities, whic

again have no further end than to prolon

a wretched existence; and then that al

our satisfaction concerning certai

subjects of investigation ends in nothin

better than a passive resignation, whils

we amuse ourselves painting our prisonwalls with bright figures and brillian

andscapes,—when I consider all this

Wilhelm, I am silent. I examine my ow

being, and find there a world, but world rather of imagination and di

desires, than of distinctness and livin

power. Then everything swims befor



my senses, and I smile and dream whil

pursuing my way through the world.

All learned professors and doctorare agreed that children do no

comprehend the cause of their desires

but that the grown-up should wande

about this earth like children, withouknowing whence they come, or whithe

hey go, influenced as little by fixe

motives, but guided like them b

biscuits, sugar-plums, and the rod,—thi

s what nobody is willing t

acknowledge; and yet I think it i

palpable.

I know what you will say in reply; fo

am ready to admit that they ar

happiest, who, like children, amus



hemselves with their playthings, dres

and undress their dolls, and attentivel

watch the cupboard, where mamma ha

ocked up her sweet things, and, when aast they get a delicious morsel, eat

greedily, and exclaim, "More!" Thes

are certainly happy beings; but other

also are objects of envy, who dignif

heir paltry employments, and sometime

even their passions, with pompous titles

representing them to mankind as gigantiachievements performed for thei

welfare and glory. But the man who

humbly acknowledges the vanity of al

his, who observes with what pleasurhe thriving citizen converts his littl

garden into a paradise, and how

patiently even the poor man pursues hi



weary way under his burden, and how

all wish equally to behold the light of th

sun a little longer,—yes, such a man is a

peace, and creates his own world withihimself; and he is also happy, becaus

he is a man. And then, however limited

his sphere, he still preserves in hi

bosom the sweet feeling of liberty, and

knows that he can quit his priso

whenever he likes.

MAY 26.

You know of old my ways of settling

anywhere, of selecting a little cottage i

some cosy spot, and of putting up in

with every inconvenience. Here, too,

have discovered such a snug

comfortable place, which possesse



peculiar charms for me.

About a league from the town is

place called Walheim. (The reader neednot take the trouble to look for the plac

hus designated. We have found i

necessary to change the names given i

he original.) It is delightfully situated ohe side of a hill; and, by proceedin

along one of the footpaths which lead ou

of the village, you can have a view o

he whole valley. A good old woman

ives there, who keeps a small inn. Sh

sells wine, beer, and coffee, and i

cheerful and pleasant notwithstandinher age. The chief charm of this spo

consists in two linden-trees, spreadin

heir enormous branches over the littl

green before the church, which i



entirely surrounded by peasants

cottages, barns, and homesteads. I hav

seldom seen a place so retired an

peaceable; and there often have my tabland chair brought out from the little inn

and drink my coffee there, and read m

Homer. Accident brought me to the spo

one fine afternoon, and I found

perfectly deserted. Everybody was in th

fields except a little boy about four year

of age, who was sitting on the groundand held between his knees a child abou

six months old: he pressed it to hi

bosom with both arms, which thu

formed a sort of arm-chair; andnotwithstanding the liveliness whic

sparkled in its black eyes, it remaine

perfectly still. The sight charmed me.



sat down upon a plough opposite, an

sketched with great delight this littl

picture of brotherly tenderness. I adde

he neighbouring hedge, the barn-doorand some broken cart-wheels, just a

hey happened to lie; and I found i

about an hour that I had made a ver

correct and interesting drawing, withou

putting in the slightest thing of my own

This confirmed me in my resolution o

adhering, for the future, entirely tnature. She alone is inexhaustible, an

capable of forming the greatest masters

Much may be alleged in favour of rules

as much may be likewise advanced ifavour of the laws of society: an artis

formed upon them will never produc

anything absolutely bad or disgusting; a



a man who observes the laws, and obey

decorum, can never be an absolutel

ntolerable neighbour, nor a decided

villain: but yet, say what you will orules, they destroy the genuine feeling o

nature, as well as its true expression. D

not tell me "that this is too hard, that the

only restrain and prune superfluou

branches, etc." My good friend, I wil

llustrate this by an analogy. Thes

hings resemble love. A warmheartedouth becomes strongly attached to

maiden: he spends every hour of the da

n her company, wears out his health

and lavishes his fortune, to afforcontinual proof that he is wholly devote

o her. Then comes a man of the world,

man of place and respectability, and



addresses him thus: "My good youn

friend, love is natural; but you must lov

within bounds. Divide your time: devot

a portion to business, and give the hourof recreation to your mistress. Calculat

our fortune; and out of the superfluit

ou may make her a present, only not to

often,—on her birthday, and suc

occasions." Pursuing this advice, he ma

become a useful member of society, and

should advise every prince to give hian appointment; but it is all up with hi

ove, and with his genius if he be a

artist. O my friend! why is it that th

orrent of genius so seldom bursts forthso seldom rolls in full-flowing stream

overwhelming your astounded soul

Because, on either side of this stream



cold and respectable persons have take

up their abodes, and, forsooth, thei

summer-houses and tulip-beds woul

suffer from the torrent; wherefore thedig trenches, and raise embankment

betimes, in order to avert the impendin

danger.

MAY 27.

I find I have fallen into raptures

declamation, and similes, and havforgotten, in consequence, to tell yo

what became of the children. Absorbed

n my artistic contemplations, which

briefly described in my letter o

esterday, I continued sitting on th

plough for two hours. Toward evening

oung woman, with a basket on her arm



came running toward the children, wh

had not moved all that time. Sh

exclaimed from a distance, "You are a

good boy, Philip!" She gave me greeting returned it, rose, and approached her.

nquired if she were the mother of thos

pretty children. "Yes," she said; and

giving the eldest a piece of bread, sh

ook the little one in her arms and kisse

t with a mother's tenderness. "I left m

child in Philip's care," she said, "whilswent into the town with my eldest bo

o buy some wheaten bread, some sugar

and an earthen pot." I saw the variou

articles in the basket, from which thcover had fallen. "I shall make som

broth to-night for my little Hans (whic

was the name of the youngest): that wil



fellow, the big one, broke my po

esterday, whilst he was scramblin

with Philip for what remained of th

contents." I inquired for the eldest; anshe had scarcely time to tell me that h

was driving a couple of geese hom

from the meadow, when he ran up, and

handed Philip an osier-twig. I talked

ittle longer with the woman, and foun

hat she was the daughter of th

schoolmaster, and that her husband wagone on a journey into Switzerland fo

some money a relation had left him

"They wanted to cheat him," she said

"and would not answer his letters; so hs gone there himself. I hope he has me

with no accident, as I have heard nothin

of him since his departure." I left th



woman, with regret, giving each of th

children a kreutzer, with an additiona

one for the youngest, to buy som

wheaten bread for his broth when shwent to town next; and so we parted.

assure you, my dear friend, when m

houghts are all in tumult, the sight o

such a creature as this tranquillises m

disturbed mind. She moves in a happ

houghtlessness within the confine

circle of her existence; she supplies hewants from day to day; and, when sh

sees the leaves fall, they raise no othe

dea in her mind than that winter i

approaching. Since that time I have gonout there frequently. The children hav

become quite familiar with me; and eac

gets a lump of sugar when I drink m



coffee, and they share my milk and brea

and butter in the evening. They alway

receive their kreutzer on Sundays, for th

good woman has orders to give it them when I do not go there afte

evening service. They are quite at hom

with me, tell me everything; and I a

particularly amused with observing thei

empers, and the simplicity of thei

behaviour, when some of the othe

village children are assembled withem.

It has given me a deal of trouble t

satisfy the anxiety of the mother, lest (ashe says) "they should inconvenience th

gentleman."

MAY 30.



What I have lately said of painting i

equally true with respect to poetry. It i

only necessary for us to know what i

really excellent, and venture to give expression; and that is saying much i

few words. To-day I have had a scene

which, if literally related, would, mak

he most beautiful idyl in the world. Bu

why should I talk of poetry and scene

and idyls? Can we never take pleasur

n nature without having recourse to art?

If you expect anything grand o

magnificent from this introduction, yo

will be sadly mistaken. It relates merelo a peasant-lad, who has excited in m

he warmest interest. As usual, I shal

ell my story badly; and you, as usua

will think me extravagant. It is Walheim



once more—always Walheim—which

produces these wonderful phenomena.

A party had assembled outside thhouse under the linden-trees, to drin

coffee. The company did not exactl

please me; and, under one pretext o

another, I lingered behind.

A peasant came from an adjoinin

house, and set to work arranging som

part of the same plough which I haately sketched. His appearance please

me; and I spoke to him, inquired abou

his circumstances, made hi

acquaintance, and, as is my wont wit

persons of that class, was soon admitte

nto his confidence. He said he was i

he service of a young widow, who se



great store by him. He spoke so much o

his mistress, and praised her s

extravagantly, that I could soon see h

was desperately in love with her. "Shs no longer young," he said: "and sh

was treated so badly by her forme

husband that she does not mean to marr

again." From his account it was s

evident what incomparable charms sh

possessed for him, and how ardently h

wished she would select him textinguish the recollection of her firs

husband's misconduct, that I should hav

o repeat his own words in order t

describe the depth of the poor fellow'attachment, truth, and devotion. It would

n fact, require the gifts of a great poet t

convey the expression of his features, th



harmony of his voice, and the heavenl

fire of his eye. No words can portray th

enderness of his every movement and o

every feature: no effort of mine could dustice to the scene. His alarm lest

should misconceive his position wit

regard to his mistress, or question th

propriety of her conduct, touched m

particularly. The charming manner wit

which he described her form and person

which, without possessing the graces oouth, won and attached him to her, i

nexpressible, and must be left to th

magination. I have never in my lif

witnessed or fancied or conceived thpossibility of such intense devotion

such ardent affections, united with s

much purity. Do not blame me if I say



hat the recollection of this innocenc

and truth is deeply impressed upon m

very soul; that this picture of fidelity an

enderness haunts me everywhere; anhat my own heart, as though enkindle

by the flame, glows and burns within me

I mean now to try and see her as sooas I can: or perhaps, on second thoughts

had better not; it is better I shoul

behold her through the eyes of her lover

To my sight, perhaps, she would no

appear as she now stands before me; an

why should I destroy so sweet a picture

JUNE 16.

"Why do I not write to you?" You lay

claim to learning, and ask such



question. You should have guessed that

am well—that is to say—in a word,

have made an acquaintance who has wo

my heart: I have—I know not.

To give you a regular account of th

manner in which I have becom

acquainted with the most amiable owomen would be a difficult task. I am

happy and contented mortal, but a poo

historian.

An angel! Nonsense! Everybody s

describes his mistress; and yet I find

mpossible to tell you how perfect sh

s, or why she is so perfect: suffice it t

say she has captivated all my senses.

So much simplicity with so muc



understanding—so mild, and yet s

resolute—a mind so placid, and a life s

active.

But all this is ugly balderdash, whic

expresses not a single character no

feature. Some other time—but no, no

some other time, now, this very instantwill I tell you all about it. Now or never

Well, between ourselves, since

commenced my letter, I have been thre

imes on the point of throwing down m

pen, of ordering my horse, and ridin

out. And yet I vowed this morning that

would not ride to-day, and yet evermoment I am rushing to the window t

see how high the sun is.

I could not restrain myself—go to he



must. I have just returned, Wilhelm

and whilst I am taking supper I wil

write to you. What a delight it was fo

my soul to see her in the midst of hedear, beautiful children,—eight brother

and sisters!

But, if I proceed thus, you will be nwiser at the end of my letter than yo

were at the beginning. Attend, then, and

will compel myself to give you th

details.

I mentioned to you the other day that

had become acquainted with S—, th

district judge, and that he had invited m

o go and visit him in his retirement, o

rather in his little kingdom. But

neglected going, and perhaps shoul



never have gone, if chance had no

discovered to me the treasure which la

concealed in that retired spot. Some o

our young people had proposed giving ball in the country, at which I consented

o be present. I offered my hand for th

evening to a pretty and agreeable, bu

rather commonplace, sort of girl fro

he immediate neighbourhood; and it wa

agreed that I should engage a carriage

and call upon Charlotte, with my partneand her aunt, to convey them to the bal

My companion informed me, as w

drove along through the park to th

hunting-lodge, that I should make thacquaintance of a very charming youn

ady. "Take care," added the aunt, "tha

ou do not lose your heart." "Why?" sai



. "Because she is already engaged to

very worthy man," she replied, "who i

gone to settle his affairs upon the deat

of his father, and will succeed to a verconsiderable inheritance." Thi

nformation possessed no interest fo

me. When we arrived at the gate, the su

was setting behind the tops of th

mountains. The atmosphere was heavy

and the ladies expressed their fears of a

approaching storm, as masses of lowblack clouds were gathering in th

horizon. I relieved their anxieties b

pretending to be weather-wise, althoug

myself had some apprehensions lesour pleasure should be interrupted.

I alighted; and a maid came to th

door, and requested us to wait a momen



for her mistress. I walked across th

court to a well-built house, and

ascending the flight of steps in fron

opened the door, and saw before me thmost charming spectacle I had eve

witnessed. Six children, from eleven t

wo years old, were running about th

hall, and surrounding a lady of middl

height, with a lovely figure, dressed in

robe of simple white, trimmed with pin

ribbons. She was holding a rye loaf iher hand, and was cutting slices for th

ittle ones all around, in proportion t

heir age and appetite. She performe

her task in a graceful and affectionatmanner; each claimant awaiting his tur

with outstretched hands, an

boisterously shouting his thanks. Som



of them ran away at once, to enjoy thei

evening meal; whilst others, of a gentle

disposition, retired to the courtyard t

see the strangers, and to survey thcarriage in which their Charlotte was t

drive away. "Pray forgive me for givin

ou the trouble to come for me, and fo

keeping the ladies waiting: but dressing

and arranging some household dutie

before I leave, had made me forget m

children's supper; and they do not like take it from any one but me." I uttere

some indifferent compliment: but m

whole soul was absorbed by her air, he

voice, her manner; and I had scarcelrecovered myself when she ran into he

room to fetch her gloves and fan. Th

oung ones threw inquiring glances a



me from a distance; whilst I approache

he youngest, a most delicious littl

creature. He drew back; and Charlotte

entering at the very moment, said"Louis, shake hands with your cousin.

The little fellow obeyed willingly; and

could not resist giving him a hearty kiss

notwithstanding his rather dirty face

"Cousin," said I to Charlotte, as I hande

her down, "do you think I deserve th

happiness of being related to you?" Shreplied, with a ready smile, "Oh! I hav

such a number of cousins, that I shoul

be sorry if you were the mos

undeserving of them." In taking leaveshe desired her next sister, Sophy, a gir

about eleven years old, to take great car

of the children, and to say good-bye t



papa for her when he came home fro

his ride. She enjoined to the little ones t

obey their sister Sophy as they woul

herself, upon which some promised thahey would; but a little fair-haired gir

about six years old, looked discontented

and said, "But Sophy is not you

Charlotte; and we like you best." Th

wo eldest boys had clambered up th

carriage; and, at my request, sh

permitted them to accompany us a littlway through the forest, upon thei

promising to sit very still, and hold fast.

We were hardly seated, and the ladiehad scarcely exchanged compliments

making the usual remarks upon eac

other's dress, and upon the company the

expected to meet, when Charlott



stopped the carriage, and made he

brothers get down. They insisted upo

kissing her hands once more; which th

eldest did with all the tenderness of outh of fifteen, but the other in a lighte

and more careless manner. She desired

hem again to give her love to th

children, and we drove off.

The aunt inquired of Charlott

whether she had finished the book sh

had last sent her. "No," said Charlotte; "

did not like it: you can have it again

And the one before was not muc

better." I was surprised, upon asking thitle, to hear that it was ____. (We fee

obliged to suppress the passage in th

etter, to prevent any one from feelin

aggrieved; although no author need pa



much attention to the opinion of a mer

girl, or that of an unsteady young man.)

I found penetration and character ieverything she said: every expressio

seemed to brighten her features with new

charms,—with new rays of genius,—

which unfolded by degrees, as she feherself understood.

"When I was younger," she observed

"I loved nothing so much as romancesothing could equal my delight when, o

some holiday, I could settle dow

quietly in a corner, and enter with my

whole heart and soul into the joys o

sorrows of some fictitious Leonora. I d

not deny that they even possess som

charms for me yet. But I read so seldom



hat I prefer books suited exactly to m

aste. And I like those authors bes

whose scenes describe my own situatio

n life,—and the friends who are aboume, whose stories touch me wit

nterest, from resembling my ow

homely existence,—which, withou

being absolutely paradise, is, on th

whole, a source of indescribabl

happiness."

I endeavoured to conceal the emotio

which these words occasioned, but

was of slight avail; for, when she had

expressed so truly her opinion of "ThVicar of Wakefield," and of other works

he names of which I omit (Though th

names are omitted, yet the author

mentioned deserve Charlotte'



approbation, and will feel it in thei

hearts when they read this passage. I

concerns no other person.), I could n

onger contain myself, but gave fulutterance to what I thought of it: and

was not until Charlotte had addresse

herself to the two other ladies, that

remembered their presence, an

observed them sitting mute wit

astonishment. The aunt looked at m

several times with an air of raillerywhich, however, I did not at all mind.

We talked of the pleasures of dancing

"If it is a fault to love it," said Charlotte"I am ready to confess that I prize

above all other amusements. If anythin

disturbs me, I go to the piano, play an ai

o which I have danced, and all goe



right again directly."

You, who know me, can fancy how

steadfastly I gazed upon her rich dareyes during these remarks, how my ver

soul gloated over her warm lips an

fresh, glowing cheeks, how I becam

quite lost in the delightful meaning of hewords, so much so, that I scarcely hear

he actual expressions. In short,

alighted from the carriage like a perso

n a dream, and was so lost to the di

world around me, that I scarcely hear

he music which resounded from th

lluminated ballroom.

The two Messrs. Andran and a certai

. N. (I cannot trouble myself with th

names), who were the aunt's an



Charlotte's partners, received us at th

carriage-door, and took possession o

heir ladies, whilst I followed wit

mine.

We commenced with a minuet. I led

out one lady after another, and precisel

hose who were the most disagreeablcould not bring themselves to leave off

Charlotte and her partner began a

English country dance, and you mus

magine my delight when it was thei

urn to dance the figure with us. You

should see Charlotte dance. She dance

with her whole heart and soul: her figurs all harmony, elegance, and grace, as i

she were conscious of nothing else, an

had no other thought or feeling; and

doubtless, for the moment, every othe



sensation is extinct.

She was engaged for the secon

country dance, but promised me thhird, and assured me, with the mos

agreeable freedom, that she was ver

fond of waltzing. "It is the custom here,

she said, "for the previous partners twaltz together; but my partner is a

ndifferent waltzer, and will fee

delighted if I save him the trouble. You

partner is not allowed to waltz, and

ndeed, is equally incapable: but

observed during the country dance tha

ou waltz well; so, if you will waltwith me, I beg you would propose it t

my partner, and I will propose it to

ours." We agreed, and it was arranged

hat our partners should mutuall



entertain each other.

We set off, and, at first, delighted

ourselves with the usual gracefumotions of the arms. With what grace

with what ease, she moved! When th

waltz commenced, and the dancer

whirled around each other in the giddmaze, there was some confusion, owin

o the incapacity of some of the dancers

We judiciously remained still, allowing

he others to weary themselves; and

when the awkward dancers ha

withdrawn, we joined in, and kept it u

famously together with one other couple—Andran and his partner. Never did

dance more lightly. I felt myself mor

han mortal, holding this loveliest o

creatures in my arms, flying, with her a



rapidly as the wind, till I lost sight o

every other object; and O Wilhelm,

vowed at that moment, that a maide

whom I loved, or for whom I felt thslightest attachment, never, never should

waltz with any one else but with me, if

went to perdition for it!—you wil

understand this.

We took a few turns in the room to

recover our breath. Charlotte sat down

and felt refreshed by partaking of som

oranges which I had had secured,—th

only ones that had been left; but at ever

slice which, from politeness, she offereo her neighbours, I felt as though

dagger went through my heart.

We were the second couple in the



hird country dance. As we were goin

down (and Heaven knows with wha

ecstasy I gazed at her arms and eyes

beaming with the sweetest feeling opure and genuine enjoyment), we passe

a lady whom I had noticed for he

charming expression of countenance

although she was no longer young. Sh

ooked at Charlotte with a smile, then

holding up her finger in a threatenin

attitude, repeated twice in a versignificant tone of voice the name o

"Albert."

"Who is Albert," said I to Charlotte"if it is not impertinent to ask?" She wa

about to answer, when we were obliged

o separate, in order to execute a figur

n the dance; and, as we crossed ove



again in front of each other, I perceived

she looked somewhat pensive. "Wh

need I conceal it from you?" she said, a

she gave me her hand for the promenade"Albert is a worthy man, to whom I a

engaged." Now, there was nothing new

o me in this (for the girls had told me o

t on the way); but it was so far new tha

had not thought of it in connection wit

her whom, in so short a time, I ha

earned to prize so highly. Enough, became confused, got out in the figure

and occasioned general confusion; s

hat it required all Charlotte's presenc

of mind to set me right by pulling anpushing me into my proper place.

The dance was not yet finished whe

he lightning which had for some tim



been seen in the horizon, and which

had asserted to proceed entirely fro

heat, grew more violent; and the thunde

was heard above the music. When andistress or terror surprises us in th

midst of our amusements, it naturall

makes a deeper impression than at othe

imes, either because the contrast make

us more keenly susceptible, or rathe

perhaps because our senses are the

more open to impressions, and the shocs consequently stronger. To this cause

must ascribe the fright and shrieks of th

adies. One sagaciously sat down in

corner with her back to the window, andheld her fingers to her ears; a secon

knelt down before her, and hid her fac

n her lap; a third threw herself betwee



hem, and embraced her sister with

housand tears; some insisted on goin

home; others, unconscious of thei

actions, wanted sufficient presence omind to repress the impertinence of thei

oung partners, who sought to direct t

hemselves those sighs which the lips o

our agitated beauties intended fo

heaven. Some of the gentlemen had gon

down-stairs to smoke a quiet cigar, and

he rest of the company gladly embracea happy suggestion of the hostess t

retire into another room which wa

provided with shutters and curtains. W

had hardly got there, when Charlottplaced the chairs in a circle; and, whe

he company had sat down in complianc

with her request, she forthwith propose



a round game.

I noticed some of the compan

prepare their mouths and drawhemselves up at the prospect of som

agreeable forfeit. "Let us play a

counting," said Charlotte. "Now, pa

attention: I shall go round the circle froright to left; and each person is to count

one after the other, the number tha

comes to him, and must count fas

whoever stops or mistakes is to have

box on the ear, and so on, till we hav

counted a thousand." It was delightful t

see the fun. She went round the circlwith upraised arm. "One," said the first

"two," the second; "three," the third; an

so on, till Charlotte went faster an

faster. One made a mistake, instantly



box on the ear; and, amid the laughte

hat ensued, came another box; and s

on, faster and faster. I myself came in fo

wo. I fancied they were harder than threst, and felt quite delighted. A genera

aughter and confusion put an end to th

game long before we had counted as fa

as a thousand. The party broke up int

ittle separate knots: the storm ha

ceased, and I followed Charlotte into th

ballroom. On the way she said, "Thgame banished their fears of the storm."

could make no reply. "I myself," sh

continued, "was as much frightened a

any of them; but by affecting courage, tkeep up the spirits of the others, I forgo

my apprehensions." We went to the

window. It was still thundering at



distance: a soft rain was pouring dow

over the country, and filled the ai

around us with delicious odours

Charlotte leaned forward on her arm; heeyes wandered over the scene; sh

raised them to the sky, and then turned

hem upon me; they were moistened wit

ears; she placed her hand on mine an

said, "Klopstock!" at once I remembere

he magnificent ode which was in he

houghts: I felt oppressed with thweight of my sensations, and sank unde

hem. It was more than I could bear.

bent over her hand, kissed it in a strea

of delicious tears, and again looked uo her eyes. Divine Klopstock! why dids

hou not see thy apotheosis in thos

eyes? And thy name so often profaned



would that I never heard it repeated!

JUNE 19.

I no longer remember where I stoppe

n my narrative: I only know it was tw

n the morning when I went to bed; and i

ou had been with me, that I might havalked instead of writing to you, I should

n all probability, have kept you up til

daylight.

I think I have not yet related wha

happened as we rode home from th

ball, nor have I time to tell you now. I

was a most magnificent sunrise: thwhole country was refreshed, and th

rain fell drop by drop from the trees i

he forest. Our companions were asleep



Charlotte asked me if I did not wish t

sleep also, and begged of me not to mak

any ceremony on her account. Lookin

steadfastly at her, I answered, "As lonas I see those eyes open, there is no fea

of my falling asleep." We both continued

awake till we reached her door. Th

maid opened it softly, and assured her

n answer to her inquiries, that her fathe

and the children were well, and stil

sleeping. I left her asking permission tvisit her in the course of the day. Sh

consented, and I went, and, since tha

ime, sun, moon, and stars may pursu

heir course: I know not whether it is daor night; the whole world is nothing t

me.

JUNE 21.



My days are as happy as thos

reserved by God for his elect; and

whatever be my fate hereafter, I ca

never say that I have not tasted joy,—thpurest joy of life. You know Walheim. I

am now completely settled there. In tha

spot I am only half a league fro

Charlotte; and there I enjoy myself, an

aste all the pleasure which can fall t

he lot of man.

Little did I imagine, when I selecte

Walheim for my pedestrian excursions

hat all heaven lay so near it. How ofte

n my wanderings from the hillside ofrom the meadows across the river, hav

beheld this hunting-lodge, which now

contains within it all the joy of my heart



I have often, my dear Wilhelm

reflected on the eagerness men feel t

wander and make new discoveries, an

upon that secret impulse whicafterward inclines them to return to thei

narrow circle, conform to the laws o

custom, and embarrass themselves n

onger with what passes around them.

It is so strange how, when I came her

first, and gazed upon that lovely valle

from the hillside, I felt charmed with th

entire scene surrounding me. The littl

wood opposite—how delightful to s

under its shade! How fine the view frohat point of rock! Then, that delightfu

chain of hills, and the exquisite valley

at their feet! Could I but wander and los

myself amongst them! I went, an



returned without finding what I wished

Distance, my friend, is like futurity. A

dim vastness is spread before our souls

he perceptions of our mind are aobscure as those of our vision; and w

desire earnestly to surrender up ou

whole being, that it may be filled wit

he complete and perfect bliss of on

glorious emotion. But alas! when w

have attained our object, when th

distant there becomes the present hereall is changed: we are as poor an

circumscribed as ever, and our soul

still languish for unattainable happiness

So does the restless traveller pant fo

his native soil, and find in his ow

cottage, in the arms of his wife, in th

affections of his children, and in th



abour necessary for their support, tha

happiness which he had sought in vai

hrough the wide world.

When, in the morning at sunrise, I g

out to Walheim, and with my own hand

gather in the garden the pease which ar

o serve for my dinner, when I sit downo shell them, and read my Homer durin

he intervals, and then, selecting

saucepan from the kitchen, fetch my ow

butter, put my mess on the fire, cover i

up, and sit down to stir it as occasio

requires, I figure to myself the illustriou

suitors of Penelope, killing, dressingand preparing their own oxen and swine

othing fills me with a more pure an

genuine sense of happiness than thos

raits of patriarchal life which, than



Heaven! I can imitate withou

affectation. Happy is it, indeed, for m

hat my heart is capable of feeling th

same simple and innocent pleasure ahe peasant whose table is covered wit

food of his own rearing, and who no

only enjoys his meal, but remember

with delight the happy days and sunn

mornings when he planted it, the sof

evenings when he watered it, and th

pleasure he experienced in watching itdaily growth.

JUNE 29.

The day before yesterday, th

physician came from the town to pay

visit to the judge. He found me on th

floor playing with Charlotte's children



Some of them were scrambling over me

and others romped with me; and, as

caught and tickled them, they made

great noise. The doctor is a formal sorof personage: he adjusts the plaits of hi

ruffles, and continually settles his fril

whilst he is talking to you; and h

hought my conduct beneath the dignity o

a sensible man. I could perceive this b

his countenance. But I did not suffe

myself to be disturbed. I allowed him tcontinue his wise conversation, whilst

rebuilt the children's card houses fo

hem as fast as they threw them down

He went about the town afterwardcomplaining that the judge's childre

were spoiled enough before, but tha

now Werther was completely ruining



hem.

Yes, my dear Wilhelm, nothing on thi

earth affects my heart so much achildren. When I look on at their doings

when I mark in the little creatures th

seeds of all those virtues and qualitie

which they will one day find sndispensable; when I behold in th

obstinate all the future firmness an

constancy of a noble character; in th

capricious, that levity and gaiety o

emper which will carry them lightl

over the dangers and troubles of life

heir whole nature simple anunpolluted,—then I call to mind th

golden words of the Great Teacher o

mankind, "Unless ye become like one o

hese!" And now, my friend, these



children, who are our equals, whom w

ought to consider as our models, w

reat them as though they were ou

subjects. They are allowed no will oheir own. And have we, then, non

ourselves? Whence comes our exclusiv

right? Is it because we are older an

more experienced? Great God! from th

height of thy heaven thou beholdest grea

children and little children, and n

others; and thy Son has long sincdeclared which afford thee greates

pleasure. But they believe in him, an

hear him not,—that, too, is an old story

and they train their children after theiown image, etc.

Adieu, Wilhelm: I will not furthe

bewilder myself with this subject.



JULY 1.

The consolation Charlotte can bring t

an invalid I experience from my owheart, which suffers more from he

absence than many a poor creatur

ingering on a bed of sickness. She i

gone to spend a few days in the towwith a very worthy woman, who is give

over by the physicians, and wishes t

have Charlotte near her in her las

moments. I accompanied her last wee

on a visit to the Vicar of S—, a smal

village in the mountains, about a leagu

hence. We arrived about four o'clockCharlotte had taken her little sister wit

her. When we entered the vicarage court

we found the good old man sitting on

bench before the door, under the shad



of two large walnut-trees. At the sight o

Charlotte he seemed to gain new life

rose, forgot his stick, and ventured t

walk toward her. She ran to him, andmade him sit down again; then, placin

herself by his side, she gave him

number of messages from her father, and

hen caught up his youngest child, a dirty

ugly little thing, the joy of his old age

and kissed it. I wish you could hav

witnessed her attention to this old man—how she raised her voice on accoun

of his deafness; how she told him o

healthy young people, who had bee

carried off when it was least expectedpraised the virtues of Carlsbad, an

commended his determination to spen

he ensuing summer there; and assure



him that he looked better and stronge

han he did when she saw him last. I, i

he meantime, paid attention to his goo

ady. The old man seemed quite ispirits; and as I could not help admirin

he beauty of the walnut-trees, whic

formed such an agreeable shade over ou

heads, he began, though with some littl

difficulty, to tell us their history. "As to

he oldest," said he, "we do not know

who planted it,—some say onclergyman, and some another: but th

ounger one, there behind us, is exactl

he age of my wife, fifty years old nex

October; her father planted it in thmorning, and in the evening she cam

nto the world. My wife's father was m

predecessor here, and I cannot tell yo



how fond he was of that tree; and it i

fully as dear to me. Under the shade o

hat very tree, upon a log of wood, m

wife was seated knitting, when I, a poostudent, came into this court for the firs

ime, just seven and twenty years ago.

Charlotte inquired for his daughter. H

said she was gone with Herr Schmidt t

he meadows, and was with th

haymakers. The old man then resume

his story, and told us how hipredecessor had taken a fancy to him, a

had his daughter likewise; and how h

had become first his curate, an

subsequently his successor. He hadscarcely finished his story when hi

daughter returned through the garden

accompanied by the above-mentione



Herr Schmidt. She welcomed Charlott

affectionately, and I confess I was muc

aken with her appearance. She was

ively-looking, good-humoured brunettequite competent to amuse one for a shor

ime in the country. Her lover (for suc

Herr Schmidt evidently appeared to be

was a polite, reserved personage, an

would not join our conversation

notwithstanding all Charlotte'

endeavours to draw him out. I was mucannoyed at observing, by hi

countenance, that his silence did no

arise from want of talent, but fro

caprice and ill-humour. Thisubsequently became very evident, whe

we set out to take a walk, and Frederic

oining Charlotte, with whom I wa



alking, the worthy gentleman's face

which was naturally rather sombre

became so dark and angry that Charlott

was obliged to touch my arm, anremind me that I was talking too much t

Frederica. Nothing distresses me mor

han to see men torment each other

particularly when in the flower of thei

age, in the very season of pleasure, the

waste their few short days of sunshine i

quarrels and disputes, and only perceivheir error when it is too late to repair it

This thought dwelt upon my mind; and i

he evening, when we returned to th

vicar's, and were sitting round the tablwith our bread end milk, th

conversation turned on the joys an

sorrows of the world, I could not resis



he temptation to inveigh bitterly agains

ll-humour. "We are apt," said I, "to

complain, but—with very little cause

hat our happy days are few, and our evidays many. If our hearts were alway

disposed to receive the benefits Heave

sends us, we should acquire strength t

support evil when it comes." "But,

observed the vicar's wife, "we canno

always command our tempers, so muc

depends upon the constitution: when thbody suffers, the mind is ill at ease." "

acknowledge that," I continued; "but w

must consider such a disposition in th

ight of a disease, and inquire whethehere is no remedy for it."

"I should be glad to hear one," sai

Charlotte: "at least, I think very muc



depends upon ourselves; I know it is s

with me. When anything annoys me, an

disturbs my temper, I hasten into th

garden, hum a couple of country dancesand it is all right with me directly.

"That is what I meant," I replied; "ill

humour resembles indolence: it i

natural to us; but if once we hav

courage to exert ourselves, we find ou

work run fresh from our hands, and w

experience in the activity from which wshrank a real enjoyment." Frederic

istened very attentively: and the youn

man objected, that we were not master

of ourselves, and still less so of oufeelings. "The question is about

disagreeable feeling," I added, "fro

which every one would willingl



escape, but none know their own powe

without trial. Invalids are glad to consu

physicians, and submit to the mos

scrupulous regimen, the most nauseoumedicines, in order to recover thei

health." I observed that the good old ma

nclined his head, and exerted himself t

hear our discourse; so I raised my voice

and addressed myself directly to him

"We preach against a great many

crimes," I observed, "but I neveremember a sermon delivered agains

ll-humour." "That may do very well fo

our town clergymen," said he: "countr

people are never ill-humoured; thoughndeed, it might be useful, occasionally

o my wife for instance, and the judge.

We all laughed, as did he likewise very



cordially, till he fell into a fit o

coughing, which interrupted ou

conversation for a time. Herr Schmid

resumed the subject. "You call ilhumour a crime," he remarked, "but

hink you use too strong a term." "Not a

all," I replied, "if that deserves the nam

which is so pernicious to ourselves an

our neighbours. Is it not enough that w

want the power to make one anothe

happy, must we deprive each other of thpleasure which we can all make fo

ourselves? Show me the man who ha

he courage to hide his ill-humour, who

bears the whole burden himself, withoudisturbing the peace of those around him

o: ill-humour arises from an inwar

consciousness of our own want of merit



from a discontent which eve

accompanies that envy which foolis

vanity engenders. We see people happy

whom we have not made so, and cannoendure the sight." Charlotte looked at m

with a smile; she observed the emotio

with which I spoke: and a tear in th

eyes of Frederica stimulated me t

proceed. "Woe unto those," I said, "who

use their power over a human heart t

destroy the simple pleasures it woulnaturally enjoy! All the favours, all th

attentions, in the world canno

compensate for the loss of that happines

which a cruel tyranny has destroyed.My heart was full as I spoke. A

recollection of many things which ha

happened pressed upon my mind, an



filled my eyes with tears. "We should

daily repeat to ourselves," I exclaimed

"that we should not interfere with ou

friends, unless to leave them ipossession of their own joys, an

ncrease their happiness by sharing

with them! But when their souls ar

ormented by a violent passion, or thei

hearts rent with grief, is it in your powe

o afford them the slightest consolation?

"And when the last fatal malad

seizes the being whose untimely grav

ou have prepared, when she lie

anguid and exhausted before you, hedim eyes raised to heaven, and the damp

of death upon her pallid brow, there you

stand at her bedside like a condemne

criminal, with the bitter feeling that you



whole fortune could not save her; an

he agonising thought wrings you, that al

our efforts are powerless to impar

even a moment's strength to the departinsoul, or quicken her with a transitor

consolation."

At these words the remembrance of similar scene at which I had been onc

present fell with full force upon m

heart. I buried my face in m

handkerchief, and hastened from th

room, and was only recalled to m

recollection by Charlotte's voice, wh

reminded me that it was time to returhome. With what tenderness she chid m

on the way for the too eager interest

ook in everything! She declared

would do me injury, and that I ought to



spare myself. Yes, my angel! I will do

so for your sake.

JULY 6.

She is still with her dying friend, an

s still the same bright, beautiful creatur

whose presence softens pain, and shedhappiness around whichever way sh

urns. She went out yesterday with he

ittle sisters: I knew it, and went to mee

hem; and we walked together. In abouan hour and a half we returned to th

own. We stopped at the spring I am so

fond of, and which is now a thousan

imes dearer to me than ever. Charlott

seated herself upon the low wall, an

we gathered about her. I looked around

and recalled the time when my heart wa



unoccupied and free. "Dear fountain!"

said, "since that time I have no mor

come to enjoy cool repose by thy fres

stream: I have passed thee with carelessteps, and scarcely bestowed a glanc

upon thee." I looked down, and observe

Charlotte's little sister, Jane, coming up

he steps with a glass of water. I turned

oward Charlotte, and I felt her influenc

over me. Jane at the moment approache

with the glass. Her sister, Mariannewished to take it from her. "No!" cried

he child, with the sweetest expressio

of face, "Charlotte must drink first."

The affection and simplicity wit

which this was uttered so charmed me

hat I sought to express my feelings b

catching up the child and kissing he



heartily. She was frightened, and bega

o cry. "You should not do that," said

Charlotte: I felt perplexed. "Come

Jane," she continued, taking her handand leading her down the steps again, "

s no matter: wash yourself quickly i

he fresh water." I stood and watched

hem; and when I saw the little dea

rubbing her cheeks with her wet hands

n full belief that all the impuritie

contracted from my ugly beard would bwashed off by the miraculous water, and

how, though Charlotte said it would do

she continued still to wash with all he

might, as though she thought too mucwere better than too little, I assure you

Wilhelm, I never attended a baptism

with greater reverence; and, whe



Charlotte came up from the well, I coul

have prostrated myself as before th

prophet of an Eastern nation.

In the evening I would not resis

elling the story to a person who,

hought, possessed some natural feeling

because he was a man of understandingBut what a mistake I made. H

maintained it was very wrong o

Charlotte, that we should not deceiv

children, that such things occasione

countless mistakes and superstitions

from which we were bound to protec

he young. It occurred to me then, thahis very man had been baptised only

week before; so I said nothing further

but maintained the justice of my ow

convictions. We should deal with



children as God deals with us, we ar

happiest under the influence of innocen

delusions.

JULY 8.

What a child is man that he should b

so solicitous about a look! What a chils man! We had been to Walheim: the

adies went in a carriage; but during ou

walk I thought I saw in Charlotte's dar

eyes—I am a fool—but forgive me! yoshould see them,—those eyes.—

However, to be brief (for my own eye

are weighed down with sleep), you mus

know, when the ladies stepped into thei

carriage again, young W. Seldstadt

Andran, and I were standing about th

door. They are a merry set of fellows



and they were all laughing and jokin

ogether. I watched Charlotte's eyes

They wandered from one to the other

but they did not light on me, on me, whstood there motionless, and who saw

nothing but her! My heart bade her

housand times adieu, but she noticed m

not. The carriage drove off; and my eye

filled with tears. I looked after her

suddenly I saw Charlotte's bonne

eaning out of the window, and shurned to look back, was it at me? M

dear friend, I know not; and in thi

uncertainty I find consolation. Perhap

she turned to look at me. Perhaps! Goodnight—what a child I am!

JULY 10.



You should see how foolish I look in

company when her name is mentioned

particularly when I am asked plainl

how I like her. How I like her! I deteshe phrase. What sort of creature must h

be who merely liked Charlotte, whos

whole heart and senses were not entirel

absorbed by her. Like her! Some on

asked me lately how I liked Ossian.

JULY 11.

Madame M—is very ill. I pray for he

recovery, because Charlotte shares m

sufferings. I see her occasionally at m

friend's house, and to-day she has tol

me the strangest circumstance. Old M—

s a covetous, miserly fellow, who ha

ong worried and annoyed the poor lad



sadly; but she has borne her affliction

patiently. A few days ago, when the

physician informed us that her recover

was hopeless, she sent for her husbanCharlotte was present), and addresse

him thus: "I have something to confess

which, after my decease, may occasio

rouble and confusion. I have hithert

conducted your household as frugall

and economically as possible, but yo

must pardon me for having defraudeou for thirty years. At th

commencement of our married life, yo

allowed a small sum for the wants of th

kitchen, and the other householexpenses. When our establishmen

ncreased and our property grew larger

could not persuade you to increase th



weekly allowance in proportion: i

short, you know, that, when our want

were greatest, you required me to suppl

everything with seven florins a week. ook the money from you without a

observation, but made up the weekl

deficiency from the money-chest; a

nobody would suspect your wife o

robbing the household bank. But I hav

wasted nothing, and should have bee

content to meet my eternal Judge withouhis confession, if she, upon whom th

management of your establishment wil

devolve after my decease, would be fre

from embarrassment upon your insistinhat the allowance made to me, you

former wife, was sufficient."

I talked with Charlotte of th



nconceivable manner in which me

allow themselves to be blinded; how an

one could avoid suspecting som

deception, when seven florins only werallowed to defray expenses twice a

great. But I have myself known peopl

who believed, without any visibl

astonishment, that their house possesse

he prophet's never-failing cruse of oil.

JULY 13.

No, I am not deceived. In her dar

eyes I read a genuine interest in me an

n my fortunes. Yes, I feel it; and I may

believe my own heart which tells me—

dare I say it?—dare I pronounce th

divine words?—that she loves me!



That she loves me! How the ide

exalts me in my own eyes! And, as yo

can understand my feelings, I may say t

ou, how I honour myself since shoves me!

Is this presumption, or is it

consciousness of the truth? I do not knowa man able to supplant me in the heart o

Charlotte; and yet when she speaks o

her betrothed with so much warmth an

affection, I feel like the soldier who ha

been stripped of his honours and titles

and deprived of his sword.

JULY 16.

How my heart beats when by acciden

touch her finger, or my feet meet her



under the table! I draw back as if from

furnace; but a secret force impels m

forward again, and my senses becom

disordered. Her innocent, unconsciouheart never knows what agony thes

ittle familiarities inflict upon me

Sometimes when we are talking she lay

her hand upon mine, and in the eagernes

of conversation comes closer to me, an

her balmy breath reaches my lips,—

when I feel as if lightning had struck meand that I could sink into the earth. And

et, Wilhelm, with all this heavenl

confidence,—if I know myself, an

should ever dare—you understand meo, no! my heart is not so corrupt, it i

weak, weak enough but is not that

degree of corruption?



She is to me a sacred being. Al

passion is still in her presence: I canno

express my sensations when I am nea

her. I feel as if my soul beat in everynerve of my body. There is a melod

which she plays on the piano wit

angelic skill,—so simple is it, and yet s

spiritual! It is her favourite air; and

when she plays the first note, all pain

care, and sorrow disappear from me in

moment.

I believe every word that is said o

he magic of ancient music. How he

simple song enchants me! Sometimeswhen I am ready to commit suicide, sh

sings that air; and instantly the gloo

and madness which hung over me ar

dispersed, and I breathe freely again.



JULY 18.

Wilhelm, what is the world to ou

hearts without love? What is a magicantern without light? You have but to

kindle the flame within, and the brightes

figures shine on the white wall; and, i

ove only show us fleeting shadows, ware yet happy, when, like mere children

we behold them, and are transporte

with the splendid phantoms. I have no

been able to see Charlotte to-day. I wa

prevented by company from which

could not disengage myself. What was t

be done? I sent my servant to her househat I might at least see somebody to-da

who had been near her. Oh, th

mpatience with which I waited for hi

return! the joy with which I welcome



him! I should certainly have caught hi

n my arms, and kissed him, if I had no

been ashamed.

It is said that the Bonona stone, whe

placed in the sun, attracts the rays, an

for a time appears luminous in the dark

So was it with me and this servant. Thdea that Charlotte's eyes had dwelt o

his countenance, his cheek, his ver

apparel, endeared them all inestimabl

o me, so that at the moment I would no

have parted from him for a thousan

crowns. His presence made me s

happy! Beware of laughing at meWilhelm. Can that be a delusion whic

makes us happy?

JULY 19.



"I shall see her today!" I exclaim wit

delight, when I rise in the morning, an

ook out with gladness of heart at th

bright, beautiful sun. "I shall see heoday!" And then I have no further wish

o form: all, all is included in that on

hought.

JULY 20.

I cannot assent to your proposal that

should accompany the ambassador t———. I do not love subordination; an

we all know that he is a rough

disagreeable person to be connecte

with. You say my mother wishes me to

be employed. I could not help laughin

at that. Am I not sufficiently employed

And is it not in reality the same, whethe



shell peas or count lentils? The worl

runs on from one folly to another; and th

man who, solely from regard to th

opinion of others, and without any wisor necessity of his own, toils after gold

honour, or any other phantom, is no

better than a fool.

JULY 24.

You insist so much on my no

neglecting my drawing, that it would bas well for me to say nothing as t

confess how little I have lately done.

I never felt happier, I neveunderstood nature better, even down to

he veriest stem or smallest blade o

grass; and yet I am unable to expres



myself: my powers of execution are s

weak, everything seems to swim an

float before me, so that I cannot make

clear, bold outline. But I fancy I shouldsucceed better if I had some clay or wa

o model. I shall try, if this state of mind

continues much longer, and will take to

modelling, if I only knead dough.

I have commenced Charlotte's portra

hree times, and have as often disgrace

myself. This is the more annoying, as

was formerly very happy in takin

ikenesses. I have since sketched he

profile, and must content myself withat.

JULY 25.



Yes, dear Charlotte! I will order and

arrange everything. Only give me mor

commissions, the more the better. On

hing, however, I must request: use nomore writing-sand with the dear note

ou send me. Today I raised your lette

hastily to my lips, and it set my teeth o

edge.

JULY 26.

I have often determined not to see heso frequently. But who could keep such

resolution? Every day I am exposed t

he temptation, and promise faithfull

hat to-morrow I will really stay away

but, when tomorrow comes, I find som

rresistible reason for seeing her; and

before I can account for it, I am with he



again. Either she has said on th

previous evening "You will be sure to

call to-morrow,"—and who could sta

away then?—or she gives me somcommission, and I find it essential t

ake her the answer in person; or the da

s fine, and I walk to Walheim; and

when I am there, it is only half a leagu

farther to her. I am within the charmed

atmosphere, and soon find myself at he

side. My grandmother used to tell us story of a mountain of loadstone. Whe

any vessels came near it, they wer

nstantly deprived of their ironwork: th

nails flew to the mountain, and thunhappy crew perished amidst th

disjointed planks.

JULY 30.



Albert is arrived, and I must take m

departure. Were he the best and nobles

of men, and I in every respect hi

nferior, I could not endure to see him inpossession of such a perfect being

Possession!—enough, Wilhelm: he

betrothed is here,—a fine, worth

fellow, whom one cannot help liking

Fortunately I was not present at thei

meeting. It would have broken my heart

And he is so considerate: he has nogiven Charlotte one kiss in my presence

Heaven reward him for it! I must lov

him for the respect with which he treat

her. He shows a regard for me, but fohis I suspect I am more indebted t

Charlotte than to his own fancy for me

Women have a delicate tact in such



matters, and it should be so. They canno

always succeed in keeping two rivals o

erms with each other; but, when they do

hey are the only gainers.

I cannot help esteeming Albert. Th

coolness of his temper contrasts strongl

with the impetuosity of mine, which cannot conceal. He has a great deal o

feeling, and is fully sensible of th

reasure he possesses in Charlotte. He i

free from ill-humour, which you know i

he fault I detest most.

He regards me as a man of sense; an

my attachment to Charlotte, and th

nterest I take in all that concerns her

augment his triumph and his love. I shal

not inquire whether he may not at time



ease her with some little jealousies; as

know, that, were I in his place, I should

not be entirely free from such sensations

But, be that as it may, my pleasur

with Charlotte is over. Call it folly o

nfatuation, what signifies a name? Th

hing speaks for itself. Before Albercame, I knew all that I know now.

knew I could make no pretensions to her

nor did I offer any, that is, as far as i

was possible, in the presence of so muc

oveliness, not to pant for its enjoyment

And now, behold me like a silly fellow

staring with astonishment when anothecomes in, and deprives me of my love.

I bite my lips, and feel infinite scor

for those who tell me to be resigned



because there is no help for it. Let m

escape from the yoke of such sill

subterfuges! I ramble through the woods

and when I return to Charlotte, and finAlbert sitting by her side in the summer

house in the garden, I am unable to bea

t, behave like a fool, and commit

housand extravagances. "For Heaven'

sake," said Charlotte today, "let us hav

no more scenes like those of last night

You terrify me when you are so violent.Between ourselves, I am always awa

now when he visits her: and I fee

delighted when I find her alone.

AUGUST 8.

Believe me, dear Wilhelm, I did no

allude to you when I spoke so severel



of those who advise resignation t

nevitable fate. I did not think it possibl

for you to indulge such a sentiment. Bu

n fact you are right. I only suggest onobjection. In this world one is seldo

reduced to make a selection betwee

wo alternatives. There are as man

varieties of conduct and opinion as ther

are turns of feature between an aquilin

nose and a flat one.

You will, therefore, permit me to

concede your entire argument, and ye

contrive means to escape your dilemma.

Your position is this, I hear you say

"Either you have hopes of obtainin

Charlotte, or you have none. Well, in the

first case, pursue your course, and pres



on to the fulfilment of your wishes. In th

second, be a man, and shake off

miserable passion, which will enervat

and destroy you." My dear friend, this iwell and easily said.

But would you require a wretche

being, whose life is slowly wastinunder a lingering disease, to despatc

himself at once by the stroke of

dagger? Does not the very disorde

which consumes his strength deprive hi

of the courage to effect his deliverance?

You may answer me, if you please

with a similar analogy, "Who would no

prefer the amputation of an arm to th

periling of life by doubt an

procrastination!" But I know not if I a



right, and let us leave thes

comparisons.

Enough! There are moments, Wilhelmwhen I could rise up and shake it all off

and when, if I only knew where to go,

could fly from this place.

THE SAME EVENING.

My diary, which I have for some tim

neglected, came before me today; and am amazed to see how deliberately

have entangled myself step by step. To

have seen my position so clearly, and ye

o have acted so like a child! Even still behold the result plainly, and yet have n

hought of acting with greater prudence.

AUGUST 10.



If I were not a fool, I could spend th

happiest and most delightful life here. S

many agreeable circumstances, and of

kind to ensure a worthy man's happinessare seldom united. Alas! I feel it too

sensibly,—the heart alone makes ou

happiness! To be admitted into this mos

charming family, to be loved by th

father as a son, by the children as

father, and by Charlotte! then the nobl

Albert, who never disturbs my happinesby any appearance of ill-humour

receiving me with the heartiest affection

and loving me, next to Charlotte, bette

han all the world! Wilhelm, you wouldbe delighted to hear us in our rambles

and conversations about Charlotte

othing in the world can be more absur



han our connection, and yet the though

of it often moves me to tears.

He tells me sometimes of heexcellent mother; how, upon her death

bed, she had committed her house an

children to Charlotte, and had give

Charlotte herself in charge to him; howsince that time, a new spirit had take

possession of her; how, in care and

anxiety for their welfare, she became

real mother to them; how every momen

of her time was devoted to some labou

of love in their behalf,—and yet he

mirth and cheerfulness had neveforsaken her. I walk by his side, pluc

flowers by the way, arrange them

carefully into a nosegay, then fling them

nto the first stream I pass, and watc



hem as they float gently away. I forge

whether I told you that Albert is to

remain here. He has received

government appointment, with a vergood salary; and I understand he is i

high favour at court. I have met few

persons so punctual and methodical i

business.

AUGUST 12.

Certainly Albert is the best fellow ihe world. I had a strange scene with hi

esterday. I went to take leave of him

for I took it into my head to spend a few

days in these mountains, from where

now write to you. As I was walking up

and down his room, my eye fell upon hi

pistols. "Lend me those pistols," said I



"for my journey." "By all means," h

replied, "if you will take the trouble t

oad them; for they only hang there fo

form." I took down one of them; and hcontinued, "Ever since I was nea

suffering for my extreme caution, I wil

have nothing to do with such things."

was curious to hear the story. "I wa

staying," said he, "some three month

ago, at a friend's house in the country.

had a brace of pistols with meunloaded; and I slept without an

anxiety. One rainy afternoon I was sittin

by myself, doing nothing, when i

occurred to me I do not know how thahe house might be attacked, that w

might require the pistols, that we migh

n short, you know how we go o



fancying, when we have nothing better t

do. I gave the pistols to the servant, t

clean and load. He was playing with th

maid, and trying to frighten her, when thpistol went off—God knows how!—th

ramrod was in the barrel; and it wen

straight through her right hand, an

shattered the thumb. I had to endure al

he lamentation, and to pay the surgeon'

bill; so, since that time, I have kept al

my weapons unloaded. But, my deafriend, what is the use of prudence? We

can never be on our guard against al

possible dangers. However,"—now, you

must know I can tolerate all men till thecome to "however;"—for it is self

evident that every universal rule mus

have its exceptions. But he is s



exceedingly accurate, that, if he onl

fancies he has said a word to

precipitate, or too general, or only hal

rue, he never ceases to qualify, tomodify, and extenuate, till at last h

appears to have said nothing at all. Upo

his occasion, Albert was deepl

mmersed in his subject: I ceased t

isten to him, and became lost in reverie

With a sudden motion, I pointed th

mouth of the pistol to my forehead, ovehe right eye. "What do you mean?" crie

Albert, turning back the pistol. "It is no

oaded," said I. "And even if not," h

answered with impatience, "what caou mean? I cannot comprehend how

man can be so mad as to shoot himself

and the bare idea of it shocks me."



"But why should any one," said I, "i

speaking of an action, venture t

pronounce it mad or wise, or good o

bad? What is the meaning of all thisHave you carefully studied the secre

motives of our actions? Do yo

understand—can you explain the cause

which occasion them, and make the

nevitable? If you can, you will be les

hasty with your decision."

"But you will allow," said Albert

"that some actions are criminal, let the

spring from whatever motives they may.

granted it, and shrugged my shoulders.

"But still, my good friend,"

continued, "there are some exception

here too. Theft is a crime; but the ma



who commits it from extreme poverty

with no design but to save his famil

from perishing, is he an object of pity, o

of punishment? Who shall throw the firsstone at a husband, who, in the heat o

ust resentment, sacrifices his faithles

wife and her perfidious seducer? or a

he young maiden, who, in her weak hou

of rapture, forgets herself in th

mpetuous joys of love? Even our laws

cold and cruel as they are, relent in succases, and withhold their punishment."

"That is quite another thing," sai

Albert; "because a man under thnfluence of violent passion loses al

power of reflection, and is regarded a

ntoxicated or insane."



"Oh! you people of soun

understandings," I replied, smiling, "ar

ever ready to exclaim 'Extravagance

and madness, and intoxication!' Youmoral men are so calm and so subdued

You abhor the drunken man, and detes

he extravagant; you pass by, like th

Levite, and thank God, like the Pharisee

hat you are not like one of them. I hav

been more than once intoxicated, m

passions have always bordered oextravagance: I am not ashamed t

confess it; for I have learned, by my ow

experience, that all extraordinary men

who have accomplished great anastonishing actions, have ever bee

decried by the world as drunken o

nsane. And in private life, too, is it no



ntolerable that no one can undertake th

execution of a noble or generous deed

without giving rise to the exclamatio

hat the doer is intoxicated or madShame upon you, ye sages!"

"This is another of your extravagan

humours," said Albert: "you alwayexaggerate a case, and in this matter yo

are undoubtedly wrong; for we wer

speaking of suicide, which you compar

with great actions, when it is impossibl

o regard it as anything but a weakness

t is much easier to die than to bear a lif

of misery with fortitude."

I was on the point of breaking off th

conversation, for nothing puts me s

completely out of patience as th



utterance of a wretched commonplac

when I am talking from my inmost hear

However, I composed myself, for I had

often heard the same observation witsufficient vexation; and I answered him

herefore, with a little warmth, "You cal

his a weakness—beware of being le

astray by appearances. When a nation

which has long groaned under th

ntolerable yoke of a tyrant, rises at las

and throws off its chains, do you calhat weakness? The man who, to rescu

his house from the flames, finds hi

physical strength redoubled, so that h

ifts burdens with ease, which, in thabsence of excitement, he could scarcel

move; he who, under the rage of a

nsult, attacks and puts to flight half



score of his enemies, are such persons t

be called weak? My good friend, i

resistance be strength, how can th

highest degree of resistance be weakness?"

Albert looked steadfastly at me, an

said, "Pray forgive me, but I do not sehat the examples you have adduced bea

any relation to the question." "Very

ikely," I answered; "for I have ofte

been told that my style of illustratio

borders a little on the absurd. But let u

see if we cannot place the matter i

another point of view, by inquiring whacan be a man's state of mind wh

resolves to free himself from the burde

of life,—a burden often so pleasant t

bear,—for we cannot otherwise reaso



fairly upon the subject.

"Human nature," I continued, "has it

imits. It is able to endure a certaidegree of joy, sorrow, and pain, bu

becomes annihilated as soon as thi

measure is exceeded. The question

herefore, is, not whether a man is stronor weak, but whether he is able t

endure the measure of his sufferings. Th

suffering may be moral or physical; an

n my opinion it is just as absurd to cal

a man a coward who destroys himself

as to call a man a coward who dies of

malignant fever."

"Paradox, all paradox!" exclaime

Albert. "Not so paradoxical as yo

magine," I replied. "You allow that we



designate a disease as mortal whe

nature is so severely attacked, and he

strength so far exhausted, that she canno

possibly recover her former conditiounder any change that may take place.

"Now, my good friend, apply this to

he mind; observe a man in his naturasolated condition; consider how idea

work, and how impressions fasten o

him, till at length a violent passio

seizes him, destroying all his powers o

calm reflection, and utterly ruining him.

"It is in vain that a man of sound min

and cool temper understands th

condition of such a wretched being, i

vain he counsels him. He can no mor

communicate his own wisdom to hi



han a healthy man can instil his strengt

nto the invalid, by whose bedside he i

seated."

Albert thought this too general.

reminded him of a girl who had drowne

herself a short time previously, and

related her history.

She was a good creature, who ha

grown up in the narrow sphere o

household industry and weeklappointed labour; one who knew n

pleasure beyond indulging in a walk o

Sundays, arrayed in her best attire

accompanied by her friends, or perhap

oining in the dance now and then a

some festival, and chatting away he

spare hours with a neighbour, discussin



he scandal or the quarrels of the village

rifles sufficient to occupy her heart. A

ength the warmth of her nature i

nfluenced by certain new and unknowwishes. Inflamed by the flatteries o

men, her former pleasures become b

degrees insipid, till at length she meet

with a youth to whom she is attracted b

an indescribable feeling; upon him sh

now rests all her hopes; she forgets th

world around her; she sees, hearsdesires nothing but him, and him only

He alone occupies all her thoughts

Uncorrupted by the idle indulgence of a

enervating vanity, her affection movinsteadily toward its object, she hopes t

become his, and to realise, in a

everlasting union with him, all tha



happiness which she sought, all tha

bliss for which she longed. His repeate

promises confirm her hopes: embrace

and endearments, which increase thardour of her desires, overmaster he

soul. She floats in a dim, delusiv

anticipation of her happiness; and he

feelings become excited to their utmos

ension. She stretches out her arm

finally to embrace the object of all he

wishes and her lover forsakes herStunned and bewildered, she stand

upon a precipice. All is darkness around

her. No prospect, no hope, no

consolation—forsaken by him in whoher existence was centred! She see

nothing of the wide world before her

hinks nothing of the many individual



who might supply the void in her heart

she feels herself deserted, forsaken b

he world; and, blinded and impelled b

he agony which wrings her soul, shplunges into the deep, to end he

sufferings in the broad embrace of death

See here, Albert, the history o

housands; and tell me, is not this a cas

of physical infirmity? Nature has no wa

o escape from the labyrinth: her power

are exhausted: she can contend nonger, and the poor soul must die.

"Shame upon him who can look o

calmly, and exclaim, 'The foolish girlshe should have waited; she should hav

allowed time to wear off the impression

her despair would have been softened

and she would have found another love



o comfort her.' One might as well say

The fool, to die of a fever! why did h

not wait till his strength was restored

ill his blood became calm? all woulhen have gone well, and he would hav

been alive now.'"

Albert, who could not see the justicof the comparison, offered some furthe

objections, and, amongst others, urge

hat I had taken the case of a mer

gnorant girl. But how any man of sense

of more enlarged views and experience

could be excused, he was unable t

comprehend. "My friend!" I exclaimed"man is but man; and, whatever be th

extent of his reasoning powers, they ar

of little avail when passion rages within

and he feels himself confined by th



narrow limits of nature. It were better

hen—but we will talk of this some othe

ime," I said, and caught up my hat. Alas

my heart was full; and we parted withouconviction on either side. How rarely i

his world do men understand eac

other!

AUGUST 15.

There can be no doubt that in thi

world nothing is so indispensable aove. I observe that Charlotte could no

ose me without a pang, and the ver

children have but one wish; that is, that

should visit them again to-morrow.

went this afternoon to tune Charlotte'

piano. But I could not do it, for the littl

ones insisted on my telling them a story



and Charlotte herself urged me to satisf

hem. I waited upon them at tea, and the

are now as fully contented with me a

with Charlotte; and I told them my verbest tale of the princess who was waite

upon by dwarfs. I improve myself by thi

exercise, and am quite surprised at th

mpression my stories create. If

sometimes invent an incident which

forget upon the next narration, the

remind one directly that the story wadifferent before; so that I now endeavou

o relate with exactness the sam

anecdote in the same monotonous tone

which never changes. I find by this, howmuch an author injures his works b

altering them, even though they b

mproved in a poetical point of view



The first impression is readily received

We are so constituted that we believe

he most incredible things; and, onc

hey are engraved upon the memory, woo him who would endeavour to effac

hem.

AUGUST 18.

Must it ever be thus,—that the sourc

of our happiness must also be th

fountain of our misery? The full anardent sentiment which animated m

heart with the love of nature

overwhelming me with a torrent o

delight, and which brought all paradis

before me, has now become a

nsupportable torment, a demon whic

perpetually pursues and harasses me



When in bygone days I gazed from thes

rocks upon yonder mountains across th

river, and upon the green, flowery valle

before me, and saw all nature buddinand bursting around; the hills clothe

from foot to peak with tall, thick fores

rees; the valleys in all their varie

windings, shaded with the lovelies

woods; and the soft river gliding alon

amongst the lisping reeds, mirroring th

beautiful clouds which the soft eveninbreeze wafted across the sky,—when

heard the groves about me melodiou

with the music of birds, and saw th

million swarms of insects dancing in thast golden beams of the sun, whos

setting rays awoke the humming beetle

from their grassy beds, whilst th



subdued tumult around directed m

attention to the ground, and I ther

observed the arid rock compelled t

ield nutriment to the dry moss, whilshe heath flourished upon the barre

sands below me, all this displayed to m

he inner warmth which animates al

nature, and filled and glowed within m

heart. I felt myself exalted by thi

overflowing fulness to the perception o

he Godhead, and the glorious forms oan infinite universe became visible t

my soul! Stupendous mountain

encompassed me, abysses yawned at m

feet, and cataracts fell headlong dowbefore me; impetuous rivers rolle

hrough the plain, and rocks an

mountains resounded from afar. In th



depths of the earth I saw innumerabl

powers in motion, and multiplying t

nfinity; whilst upon its surface, an

beneath the heavens, there teemed tehousand varieties of living creatures

Everything around is alive with a

nfinite number of forms; while mankin

fly for security to their petty houses

from the shelter of which they rule i

heir imaginations over the wide

extended universe. Poor fool! in whospetty estimation all things are little

From the inaccessible mountains, acros

he desert which no mortal foot has trod

far as the confines of the unknown oceanbreathes the spirit of the eternal Creator

and every atom to which he has give

existence finds favour in his sight. Ah



how often at that time has the flight of

bird, soaring above my head, inspire

me with the desire of being transporte

o the shores of the immeasurablwaters, there to quaff the pleasures o

ife from the foaming goblet of th

nfinite, and to partake, if but for

moment even, with the confined power

of my soul, the beatitude of that Creato

who accomplishes all things in himself

and through himself!

My dear friend, the bare recollectio

of those hours still consoles me. Eve

his effort to recall those ineffablsensations, and give them utterance

exalts my soul above itself, and make

me doubly feel the intensity of m

present anguish.



It is as if a curtain had been draw

from before my eyes, and, instead o

prospects of eternal life, the abyss of a

ever open grave yawned before me. Cawe say of anything that it exists when al

passes away, when time, with the speed

of a storm, carries all things onward,—

and our transitory existence, hurrie

along by the torrent, is either swallowe

up by the waves or dashed against th

rocks? There is not a moment but preyupon you,—and upon all around you, no

a moment in which you do not yoursel

become a destroyer. The most innocen

walk deprives of life thousands of poonsects: one step destroys the fabric o

he industrious ant, and converts a littl

world into chaos. No: it is not the grea



and rare calamities of the world, th

floods which sweep away whol

villages, the earthquakes which swallow

up our towns, that affect me. My heart iwasted by the thought of that destructiv

power which lies concealed in ever

part of universal nature. Nature ha

formed nothing that does not consum

tself, and every object near it: so that

surrounded by earth and air, and all th

active powers, I wander on my way witaching heart; and the universe is to me

fearful monster, for ever devouring it

own offspring.

AUGUST 21.

In vain do I stretch out my arm

oward her when I awaken in th



morning from my weary slumbers. I

vain do I seek for her at night in my bed

when some innocent dream has happil

deceived me, and placed her near me ihe fields, when I have seized her han

and covered it with countless kisses

And when I feel for her in the hal

confusion of sleep, with the happy sens

hat she is near, tears flow from my

oppressed heart; and, bereft of al

comfort, I weep over my future woes.

AUGUST 22.

What a misfortune, Wilhelm! M

active spirits have degenerated int

contented indolence. I cannot be idle

and yet I am unable to set to work.

cannot think: I have no longer any feelin



for the beauties of nature, and books ar

distasteful to me. Once we giv

ourselves up, we are totally lost. Many

ime and oft I wish I were a commoabourer; that, awakening in the morning

might have but one prospect, on

pursuit, one hope, for the day which ha

dawned. I often envy Albert when I se

him buried in a heap of papers an

parchments, and I fancy I should b

happy were I in his place. Oftempressed with this feeling I have bee

on the point of writing to you and to th

minister, for the appointment at th

embassy, which you think I might obtain believe I might procure it. The ministe

has long shown a regard for me, and ha

frequently urged me to seek employmen



t is the business of an hour only. Now

and then the fable of the horse recurs t

me. Weary of liberty, he suffered himsel

o be saddled and bridled, and waridden to death for his pains. I know no

what to determine upon. For is not thi

anxiety for change the consequence o

hat restless spirit which would pursu

me equally in every situation of life?

AUGUST 28.

If my ills would admit of any cure

hey would certainly be cured here. Thi

s my birthday, and early in the morning

received a packet from Albert. Upo

opening it, I found one of the pin

ribbons which Charlotte wore in he

dress the first time I saw her, and whic



had several times asked her to give me

With it were two volumes in duodecimo

of Wetstein's "Homer," a book I had

often wished for, to save me thnconvenience of carrying the larg

Ernestine edition with me upon m

walks. You see how they anticipate my

wishes, how well they understand al

hose little attentions of friendship, s

superior to the costly presents of th

great, which are humiliating. I kissed thribbon a thousand times, and in ever

breath inhaled the remembrance of thos

happy and irrevocable days which fille

me with the keenest joy. Such, Wilhelms our fate. I do not murmur at it: th

flowers of life are but visionary. How

many pass away, and leave no trac



behind—how few yield any fruit—an

he fruit itself, how rarely does it ripen

And yet there are flowers enough! and i

t not strange, my friend, that we shoulsuffer the little that does really ripen, t

rot, decay, and perish unenjoyed

Farewell! This is a glorious summer.

often climb into the trees in Charlotte'

orchard, and shake down the pears tha

hang on the highest branches. She stand

below, and catches them as they fall.

AUGUST 30.

Unhappy being that I am! Why do

hus deceive myself? What is to come o

all this wild, aimless, endless passion?

cannot pray except to her. M

magination sees nothing but her: al



surrounding objects are of no account

except as they relate to her. In thi

dreamy state I enjoy many happy hours

ill at length I feel compelled to teamyself away from her. Ah, Wilhelm, to

what does not my heart often compel me

When I have spent several hours in he

company, till I feel completely absorbed

by her figure, her grace, the divin

expression of her thoughts, my min

becomes gradually excited to the highesexcess, my sight grows dim, my hearin

confused, my breathing oppressed as i

by the hand of a murderer, and m

beating heart seeks to obtain relief fomy aching senses. I am sometime

unconscious whether I really exist. If i

such moments I find no sympathy, and



Charlotte does not allow me to enjoy th

melancholy consolation of bathing he

hand with my tears, I feel compelled t

ear myself from her, when I eithewander through the country, climb som

precipitous cliff, or force a path throug

he trackless thicket, where I a

acerated and torn by thorns and briers

and thence I find relief. Sometimes I li

stretched on the ground, overcome wit

fatigue and dying with thirst; sometimesate in the night, when the moon shine

above me, I recline against an aged tre

n some sequestered forest, to rest m

weary limbs, when, exhausted and worn sleep till break of day. O Wilhelm! the

hermit's cell, his sackcloth, and girdle o

horns would be luxury and indulgenc



compared with what I suffer. Adieu!

see no end to this wretchedness excep

he grave.

SEPTEMBER 3.

I must away. Thank you, Wilhelm, fo

determining my wavering purpose. For whole fortnight I have thought of leavin

her. I must away. She has returned to

own, and is at the house of a friend. An

hen, Albert—yes, I must go.

SEPTEMBER 10.

Oh, what a night, Wilhelm! I cahenceforth bear anything. I shall neve

see her again. Oh, why cannot I fall o

our neck, and, with floods of tears an

raptures, give utterance to all th



passions which distract my heart! Here

sit gasping for breath, and struggling t

compose myself. I wait for day, and a

sunrise the horses are to be at the door.

And she is sleeping calmly, littl

suspecting that she has seen me for th

ast time. I am free. I have had thcourage, in an interview of two hours

duration, not to betray my intention. And

O Wilhelm, what a conversation it was!

Albert had promised to come t

Charlotte in the garden immediately afte

supper. I was upon the terrace under th

all chestnut trees, and watched th

setting sun. I saw him sink for the las

ime beneath this delightful valley an

silent stream. I had often visited th



same spot with Charlotte, and witnesse

hat glorious sight; and now—I wa

walking up and down the very avenu

which was so dear to me. A secresympathy had frequently drawn m

hither before I knew Charlotte; and w

were delighted when, in our earl

acquaintance, we discovered that w

each loved the same spot, which i

ndeed as romantic as any that eve

captivated the fancy of an artist.

From beneath the chestnut trees, ther

s an extensive view. But I remembe

hat I have mentioned all this in a formeetter, and have described the tall mas

of beech trees at the end, and how th

avenue grows darker and darker as

winds its way among them, till it ends i



a gloomy recess, which has all the char

of a mysterious solitude. I stil

remember the strange feeling o

melancholy which came over me the firsime I entered that dark retreat, at brigh

midday. I felt some secret forebodin

hat it would, one day, be to me th

scene of some happiness or misery.

I had spent half an hour strugglin

between the contending thoughts of goin

and returning, when I heard them comin

up the terrace. I ran to meet them.

rembled as I took her hand, and kisse

t. As we reached the top of the terracehe moon rose from behind the woode

hill. We conversed on many subjects

and, without perceiving it, approache

he gloomy recess. Charlotte entered



and sat down. Albert seated himsel

beside her. I did the same, but m

agitation did not suffer me to remai

ong seated. I got up, and stood beforher, then walked backward and forward

and sat down again. I was restless an

miserable. Charlotte drew our attentio

o the beautiful effect of the moonligh

which threw a silver hue over th

errace in front of us, beyond the beec

rees. It was a glorious sight, and warendered more striking by the darknes

which surrounded the spot where w

were. We remained for some time silent

when Charlotte observed, "Whenever walk by moonlight, it brings to m

remembrance all my beloved an

departed friends, and I am filled wit



houghts of death and futurity. We shal

ive again, Werther!" she continued, wit

a firm but feeling voice; "but shall w

know one another again what do yohink? what do you say?"

"Charlotte," I said, as I took her han

n mine, and my eyes filled with tears"we shall see each other again—her

and hereafter we shall meet again."

could say no more. Why, Wilhelm

should she put this question to me, just a

he moment when the fear of our crue

separation filled my heart?

"And oh! do those departed one

know how we are employed here? d

hey know when we are well and happy

do they know when we recall thei



memories with the fondest love? In th

silent hour of evening the shade of m

mother hovers around me; when seate

n the midst of my children, I see theassembled near me, as they used t

assemble near her; and then I raise m

anxious eyes to heaven, and wish sh

could look down upon us, and witnes

how I fulfil the promise I made to her i

her last moments, to be a mother to he

children. With what emotion do I theexclaim, 'Pardon, dearest of mothers

pardon me, if I do not adequately suppl

our place! Alas! I do my utmost. The

are clothed and fed; and, still better, theare loved and educated. Could you bu

see, sweet saint! the peace and harmon

hat dwells amongst us, you woul



glorify God with the warmest feelings o

gratitude, to whom, in your last hour, yo

addressed such fervent prayers for ou

happiness.'" Thus did she expresherself; but O Wilhelm! who can do

ustice to her language? how can col

and passionless words convey th

heavenly expressions of the spirit

Albert interrupted her gently. "Thi

affects you too deeply, my dea

Charlotte. I know your soul dwells osuch recollections with intense delight

but I implore—" "O Albert!" sh

continued, "I am sure you do not forge

he evenings when we three used to sit ahe little round table, when papa wa

absent, and the little ones had retired

You often had a good book with you, bu



seldom read it; the conversation of tha

noble being was preferable t

everything,—that beautiful, brigh

gentle, and yet ever-toiling woman. Goalone knows how I have supplicate

with tears on my nightly couch, that

might be like her."

I threw myself at her feet, and, seizin

her hand, bedewed it with a thousan

ears. "Charlotte!" I exclaimed, "God'

blessing and your mother's spirit ar

upon you." "Oh! that you had know

her," she said, with a warm pressure o

he hand. "She was worthy of beinknown to you." I thought I should hav

fainted: never had I received praise s

flattering. She continued, "And yet sh

was doomed to die in the flower of he



outh, when her youngest child wa

scarcely six months old. Her illness wa

but short, but she was calm and resigned

and it was only for her childrenespecially the youngest, that she fe

unhappy. When her end drew nigh, sh

bade me bring them to her. I obeyed. Th

ounger ones knew nothing of thei

approaching loss, while the elder one

were quite overcome with grief. The

stood around the bed; and she raised hefeeble hands to heaven, and prayed ove

hem; then, kissing them in turn, sh

dismissed them, and said to me, 'Be yo

a mother to them.' I gave her my handYou are promising much, my child,' she

said: 'a mother's fondness and a mother'

care! I have often witnessed, by you



ears of gratitude, that you know what i

a mother's tenderness: show it to you

brothers and sisters, and be dutiful an

faithful to your father as a wife; you wilbe his comfort.' She inquired for him. H

had retired to conceal his intolerabl

anguish,—he was heartbroken, 'Albert

ou were in the room.' She heard som

one moving: she inquired who it was

and desired you to approach. Sh

surveyed us both with a look ocomposure and satisfaction, expressiv

of her conviction that we should b

happy,—happy with one another.

Albert fell upon her neck, and kisseher, and exclaimed, "We are so, and we

shall be so!" Even Albert, generally so

ranquil, had quite lost his composure



and I was excited beyond expression.

"And such a being," She continued

"was to leave us, Werther! Great Godmust we thus part with everything w

hold dear in this world? Nobody felt thi

more acutely than the children: the

cried and lamented for a long timafterward, complaining that men ha

carried away their dear mamma."

Charlotte rose. It aroused me; but continued sitting, and held her hand. "Le

us go," she said: "it grows late." Sh

attempted to withdraw her hand: I held

still. "We shall see each other again,"

exclaimed: "we shall recognise eac

other under every possible change! I a

going," I continued, "going willingly



but, should I say for ever, perhaps I ma

not keep my word. Adieu, Charlotte

adieu, Albert. We shall meet again.

"Yes: tomorrow, I think," she answeredwith a smile. Tomorrow! how I felt th

word! Ah! she little thought, when sh

drew her hand away from mine. The

walked down the avenue. I stood gazin

after them in the moonlight. I threw

myself upon the ground, and wept: I the

sprang up, and ran out upon the terraceand saw, under the shade of the linden

rees, her white dress disappearing nea

he garden-gate. I stretched out my arms

and she vanished.



BOOK II.

OCTOBER 20.

We arrived here yesterday. The

ambassador is indisposed, and will nogo out for some days. If he were les

peevish and morose, all would be well

see but too plainly that Heaven ha

destined me to severe trials; bucourage! a light heart may bear anything

A light heart! I smile to find such a word

proceeding from my pen. A little more

ightheartedness would render me th

happiest being under the sun. But must

despair of my talents and faculties

whilst others of far inferior abilitie



parade before me with the utmost self

satisfaction? Gracious Providence, t

whom I owe all my powers, why dids

hou not withhold some of thosblessings I possess, and substitute i

heir place a feeling of self-confidenc

and contentment?

But patience! all will yet be well; fo

assure you, my dear friend, you wer

right: since I have been obliged t

associate continually with other people

and observe what they do, and how the

employ themselves, I have become fa

better satisfied with myself. For we arso constituted by nature, that we are eve

prone to compare ourselves with others

and our happiness or misery depend

very much on the objects and person



around us. On this account, nothing i

more dangerous than solitude: there ou

magination, always disposed to rise

aking a new flight on the wings of fancypictures to us a chain of beings of who

we seem the most inferior. All thing

appear greater than they really are, an

all seem superior to us. This operatio

of the mind is quite natural: we s

continually feel our own imperfections

and fancy we perceive in others thqualities we do not possess, attributin

o them also all that we enjoy ourselves

hat by this process we form the idea o

a perfect, happy man,—a man, howeverwho only exists in our own imagination.

But when, in spite of weakness an

disappointments, we set to work i



earnest, and persevere steadily, we ofte

find, that, though obliged continually t

ack, we make more way than other

who have the assistance of wind anide; and, in truth, there can be no greate

satisfaction than to keep pace wit

others or outstrip them in the race.

November 26.

I begin to find my situation here mor

olerable, considering all circumstancesfind a great advantage in being muc

occupied; and the number of persons

meet, and their different pursuits, creat

a varied entertainment for me. I hav

formed the acquaintance of the Count C

—and I esteem him more and mor

every day. He is a man of stron



understanding and great discernmen

but, though he sees farther than othe

people, he is not on that account cold i

his manner, but capable of inspiring andreturning the warmest affection. H

appeared interested in me on on

occasion, when I had to transact som

business with him. He perceived, at th

first word, that we understood eac

other, and that he could converse wit

me in a different tone from what he usewith others. I cannot sufficiently estee

his frank and open kindness to me. It i

he greatest and most genuine o

pleasures to observe a great mind isympathy with our own.

DECEMBER 24.



As I anticipated, the ambassado

occasions me infinite annoyance. He i

he most punctilious blockhead unde

heaven. He does everything step by stepwith the trifling minuteness of an ol

woman; and he is a man whom it i

mpossible to please, because he i

never pleased with himself. I like to d

business regularly and cheerfully, and

when it is finished, to leave it. But h

constantly returns my papers to mesaying, "They will do," bu

recommending me to look over the

again, as "one may always improve b

using a better word or a morappropriate particle." I then lose al

patience, and wish myself at the devil's

ot a conjunction, not an adverb, mus



be omitted: he has a deadly antipathy t

all those transpositions of which I am s

fond; and, if the music of our periods i

not tuned to the established, official keyhe cannot comprehend our meaning. It i

deplorable to be connected with such

fellow.

My acquaintance with the Count C—

s the only compensation for such a

evil. He told me frankly, the other day

hat he was much displeased with th

difficulties and delays of th

ambassador; that people like him ar

obstacles, both to themselves and tothers. "But," added he, "one mus

submit, like a traveller who has t

ascend a mountain: if the mountain wa

not there, the road would be both shorte



and pleasanter; but there it is, and h

must get over it."

The old man perceives the count'partiality for me: this annoys him, and

he seizes every opportunity to depreciat

he count in my hearing. I naturall

defend him, and that only makes matterworse. Yesterday he made me indignant

for he also alluded to me. "The count,

he said, "is a man of the world, and

good man of business: his style is good

and he writes with facility; but, lik

other geniuses, he has no solid learning.

He looked at me with an expression thaseemed to ask if I felt the blow. But i

did not produce the desired effect:

despise a man who can think and act i

such a manner. However, I made a stand



and answered with not a little warmth

The count, I said, was a man entitled t

respect, alike for his character and hi

acquirements. I had never met a persowhose mind was stored with more usefu

and extensive knowledge,—who had, i

fact, mastered such an infinite variety o

subjects, and who yet retained all hi

activity for the details of ordinar

business. This was altogether beyond hi

comprehension; and I took my leave, lesmy anger should be too highly excited b

some new absurdity of his.

And you are to blame for all this, yowho persuaded me to bend my neck t

his yoke by preaching a life of activit

o me. If the man who plants vegetables

and carries his corn to town on market



days, is not more usefully employed tha

am, then let me work ten years longe

at the galleys to which I am now

chained.

Oh, the brilliant wretchedness, th

weariness, that one is doomed to witnes

among the silly people whom we meet isociety here! The ambition of rank! How

hey watch, how they toil, to gai

precedence! What poor an

contemptible passions are displayed i

heir utter nakedness! We have a woman

here, for example, who never ceases t

entertain the company with accounts oher family and her estates. Any strange

would consider her a silly being, whos

head was turned by her pretensions t

rank and property; but she is in realit



even more ridiculous, the daughter of

mere magistrate's clerk from thi

neighbourhood. I cannot understand how

human beings can so debase themselves

Every day I observe more and mor

he folly of judging of others b

ourselves; and I have so much troublwith myself, and my own heart is in suc

constant agitation, that I am well conten

o let others pursue their own course, i

hey only allow me the same privilege.

What provokes me most is th

unhappy extent to which distinctions o

rank are carried. I know perfectly wel

how necessary are inequalities o

condition, and I am sensible of th

advantages I myself derive therefrom



but I would not have these institution

prove a barrier to the small chance o

happiness which I may enjoy on thi

earth.

I have lately become acquainted wit

a Miss B—, a very agreeable girl, wh

has retained her natural manners in thmidst of artificial life. Our firs

conversation pleased us both equally

and, at taking leave, I requeste

permission to visit her. She consented in

so obliging a manner, that I waited wit

mpatience for the arrival of the happ

moment. She is not a native of this placebut resides here with her aunt. Th

countenance of the old lady is no

prepossessing. I paid her much attention

addressing the greater part of m



conversation to her; and, in less than hal

an hour, I discovered what her niec

subsequently acknowledged to me, tha

her aged aunt, having but a small fortuneand a still smaller share o

understanding, enjoys no satisfactio

except in the pedigree of her ancestors

no protection save in her noble birth

and no enjoyment but in looking from he

castle over the heads of the humbl

citizens. She was, no doubt, handsome iher youth, and in her early year

probably trifled away her time i

rendering many a poor youth the sport o

her caprice: in her riper years she hasubmitted to the yoke of a vetera

officer, who, in return for her person and

her small independence, has spent wit



her what we may designate her age o

brass. He is dead; and she is now

widow, and deserted. She spends he

ron age alone, and would not bapproached, except for the loveliness o

her niece.

JANUARY 8, 1772.

What beings are men, whose whol

houghts are occupied with form an

ceremony, who for years together devotheir mental and physical exertions to th

ask of advancing themselves but on

step, and endeavouring to occupy

higher place at the table. Not that suc

persons would otherwise wan

employment: on the contrary, they giv

hemselves much trouble by neglectin



mportant business for such petty trifles

Last week a question of precedenc

arose at a sledging-party, and all ou

amusement was spoiled.

The silly creatures cannot see that it i

not place which constitutes rea

greatness, since the man who occupiehe first place but seldom plays th

principal part. How many kings ar

governed by their ministers—how man

ministers by their secretaries? Who, i

such cases, is really the chief? He, as i

seems to me, who can see through th

others, and possesses strength or skilenough to make their power or passion

subservient to the execution of his ow

designs.



JANUARY 20.

I must write to you from this place, m

dear Charlotte, from a small room in country inn, where I have taken shelte

from a severe storm. During my whol

residence in that wretched place D—

where I lived amongst strangers,—strangers, indeed, to this heart,—I neve

at any time felt the smallest inclination t

correspond with you; but in this cottage

n this retirement, in this solitude, wit

he snow and hail beating against m

attice-pane, you are my first thought

The instant I entered, your figure rose upbefore me, and the remembrance! O m

Charlotte, the sacred, tende

remembrance! Gracious Heaven! restor

o me the happy moment of our firs



acquaintance.

Could you but see me, my dea

Charlotte, in the whirl of dissipation,—how my senses are dried up, but m

heart is at no time full. I enjoy no singl

moment of happiness: all is vain—

nothing touches me. I stand, as it werebefore the raree-show: I see the littl

puppets move, and I ask whether it is no

an optical illusion. I am amused wit

hese puppets, or, rather, I am myself on

of them: but, when I sometimes grasp m

neighbour's hand, I feel that it is no

natural; and I withdraw mine with shudder. In the evening I say I will enjo

he next morning's sunrise, and yet

remain in bed: in the day I promise t

ramble by moonlight; and I



nevertheless, remain at home. I know no

why I rise, nor why I go to sleep.

The leaven which animated mexistence is gone: the charm whic

cheered me in the gloom of night, an

aroused me from my morning slumbers

s for ever fled.

I have found but one being here t

nterest me, a Miss B—. She resemble

ou, my dear Charlotte, if any one capossibly resemble you. "Ah!" you wil

say, "he has learned how to pay fin

compliments." And this is partly true.

have been very agreeable lately, as i

was not in my power to be otherwise.

have, moreover, a deal of wit: and th

adies say that no one understand



flattery better, or falsehoods you wil

add; since the one accomplishmen

nvariably accompanies the other. But

must tell you of Miss B—. She haabundance of soul, which flashes fro

her deep blue eyes. Her rank is a tormen

o her, and satisfies no one desire of he

heart. She would gladly retire from thi

whirl of fashion, and we often picture t

ourselves a life of undisturbed happines

n distant scenes of rural retirement: anhen we speak of you, my dear Charlotte

for she knows you, and renders homag

o your merits; but her homage is no

exacted, but voluntary, she loves youand delights to hear you made the subjec

of conversation.

Oh, that I were sitting at your feet i



our favourite little room, with the dea

children playing around us! If the

became troublesome to you, I would tel

hem some appalling goblin story; anhey would crowd round me with silen

attention. The sun is setting in glory; hi

ast rays are shining on the snow, whic

covers the face of the country: the stor

s over, and I must return to my dungeon

Adieu!—Is Albert with you? and what i

he to you? God forgive the question.

FEBRUARY 8.

For a week past we have had the mos

wretched weather: but this to me is

blessing; for, during my residence here

not a single fine day has beamed fro

he heavens, but has been lost to me b



he intrusion of somebody. During th

severity of rain, sleet, frost, and storm,

congratulate myself that it cannot b

worse indoors than abroad, nor worsabroad than it is within doors; and so

become reconciled. When the sun rise

bright in the morning, and promises

glorious day, I never omit to exclaim

"There, now, they have another blessin

from Heaven, which they will be sure t

destroy: they spoil everything,—healthfame, happiness, amusement; and they d

his generally through folly, ignorance

or imbecility, and always, according to

heir own account, with the besntentions!" I could often beseech them

on my bended knees, to be less resolve

upon their own destruction.



FEBRUARY 17.

I fear that my ambassador and I shal

not continue much longer together. He ireally growing past endurance. H

ransacts his business in so ridiculous

manner, that I am often compelled to

contradict him, and do things my owway; and then, of course, he thinks the

very ill done. He complained of m

ately on this account at court; and th

minister gave me a reprimand,—a gentl

one it is true, but still a reprimand. I

consequence of this, I was about t

ender my resignation, when I received etter, to which I submitted with grea

respect, on account of the high, noble

and generous spirit which dictated it. H

endeavoured to soothe my excessiv



sensibility, paid a tribute to my extrem

deas of duty, of good example, and o

perseverance in business, as the fruit o

my youthful ardour, an impulse which hdid not seek to destroy, but only to

moderate, that it might have proper pla

and be productive of good. So now I a

at rest for another week, and no longer a

variance with myself. Content and peac

of mind are valuable things: I coul

wish, my dear friend, that these preciouewels were less transitory.

FEBRUARY 20.

God bless you, my dear friends, an

may he grant you that happiness whic

he denies to me!



I thank you, Albert, for havin

deceived me. I waited for the news tha

our wedding-day was fixed; and

ntended on that day, with solemnity, toake down Charlotte's profile from th

wall, and to bury it with some othe

papers I possess. You are now united

and her picture still remains here. Well

et it remain! Why should it not? I know

hat I am still one of your society, that

still occupy a place uninjured iCharlotte's heart, that I hold the secon

place therein; and I intend to keep it. Oh

should become mad if she could forget

Albert, that thought is hell! FarewelAlbert farewell, angel of heave

farewell, Charlotte!

MARCH 15.



I have just had a sad adventure, whic

will drive me away from here. I lose al

patience!—Death!—It is not to b

remedied; and you alone are to blamefor you urged and impelled me to fill

post for which I was by no means suited

have now reason to be satisfied, and s

have you! But, that you may not agai

attribute this fatality to my impetuou

emper, I send you, my dear sir, a plain

and simple narration of the affair, as mere chronicler of facts would describ

t.

The Count of O—likes andistinguishes me. It is well known, and

have mentioned this to you a hundre

imes. Yesterday I dined with him. It i

he day on which the nobility ar



accustomed to assemble at his house i

he evening. I never once thought of th

assembly, nor that we subalterns did no

belong to such society. Well, I dinedwith the count; and, after dinner, w

adjourned to the large hall. We walked

up and down together: and I converse

with him, and with Colonel B—, wh

oined us; and in this manner the hour fo

he assembly approached. God knows,

was thinking of nothing, when whshould enter but the honourable Lad

accompanied by her noble husband an

heir silly, scheming daughter, with he

small waist and flat neck; and, witdisdainful looks and a haughty air the

passed me by. As I heartily detest th

whole race, I determined upon goin



away; and only waited till the count ha

disengaged himself from thei

mpertinent prattle, to take leave, whe

he agreeable Miss B—came in. As never meet her without experiencing

heartfelt pleasure, I stayed and talked t

her, leaning over the back of her chair

and did not perceive, till after som

ime, that she seemed a little confused

and ceased to answer me with her usua

ease of manner. I was struck with it"Heavens!" I said to myself, "can she

oo, be like the rest?" I felt annoyed, an

was about to withdraw; but I remained

notwithstanding, forming excuses for heconduct, fancying she did not mean it

and still hoping to receive some friendl

recognition. The rest of the compan



now arrived. There was the Baron F—

n an entire suit that dated from th

coronation of Francis I.; the Chancello

—, with his deaf wife; the shabbilydressed I—, whose old-fashioned coa

bore evidence of modern repairs: thi

crowned the whole. I conversed wit

some of my acquaintances, but the

answered me laconically. I was engaged

n observing Miss B—, and did no

notice that the women were whisperinat the end of the room, that the murmu

extended by degrees to the men, tha

Madame S—addressed the count wit

much warmth (this was all related to msubsequently by Miss B—); till at lengt

he count came up to me, and took me t

he window. "You know our ridiculou



customs," he said. "I perceive th

company is rather displeased at you

being here. I would not on any accoun

—" "I beg your excellency's pardon!" exclaimed. "I ought to have thought o

his before, but I know you will forgiv

his little inattention. I was going,"

added, "some time ago, but my evi

genius detained me." And I smiled and

bowed, to take my leave. He shook m

by the hand, in a manner whicexpressed everything. I hastened at onc

from the illustrious assembly, spran

nto a carriage, and drove to M—.

contemplated the setting sun from the toof the hill, and read that beautifu

passage in Homer, where Ulysses i

entertained by the hospitable herdsmen



This was indeed delightful.

I returned home to supper in th

evening. But few persons werassembled in the room. They had turne

up a corner of the table-cloth, and wer

playing at dice. The good-natured A—

came in. He laid down his hat when hsaw me, approached me, and said in

ow tone, "You have met with a

disagreeable adventure." "I!"

exclaimed. "The count obliged you t

withdraw from the assembly!" "Deuc

ake the assembly!" said I. "I was ver

glad to be gone." "I am delighted," hadded, "that you take it so lightly. I am

only sorry that it is already so muc

spoken of." The circumstance then bega

o pain me. I fancied that every one wh



sat down, and even looked at me, wa

hinking of this incident; and my hear

became embittered.

And now I could plunge a dagger int

my bosom, when I hear mysel

everywhere pitied, and observe th

riumph of my enemies, who say that this always the case with vain persons

whose heads are turned with conceit

who affect to despise forms and suc

petty, idle nonsense.

Say what you will of fortitude, bu

show me the man who can patientl

endure the laughter of fools, when the

have obtained an advantage over him

Tis only when their nonsense is withou

foundation that one can suffer it withou



complaint.

March 16.

Everything conspires against me. I me

Miss B—walking to-day. I could no

help joining her; and, when we were at

ittle distance from her companions, expressed my sense of her altere

manner toward me. "O Werther!" she

said, in a tone of emotion, "you, wh

know my heart, how could you so ilnterpret my distress? What did I no

suffer for you, from the moment yo

entered the room! I foresaw it all,

hundred times was I on the point o

mentioning it to you. I knew that the

——s and T——s, with their husbands

would quit the room, rather than remai



n your company. I knew that the coun

would not break with them: and now s

much is said about it." "How!"

exclaimed, and endeavoured to conceamy emotion; for all that Adelin had

mentioned to me yesterday recurred t

me painfully at that moment. "Oh, how

much it has already cost me!" said thi

amiable girl, while her eyes filled wit

ears. I could scarcely contain myself

and was ready to throw myself at hefeet. "Explain yourself!" I cried. Tear

flowed down her cheeks. I became quit

frantic. She wiped them away, withou

attempting to conceal them. "You knowmy aunt," she continued; "she wa

present: and in what light does sh

consider the affair! Last night, and thi



morning, Werther, I was compelled to

isten to a lecture upon my acquaintanc

with you. I have been obliged to hea

ou condemned and depreciated; and could not—I dared not—say much i

our defence."

Every word she uttered was a daggeo my heart. She did not feel what

mercy it would have been to concea

everything from me. She told me, i

addition, all the impertinence that woul

be further circulated, and how th

malicious would triumph; how the

would rejoice over the punishment of mpride, over my humiliation for that wan

of esteem for others with which I ha

often been reproached. To hear all this

Wilhelm, uttered by her in a voice of th



most sincere sympathy, awakened all m

passions; and I am still in a state o

extreme excitement. I wish I could find

man to jeer me about this event. I woulsacrifice him to my resentment. The sigh

of his blood might possibly be a relief t

my fury. A hundred times have I seized a

dagger, to give ease to this oppressed

heart. Naturalists tell of a noble race o

horses that instinctively open a vein wit

heir teeth, when heated and exhausteby a long course, in order to breath

more freely. I am often tempted to open

vein, to procure for myself everlastin

iberty.

MARCH 24.

I have tendered my resignation to th



court. I hope it will be accepted, and yo

will forgive me for not havin

previously consulted you. It is necessar

should leave this place. I know all yowill urge me to stay, and therefore I be

ou will soften this news to my mother.

am unable to do anything for myself

how, then, should I be competent to

assist others? It will afflict her that

should have interrupted that caree

which would have made me first a privcouncillor, and then minister, and that

should look behind me, in place o

advancing. Argue as you will, combin

all the reasons which should havnduced me to remain, I am going: that i

sufficient. But, that you may not b

gnorant of my destination, I ma



mention that the Prince of—is here. H

s much pleased with my company; and

having heard of my intention to resign

he has invited me to his country house, tpass the spring months with him. I shal

be left completely my own master; and

as we agree on all subjects but one,

shall try my fortune, and accompany him

APRIL 19.

Thanks for both your letters. I delayemy reply, and withheld this letter, till

should obtain an answer from the court.

feared my mother might apply to th

minister to defeat my purpose. But m

request is granted, my resignation i

accepted. I shall not recount with wha

reluctance it was accorded, nor relat



what the minister has written: you woul

only renew your lamentations. Th

crown prince has sent me a present o

five and twenty ducats; and, indeed, sucgoodness has affected me to tears. Fo

his reason I shall not require from m

mother the money for which I latel

applied.

MAY 5.

I leave this place to-morrow; and, amy native place is only six miles fro

he high road, I intend to visit it onc

more, and recall the happy dreams of m

childhood. I shall enter at the same gat

hrough which I came with my mother

when, after my father's death, she lef

hat delightful retreat to immure hersel



n your melancholy town. Adieu, m

dear friend: you shall hear of my futur

career.

MAY 9.

I have paid my visit to my nativ

place with all the devotion of a pilgrimand have experienced many unexpecte

emotions. Near the great elm tree, whic

s a quarter of a league from the village

got out of the carriage, and sent it obefore, that alone, and on foot, I migh

enjoy vividly and heartily all th

pleasure of my recollections. I stoo

here under that same elm which wa

formerly the term and object of m

walks. How things have since changed

Then, in happy ignorance, I sighed for



world I did not know, where I hoped to

find every pleasure and enjoyment whic

my heart could desire; and now, on m

return from that wide world, O mfriend, how many disappointed hope

and unsuccessful plans have I brough

back!

As I contemplated the mountain

which lay stretched out before me,

hought how often they had been th

object of my dearest desires. Here used

o sit for hours together with my eye

bent upon them, ardently longing t

wander in the shade of those woods, tose myself in those valleys, which for

so delightful an object in the distance

With what reluctance did I leave thi

charming spot; when my hour o



recreation was over, and my leave o

absence expired! I drew near to th

village: all the well-known ol

summerhouses and gardens werrecognised again; I disliked the new

ones, and all other alterations which ha

aken place. I entered the village, and al

my former feelings returned. I cannot, m

dear friend, enter into details, charmin

as were my sensations: they would b

dull in the narration. I had intended todge in the market-place, near our ol

house. As soon as I entered, I perceived

hat the schoolroom, where ou

childhood had been taught by that gooold woman, was converted into a shop.

called to mind the sorrow, the heaviness

he tears, and oppression of heart, whic



experienced in that confinement. Ever

step produced some particula

mpression. A pilgrim in the Holy Land

does not meet so many spots pregnanwith tender recollections, and his soul i

hardly moved with greater devotion

One incident will serve for illustration.

followed the course of a stream to

farm, formerly a delightful walk of mine

and paused at the spot, where, whe

boys, we used to amuse ourselvemaking ducks and drakes upon the water

recollected so well how I use

formerly to watch the course of tha

same stream, following it with inquirineagerness, forming romantic ideas of th

countries it was to pass through; but m

magination was soon exhausted: whil



he water continued flowing farther an

farther on, till my fancy becam

bewildered by the contemplation of a

nvisible distance. Exactly such, my deafriend, so happy and so confined, wer

he thoughts of our good ancestors. Thei

feelings and their poetry were fresh a

childhood. And, when Ulysses talks o

he immeasurable sea and boundles

earth, his epithets are true, natura

deeply felt, and mysterious. Of whamportance is it that I have learned, wit

every schoolboy, that the world i

round? Man needs but little earth fo

enjoyment, and still less for his finarepose.

I am at present with the prince at hi

hunting lodge. He is a man with who



one can live happily. He is honest and

unaffected. There are, however, som

strange characters about him, whom

cannot at all understand. They do noseem vicious, and yet they do not carr

he appearance of thoroughly hones

men. Sometimes I am disposed t

believe them honest, and yet I canno

persuade myself to confide in them. I

grieves me to hear the princ

occasionally talk of things which he haonly read or heard of, and always wit

he same view in which they have bee

represented by others.

He values my understanding an

alents more highly than my heart, but

am proud of the latter only. It is the sol

source of everything of our strength



happiness, and misery. All the

knowledge I possess every one else ca

acquire, but my heart is exclusively m

own.

MAY 25.

I have had a plan in my head of whicdid not intend to speak to you until

was accomplished: now that it ha

failed, I may as well mention it. I wishe

o enter the army, and had long beedesirous of taking the step. This, indeed

was the chief reason for my coming her

with the prince, as he is a general in th

service. I communicated my design t

him during one of our walks together. H

disapproved of it, and it would hav

been actual madness not to have listene



o his reasons.

JUNE 11.

Say what you will, I can remain her

no longer. Why should I remain? Time

hangs heavy upon my hands. The princ

s as gracious to me as any one could beand yet I am not at my ease. There is

ndeed, nothing in common between us

He is a man of understanding, but quit

of the ordinary kind. His conversatioaffords me no more amusement than

should derive from the perusal of

well-written book. I shall remain here

week longer, and then start again on m

ravels. My drawings are the best thing

have done since I came here. Th

prince has a taste for the arts, and woul



mprove if his mind were not fettered b

cold rules and mere technical ideas.

often lose patience, when, with

glowing imagination, I am givinexpression to art and nature, h

nterferes with learned suggestions, an

uses at random the technical phraseolog

of artists.

JULY 16.

Once more I am a wanderer, pilgrim, through the world. But wha

else are you!

JULY 18.

Whither am I going? I will tell you i

confidence. I am obliged to continue

fortnight longer here, and then I think



would be better for me to visit the mine

n—. But I am only deluding myself thus

The fact is, I wish to be near Charlott

again, that is all. I smile at thsuggestions of my heart, and obey it

dictates.

JULY 29.

No, no! it is yet well all is well! I he

husband! O God, who gave me being, i

hou hadst destined this happiness fome, my whole life would have been on

continual thanksgiving! But I will no

murmur—forgive these tears, forgiv

hese fruitless wishes. She—my wife

Oh, the very thought of folding tha

dearest of Heaven's creatures in m

arms! Dear Wilhelm, my whole fram



feels convulsed when I see Albert pu

his arms around her slender waist!

And shall I avow it? Why should not, Wilhelm? She would have bee

happier with me than with him. Albert i

not the man to satisfy the wishes of suc

a heart. He wants a certain sensibilityhe wants—in short, their hearts do no

beat in unison. How often, my dea

friend, I'm reading a passage from som

nteresting book, when my heart an

Charlotte's seemed to meet, and in

hundred other instances when ou

sentiments were unfolded by the story osome fictitious character, have I felt tha

we were made for each other! But, dea

Wilhelm, he loves her with his whol

soul; and what does not such a lov



deserve?

I have been interrupted by a

nsufferable visit. I have dried my tearsand composed my thoughts. Adieu, m

best friend!



AUGUST 4.

I am not alone unfortunate. All me

are disappointed in their hopes, andeceived in their expectations. I hav

paid a visit to my good old woman unde

he lime-trees. The eldest boy ran out t

meet me: his exclamation of joy broughout his mother, but she had a ver

melancholy look. Her first word was

"Alas! dear sir, my little John is dead.

He was the youngest of her children.

was silent. "And my husband ha

returned from Switzerland without an

money; and, if some kind people had noassisted him, he must have begged hi

way home. He was taken ill with feve

on his journey." I could answer nothing

but made the little one a present. Sh



nvited me to take some fruit:

complied, and left the place with

sorrowful heart.

AUGUST 21.

My sensations are constantl

changing. Sometimes a happy prospecopens before me; but alas! it is only for

moment; and then, when I am lost i

reverie, I cannot help saying to myself

"If Albert were to die?—Yes, she wouldbecome—and I should be"—and so

pursue a chimera, till it leads me to th

edge of a precipice at which I shudder.

When I pass through the same gate

and walk along the same road whic

first conducted me to Charlotte, my hear



sinks within me at the change that ha

since taken place. All, all, is altered! No

sentiment, no pulsation of my heart, i

he same. My sensations are such awould occur to some departed princ

whose spirit should return to visit th

superb palace which he had built i

happy times, adorned with costl

magnificence, and left to a beloved son

but whose glory he should find departed

and its halls deserted and in ruins.

SEPTEMBER 3.

I sometimes cannot understand how

she can love another, how she dare

ove another, when I love nothing in thi

world so completely, so devotedly, as

ove her, when I know only her, and



have no other possession.

SEPTEMBER 4.

It is even so! As nature puts on he

autumn tints it becomes autumn with m

and around me. My leaves are sere an

ellow, and the neighbouring trees ardivested of their foliage. Do yo

remember my writing to you about

peasant boy shortly after my arriva

here? I have just made inquiries abouhim in Walheim. They say he has been

dismissed from his service, and is now

avoided by every one. I met hi

esterday on the road, going to

neighbouring village. I spoke to him, an

he told me his story. It interested m

exceedingly, as you will easil



understand when I repeat it to you. Bu

why should I trouble you? Why should

not reserve all my sorrow for myself

Why should I continue to give yooccasion to pity and blame me? But n

matter: this also is part of my destiny.

At first the peasant lad answered mnquiries with a sort of subdue

melancholy, which seemed to me th

mark of a timid disposition; but, as w

grew to understand each other, he spok

with less reserve, and openly confesse

his faults, and lamented his misfortune.

wish, my dear friend, I could givproper expression to his language. H

old me with a sort of pleasurabl

recollection, that, after my departure, hi

passion for his mistress increased daily



until at last he neither knew what he di

nor what he said, nor what was t

become of him. He could neither eat no

drink nor sleep: he felt a sense osuffocation; he disobeyed all orders, an

forgot all commands involuntarily; h

seemed as if pursued by an evil spirit

ill one day, knowing that his mistres

had gone to an upper chamber, he had

followed, or, rather, been drawn afte

her. As she proved deaf to his entreatieshe had recourse to violence. He know

not what happened; but he called God t

witness that his intentions to her wer

honourable, and that he desired nothinmore sincerely than that they shoul

marry, and pass their lives together

When he had come to this point, h



began to hesitate, as if there wa

something which he had not courage t

utter, till at length he acknowledged wit

some confusion certain little confidenceshe had encouraged, and liberties sh

had allowed. He broke off two or thre

imes in his narration, and assured m

most earnestly that he had no wish t

make her bad, as he termed it, for h

oved her still as sincerely as ever; tha

he tale had never before escaped hiips, and was only now told to convinc

me that he was not utterly lost an

abandoned. And here, my dear friend,

must commence the old song which yoknow I utter eternally. If I could onl

represent the man as he stood, and stand

now before me, could I only give hi



rue expressions, you would fee

compelled to sympathise in his fate. Bu

enough: you, who know my misfortun

and my disposition, can easilcomprehend the attraction which draw

me toward every unfortunate being, bu

particularly toward him whose story

have recounted.

On perusing this letter a second time,

find I have omitted the conclusion of m

ale; but it is easily supplied. Sh

became reserved toward him, at th

nstigation of her brother who had lon

hated him, and desired his expulsiofrom the house, fearing that his sister'

second marriage might deprive hi

children of the handsome fortune the

expected from her; as she is childless



He was dismissed at length; and th

whole affair occasioned so muc

scandal, that the mistress dared not tak

him back, even if she had wished it. Shhas since hired another servant, wit

whom, they say, her brother is equally

displeased, and whom she is likely t

marry; but my informant assures me tha

he himself is determined not to surviv

such a catastrophe.

This story is neither exaggerated no

embellished: indeed, I have weakene

and impaired it in the narration, by th

necessity of using the more refineexpressions of society.

This love, then, this constancy, thi

passion, is no poetical fiction. It i



actual, and dwells in its greatest purit

amongst that class of mankind whom w

erm rude, uneducated. We are th

educated, not the perverted. But read thistory with attention, I implore you. I a

ranquil to-day, for I have bee

employed upon this narration: you see b

my writing that I am not so agitated a

usual. I read and re-read this tale

Wilhelm: it is the history of your friend

My fortune has been and will be similarand I am neither half so brave nor half s

determined as the poor wretch wit

whom I hesitate to compare myself.

SEPTEMBER 5.

Charlotte had written a letter to he

husband in the country, where he wa



detained by business. It commenced

"My dearest love, return as soon a

possible: I await you with a thousan

raptures." A friend who arrived, broughword, that, for certain reasons, he coul

not return immediately. Charlotte's lette

was not forwarded, and the sam

evening it fell into my hands. I read it

and smiled. She asked the reason. "Wha

a heavenly treasure is imagination:"

exclaimed; "I fancied for a moment thahis was written to me." She paused, an

seemed displeased. I was silent.

SEPTEMBER 6.

It cost me much to part with the blu

coat which I wore the first time I dance

with Charlotte. But I could not possibl



wear it any longer. But I have ordered

new one, precisely similar, even to th

collar and sleeves, as well as a new

waistcoat and pantaloons.

But it does not produce the sam

effect upon me. I know not how it is, bu

hope in time I shall like it better.

SEPTEMBER 12.

She has been absent for some daysShe went to meet Albert. To-day

visited her: she rose to receive me, and

kissed her hand most tenderly.

A canary at the moment flew from

mirror, and settled upon her shoulder

"Here is a new friend," she observed

while she made him perch upon he



hand: "he is a present for the children

What a dear he is! Look at him! When

feed him, he flutters with his wings, an

pecks so nicely. He kisses me, too, onlyook!"

She held the bird to her mouth; and h

pressed her sweet lips with so mucfervour that he seemed to feel the exces

of bliss which he enjoyed.

"He shall kiss you too," she addedand then she held the bird toward me

His little beak moved from her mouth t

mine, and the delightful sensatio

seemed like the forerunner of th

sweetest bliss.

"A kiss," I observed, "does not seem



o satisfy him: he wishes for food, an

seems disappointed by thes

unsatisfactory endearments."

"But he eats out of my mouth," sh

continued, and extended her lips to hi

containing seed; and she smiled with al

he charm of a being who has allowed annocent participation of her love.

I turned my face away. She should no

act thus. She ought not to excite mmagination with such displays o

heavenly innocence and happiness, no

awaken my heart from its slumbers, i

which it dreams of the worthlessness o

ife! And why not? Because she know

how much I love her.



SEPTEMBER 15.

It makes me wretched, Wilhelm, to

hink that there should be men incapablof appreciating the few things whic

possess a real value in life. You

remember the walnut trees at S—, unde

which I used to sit with Charlotte, durinmy visits to the worthy old vicar. Thos

glorious trees, the very sight of whic

has so often filled my heart with joy

how they adorned and refreshed th

parsonage yard, with their wide

extended branches! and how pleasin

was our remembrance of the good olpastor, by whose hands they wer

planted so many years ago: Th

schoolmaster has frequently mentione

his name. He had it from his grandfather



He must have been a most excellent man

and, under the shade of those old trees

his memory was ever venerated by me

The schoolmaster informed us yesterdaywith tears in his eyes, that those tree

had been felled. Yes, cut to the ground!

could, in my wrath, have slain th

monster who struck the first stroke. And

must endure this!—I, who, if I had ha

wo such trees in my own court, and on

had died from old age, should have wepwith real affliction. But there is som

comfort left, such a thing is sentiment

he whole village murmurs at th

misfortune; and I hope the vicar's wifwill soon find, by the cessation of th

villagers' presents, how much she ha

wounded the feelings of th



neighborhhood. It was she who did it

he wife of the present incumbent (ou

good old man is dead), a tall, sickl

creature who is so far right to disregarhe world, as the world totall

disregards her. The silly being affects to

be learned, pretends to examine th

canonical books, lends her aid towar

he new-fashioned reformation o

Christendom, moral and critical, an

shrugs up her shoulders at the mention oLavater's enthusiasm. Her health i

destroyed, on account of which she i

prevented from having any enjoymen

here below. Only such a creature couldhave cut down my walnut trees! I ca

never pardon it. Hear her reasons. Th

falling leaves made the court wet an



dirty; the branches obstructed the light

boys threw stones at the nuts when the

were ripe, and the noise affected he

nerves; and disturbed her profounmeditations, when she was weighing th

difficulties of Kennicot, Semler, and

Michaelis. Finding that all the parish

particularly the old people, wer

displeased, I asked "why they allowe

t?" "Ah, sir!" they replied, "when th

steward orders, what can we poopeasants do?" But one thing ha

happened well. The steward and th

vicar (who, for once, thought to reap

some advantage from the caprices of hiwife) intended to divide the tree

between them. The revenue-office, bein

nformed of it, revived an old claim t



he ground where the trees had stood

and sold them to the best bidder. Ther

hey still lie on the ground. If I were th

sovereign, I should know how to deawith them all, vicar, steward, and

revenue-office. Sovereign, did I say?

should, in that case, care little about th

rees that grew in the country.

OCTOBER 10.

Only to gaze upon her dark eyes is tme a source of happiness! And wha

grieves me, is, that Albert does not seem

so happy as he—hoped to be—as

should have been—if—I am no friend t

hese pauses, but here I cannot express

otherwise; and probably I am explic

enough.



OCTOBER 12.

Ossian has superseded Homer in m

heart. To what a world does thllustrious bard carry me! To wande

over pathless wilds, surrounded b

mpetuous whirlwinds, where, by th

feeble light of the moon, we see thspirits of our ancestors; to hear from th

mountain-tops, mid the roar of torrents

heir plaintive sounds issuing from dee

caverns, and the sorrowful lamentation

of a maiden who sighs and expires o

he mossy tomb of the warrior by who

she was adored. I meet this bard witsilver hair; he wanders in the valley; h

seeks the footsteps of his fathers, and

alas! he finds only their tombs. Then

contemplating the pale moon, as sh



sinks beneath the waves of the rollin

sea, the memory of bygone days strike

he mind of the hero, days whe

approaching danger invigorated thbrave, and the moon shone upon his bar

aden with spoils, and returning i

riumph. When I read in his countenanc

deep sorrow, when I see his dying glor

sink exhausted into the grave, as h

nhales new and heart-thrilling deligh

from his approaching union with hibeloved, and he casts a look on the col

earth and the tall grass which is so soo

o cover him, and then exclaims, "Th

raveller will come,—he will come whhas seen my beauty, and he will ask

Where is the bard, where is th

llustrious son of Fingal?' He will wal



over my tomb, and will seek me i

vain!" Then, O my friend, I coul

nstantly, like a true and noble knight

draw my sword, and deliver my princfrom the long and painful languor of

iving death, and dismiss my own soul t

follow the demigod whom my hand ha

set free!

OCTOBER 19.

Alas! the void the fearful void, whicfeel in my bosom! Sometimes I think, i

could only once but once, press her t

my heart, this dreadful void would b

filled.

OCTOBER 26.

Yes, I feel certain, Wilhelm, and



every day I become more certain, tha

he existence of any being whatever is o

very little consequence. A friend o

Charlotte's called to see her just now. withdrew into a neighbouring apartmen

and took up a book; but, finding I coul

not read, I sat down to write. I hear

hem converse in an undertone: the

spoke upon indifferent topics, an

retailed the news of the town. One wa

going to be married; another was ilvery ill, she had a dry cough, her fac

was growing thinner daily, and she had

occasional fits. "N—is very unwell too,

said Charlotte. "His limbs begin to swelalready," answered the other; and m

ively imagination carried me at once t

he beds of the infirm. There I see the



struggling against death, with all th

agonies of pain and horror; and thes

women, Wilhelm, talk of all this with a

much indifference as one would mentiohe death of a stranger. And when I look

around the apartment where I now am—

when I see Charlotte's apparel lyin

before me, and Albert's writings, and al

hose articles of furniture which are s

familiar to me, even to the very inkstan

which I am using,—when I think what am to this family—everything. M

friends esteem me; I often contribute t

heir happiness, and my heart seems as i

t could not beat without them; and ye—-if I were to die, if I were to b

summoned from the midst of this circle

would they feel—or how long woul



hey feel the void which my loss woul

make in their existence? How long! Yes

such is the frailty of man, that even there

where he has the greatest consciousnesof his own being, where he makes th

strongest and most forcible impression

even in the memory, in the heart, of hi

beloved, there also he must perish,—

vanish,—and that quickly.

OCTOBER 27.

I could tear open my bosom wit

vexation to think how little we ar

capable of influencing the feelings o

each other. No one can communicate to

me those sensations of love, joy, rapture

and delight which I do not naturall

possess; and, though my heart may glow



with the most lively affection, I canno

make the happiness of one in whom th

same warmth is not inherent.

OCTOBER 27: Evening.

I possess so much, but my love for he

absorbs it all. I possess so much, buwithout her I have nothing.

OCTOBER 30.

One hundred times have I been on th

point of embracing her. Heavens! what

orment it is to see so much lovelines

passing and repassing before us, and yenot dare to lay hold of it! And layin

hold is the most natural of huma

nstincts. Do not children touc

everything they see? And I!



NOVEMBER 3.

Witness, Heaven, how often I li

down in my bed with a wish, and even hope, that I may never awaken again

And in the morning, when I open m

eyes, I behold the sun once more, and a

wretched. If I were whimsical, I mighblame the weather, or an acquaintance

or some personal disappointment, for m

discontented mind; and then thi

nsupportable load of trouble would no

rest entirely upon myself. But, alas!

feel it too sadly. I am alone the cause o

my own woe, am I not? Truly, my ownbosom contains the source of all m

sorrow, as it previously contained th

source of all my pleasure. Am I not th

same being who once enjoyed an exces



of happiness, who, at every step, saw

paradise open before him, and whos

heart was ever expanded toward th

whole world? And this heart is nowdead, no sentiment can revive it; my eye

are dry; and my senses, no mor

refreshed by the influence of soft tears

wither and consume my brain. I suffe

much, for I have lost the only charm o

ife: that active, sacred power whic

created worlds around me,—it is nmore. When I look from my window a

he distant hills, and behold the mornin

sun breaking through the mists, an

lluminating the country around, which istill wrapped in silence, whilst the sof

stream winds gently through th

willows, which have shed their leaves



when glorious nature displays all he

beauties before me, and her wondrou

prospects are ineffectual to extract on

ear of joy from my withered heart, I feehat in such a moment I stand like

reprobate before heaven, hardened

nsensible, and unmoved. Oftentimes d

then bend my knee to the earth, an

mplore God for the blessing of tears, a

he desponding labourer in som

scorching climate prays for the dews oheaven to moisten his parched corn.

But I feel that God does not gran

sunshine or rain to our importunatentreaties. And oh, those bygone days

whose memory now torments me! wh

were they so fortunate? Because I the

waited with patience for the blessings o



he Eternal, and received his gifts wit

he grateful feelings of a thankful heart.

NOVEMBER 8.

Charlotte has reproved me for m

excesses, with so much tenderness an

goodness! I have lately been in the habof drinking more wine than heretofore

"Don't do it," she said. "Think o

Charlotte!" "Think of you!" I answered

"need you bid me do so? Think of you—do not think of you: you are ever befor

my soul! This very morning I sat on th

spot where, a few days ago, yo

descended from the carriage, and—" Sh

mmediately changed the subject t

prevent me from pursuing it farther. M

dear friend, my energies are al



prostrated: she can do with me what sh

pleases.

NOVEMBER 15.

I thank you, Wilhelm, for your cordia

sympathy, for your excellent advice; and

implore you to be quiet. Leave me tmy sufferings. In spite of m

wretchedness, I have still strengt

enough for endurance. I revere religio

—you know I do. I feel that it can imparstrength to the feeble and comfort to th

afflicted, but does it affect all me

equally? Consider this vast universe

ou will see thousands for whom it ha

never existed, thousands for whom

will never exist, whether it be preache

o them, or not; and must it, then



necessarily exist for me? Does not th

Son of God himself say that they are hi

whom the Father has given to him? Hav

been given to him? What if the Fathewill retain me for himself, as my hear

sometimes suggests? I pray you, do no

misinterpret this. Do not extract derisio

from my harmless words. I pour out m

whole soul before you. Silence wer

otherwise preferable to me, but I nee

not shrink from a subject of which fewknow more than I do myself. What is th

destiny of man, but to fill up the measur

of his sufferings, and to drink his allotte

cup of bitterness? And if that same cupproved bitter to the God of heaven

under a human form, why should I affec

a foolish pride, and call it sweet? Wh



should I be ashamed of shrinking at tha

fearful moment, when my whole bein

will tremble between existence an

annihilation, when a remembrance of thpast, like a flash of lightning, wil

lluminate the dark gulf of futurity, whe

everything shall dissolve around me, an

he whole world vanish away? Is not thi

he voice of a creature oppresse

beyond all resource, self-deficien

about to plunge into inevitabldestruction, and groaning deeply at it

nadequate strength, "My God! my God

why hast thou forsaken me?" And should

feel ashamed to utter the samexpression? Should I not shudder at

prospect which had its fears, even fo

him who folds up the heavens like



garment?

NOVEMBER 21.

She does not feel, she does not know

hat she is preparing a poison which wil

destroy us both; and I drink deeply of th

draught which is to prove mdestruction. What mean those looks o

kindness with which she often—often

no, not often, but sometimes, regards me

hat complacency with which she hearhe involuntary sentiments whic

frequently escape me, and the tender pit

for my sufferings which appears in he

countenance?

Yesterday, when I took leave she

seized me by the hand, and said, "Adieu



dear Werther." Dear Werther! It was the

first time she ever called me dear: th

sound sunk deep into my heart. I hav

repeated it a hundred times; and lasnight, on going to bed, and talking t

myself of various things, I suddenly said

"Good night, dear Werther!" and then

could not but laugh at myself.

NOVEMBER 22

I cannot pray, "Leave her to me!" andet she often seems to belong to me.

cannot pray, "Give her to me!" for she i

another's. In this way I affect mirth ove

my troubles; and, if I had time, I coul

compose a whole litany of antitheses.

NOVEMBER 24.



She is sensible of my sufferings. Thi

morning her look pierced my very soul.

found her alone, and she was silent: sh

steadfastly surveyed me. I no longer sawn her face the charms of beauty or th

fire of genius: these had disappeared

But I was affected by an expressio

much more touching, a look of th

deepest sympathy and of the softest pity

Why was I afraid to throw myself at he

feet? Why did I not dare to take her imy arms, and answer her by a thousan

kisses? She had recourse to her pian

for relief, and in a low and sweet voic

accompanied the music with deliciousounds. Her lips never appeared s

ovely: they seemed but just to open, tha

hey might imbibe the sweet tones whic



ssued from the instrument, and return th

heavenly vibration from her lovel

mouth. Oh! who can express m

sensations? I was quite overcome, andbending down, pronounced this vow

"Beautiful lips, which the angels guard

never will I seek to profane your purit

with a kiss." And yet, my friend, oh,

wish—but my heart is darkened by doub

and indecision—could I but tast

felicity, and then die to expiate the sinWhat sin?

NOVEMBER 26.

Oftentimes I say to myself, "Tho

alone art wretched: all other mortals ar

happy, none are distressed like thee!

Then I read a passage in an ancient poet



and I seem to understand my own heart.

have so much to endure! Have me

before me ever been so wretched?

NOVEMBER 30.

I shall never be myself again

Wherever I go, some fatality occurs tdistract me. Even to-day alas—for ou

destiny! alas for human nature!

About dinner-time I went to walk bhe river-side, for I had no appetite

Everything around seemed gloomy:

cold and damp easterly wind blew fro

he mountains, and black, heavy cloudspread over the plain. I observed at

distance a man in a tattered coat: he wa

wandering among the rocks, and seeme



o be looking for plants. When

approached, he turned round at the noise

and I saw that he had an interestin

countenance in which a settlemelancholy, strongly marked b

benevolence, formed the principa

feature. His long black hair was divided

and flowed over his shoulders. As hi

garb betokened a person of the lowe

order, I thought he would not take it ill i

inquired about his business; and herefore asked what he was seeking. H

replied, with a deep sigh, that he wa

ooking for flowers, and could find none

"But it is not the season," I observedwith a smile. "Oh, there are so man

flowers!" he answered, as he cam

nearer to me. "In my garden there ar



roses and honeysuckles of two sorts: on

sort was given to me by my father! the

grow as plentifully as weeds; I hav

been looking for them these two daysand cannot find them. There are flower

out there, yellow, blue, and red; and tha

centaury has a very pretty blossom: but

can find none of them." I observed hi

peculiarity, and therefore asked him

with an air of indifference, what h

ntended to do with his flowers. Astrange smile overspread hi

countenance. Holding his finger to hi

mouth, he expressed a hope that I woul

not betray him; and he then informed mhat he had promised to gather a nosega

for his mistress. "That is right," said I

"Oh!" he replied, "she possesses man



other things as well: she is very rich.

"And yet," I continued, "she likes you

nosegays." "Oh, she has jewels an

crowns!" he exclaimed. I asked who shwas. "If the states-general would but pa

me," he added, "I should be quit

another man. Alas! there was a tim

when I was so happy; but that is past

and I am now—" He raised hi

swimming eyes to heaven. "And yo

were happy once?" I observed. "Ahwould I were so still!" was his reply. "

was then as gay and contented as a ma

can be." An old woman, who wa

coming toward us, now called out"Henry, Henry! where are you? We have

been looking for you everywhere: com

o dinner." "Is he your son?" I inquired



as I went toward her. "Yes," she said

"he is my poor, unfortunate son. Th

Lord has sent me a heavy affliction."

asked whether he had been long in thistate. She answered, "He has been a

calm as he is at present for about si

months. I thank Heaven that he has so fa

recovered: he was for one whole yea

quite raving, and chained down in

madhouse. Now he injures no one, bu

alks of nothing else than kings anqueens. He used to be a very good, quie

outh, and helped to maintain me; h

wrote a very fine hand; but all at once h

became melancholy, was seized with violent fever, grew distracted, and i

now as you see. If I were only to tel

ou, sir—" I interrupted her by askin



what period it was in which he boaste

of having been so happy. "Poor boy!

she exclaimed, with a smile o

compassion, "he means the time when hwas completely deranged, a time h

never ceases to regret, when he was i

he madhouse, and unconscious o

everything." I was thunderstruck:

placed a piece of money in her hand, an

hastened away.

"You were happy!" I exclaimed, as

returned quickly to the town, "'as ga

and contented as a man can be!'" God o

heaven! and is this the destiny of man? Ihe only happy before he has acquired hi

reason, or after he has lost it

Unfortunate being! And yet I envy you

fate: I envy the delusion to which yo



are a victim. You go forth with joy to

gather flowers for your princess,—i

winter,—and grieve when you can find

none, and cannot understand why they dnot grow. But I wander forth without joy

without hope, without design; and

return as I came. You fancy what a man

ou would be if the states general pai

ou. Happy mortal, who can ascrib

our wretchedness to an earthly cause

You do not know, you do not feel, that inour own distracted heart an

disordered brain dwells the source o

hat unhappiness which all the potentate

on earth cannot relieve.

Let that man die unconsoled who ca

deride the invalid for undertaking

ourney to distant, healthful springs



where he often finds only a heavie

disease and a more painful death, o

who can exult over the despairing min

of a sinner, who, to obtain peace oconscience and an alleviation of misery

makes a pilgrimage to the Hol

Sepulchre. Each laborious step whic

galls his wounded feet in rough an

untrodden paths pours a drop of bal

nto his troubled soul, and the journey o

many a weary day brings a nightly relieo his anguished heart. Will you dar

call this enthusiasm, ye crowd o

pompous declaimers? Enthusiasm! O

God! thou seest my tears. Thou hasallotted us our portion of misery: mus

we also have brethren to persecute us, t

deprive us of our consolation, of ou



rust in thee, and in thy love and mercy

For our trust in the virtue of the healin

root, or in the strength of the vine, wha

s it else than a belief in thee from whoall that surrounds us derives its healin

and restoring powers? Father, whom

know not,—who wert once wont to fil

my soul, but who now hidest thy fac

from me,—call me back to thee; b

silent no longer; thy silence shall no

delay a soul which thirsts after theeWhat man, what father, could be angr

with a son for returning to him suddenly

for falling on his neck, and exclaiming

"I am here again, my father! forgive mf I have anticipated my journey, and

returned before the appointed time! Th

world is everywhere the same,—a scen



of labour and pain, of pleasure an

reward; but what does it all avail? I a

happy only where thou art, and in th

presence am I content to suffer or enjoy.And wouldst thou, heavenly Father

banish such a child from thy presence?

DECEMBER 1.

Wilhelm, the man about whom I wrot

o you—that man so enviable in hi

misfortunes—was secretary tCharlotte's father; and an unhapp

passion for her which he cherished

concealed, and at length discovered

caused him to be dismissed from hi

situation. This made him mad. Think

whilst you peruse this plain narration

what an impression the circumstance ha



made upon me! But it was related to m

by Albert with as much calmness as yo

will probably peruse it.

DECEMBER 4.

I implore your attention. It is all ove

with me. I can support this state nonger. To-day I was sitting by

Charlotte. She was playing upon he

piano a succession of delightfu

melodies, with such intense expressionHer little sister was dressing her dol

upon my lap. The tears came into m

eyes. I leaned down, and looked intentl

at her wedding-ring: my tears fell—

mmediately she began to play tha

favourite, that divine, air which has s

often enchanted me. I felt comfort from



recollection of the past, of those bygon

days when that air was familiar to me

and then I recalled all the sorrows an

he disappointments which I had sincendured. I paced with hasty stride

hrough the room, my heart becam

convulsed with painful emotions. A

ength I went up to her, and exclaimed

With eagerness, "For Heaven's sake

play that air no longer!" She stopped

and looked steadfastly at me. She thesaid, with a smile which sunk deep int

my heart, "Werther, you are ill: you

dearest food is distasteful to you. But go

entreat you, and endeavour to composourself." I tore myself away. God, thou

seest my torments, and wilt end them!

DECEMBER 6.



How her image haunts me! Waking o

asleep, she fills my entire soul! Soon a

close my eyes, here, in my brain, wher

all the nerves of vision are concentratedher dark eyes are imprinted. Here—I d

not know how to describe it; but, if I shu

my eyes, hers are immediately befor

me: dark as an abyss they open upon me

and absorb my senses.

And what is man—that boaste

demigod? Do not his powers fail whe

he most requires their use? And whethe

he soar in joy, or sink in sorrow, is no

his career in both inevitably arrestedAnd, whilst he fondly dreams that he i

grasping at infinity, does he not fee

compelled to return to a consciousnes

of his cold, monotonous existence?



THE EDITOR TO THE READER.

It is a matter of extreme regret that w

want original evidence of the lasremarkable days of our friend; and w

are, therefore, obliged to interrupt th

progress of his correspondence, and t

supply the deficiency by a connectenarration.

I have felt it my duty to collec

accurate information from the mouths opersons well acquainted with hi

history. The story is simple; and all th

accounts agree, except in som

unimportant particulars. It is true, that

with respect to the characters of th

persons spoken of, opinions an

udgments vary.



We have only, then, to relate

conscientiously the facts which ou

diligent labour has enabled us to collect

o give the letters of the deceased, and tpay particular attention to the slightes

fragment from his pen, more especiall

as it is so difficult to discover the rea

and correct motives of men who are no

of the common order.

Sorrow and discontent had taken deep

root in Werther's soul, and gradually

mparted their character to his whol

being. The harmony of his mind becam

completely disturbed; a perpetuaexcitement and mental irritation, whic

weakened his natural powers, produce

he saddest effects upon him, an

rendered him at length the victim of a



exhaustion against which he struggle

with still more painful efforts than h

had displayed, even in contending wit

his other misfortunes. His mental anxietweakened his various good qualities

and he was soon converted into

gloomy companion, always unhappy an

unjust in his ideas, the more wretched h

became. This was, at least, the opinio

of Albert's friends. They assert

moreover, that the character of Alberhimself had undergone no change in th

meantime: he was still the same bein

whom Werther had loved, honoured, and

respected from the commencement. Hiove for Charlotte was unbounded: h

was proud of her, and desired that sh

should be recognised by every one as th



noblest of created beings. Was he

however, to blame for wishing to aver

from her every appearance of suspicion

or for his unwillingness to share his ricprize with another, even for a moment

and in the most innocent manner? It i

asserted that Albert frequently retired

from his wife's apartment durin

Werther's visits; but this did not aris

from hatred or aversion to his friend, bu

only from a feeling that his presence waoppressive to Werther.

Charlotte's father, who was confined

o the house by indisposition, waaccustomed to send his carriage for her

hat she might make excursions in th

neighbourhood. One day the weather ha

been unusually severe, and the whol



and his wife; and, whilst he censure

himself strongly for this, he began t

entertain a secret dislike to Albert.

His thoughts were occasionall

directed to this point. "Yes," he would

repeat to himself, with ill-conceale

dissatisfaction, "yes, this is, after all, thextent of that confiding, dear, tender, and

sympathetic love, that calm and eterna

fidelity! What do I behold but satiety an

ndifference? Does not every frivolou

engagement attract him more than hi

charming and lovely wife? Does h

know how to prize his happiness? Cahe value her as she deserves? H

possesses her, it is true, I know that, as

know much more, and I have becom

accustomed to the thought that he wil



drive me mad, or, perhaps, murder me

s his friendship toward me unimpaired

Does he not view my attachment t

Charlotte as an infringement upon hirights, and consider my attention to he

as a silent rebuke to himself? I know

and indeed feel, that he dislikes me, tha

he wishes for my absence, that m

presence is hateful to him."

He would often pause when on hi

way to visit Charlotte, stand still, a

hough in doubt, and seem desirous o

returning, but would nevertheles

proceed; and, engaged in such thoughtand soliloquies as we have described

he finally reached the hunting-lodge

with a sort of involuntary consent.



Upon one occasion he entered th

house; and, inquiring for Charlotte, h

observed that the inmates were in a stat

of unusual confusion. The eldest bonformed him that a dreadful misfortun

had occurred at Walheim,—that a

peasant had been murdered! But thi

made little impression upon him

Entering the apartment, he foun

Charlotte engaged reasoning with he

father, who, in spite of his infirmitynsisted on going to the scene of th

crime, in order to institute an inquiry

The criminal was unknown; the victi

had been found dead at his own door thamorning. Suspicions were excited: th

murdered man had been in the service o

a widow, and the person who had



previously filled the situation had bee

dismissed from her employment.

As soon as Werther heard this, hexclaimed with great excitement, "Is

possible! I must go to the spot—I canno

delay a moment!" He hastened t

Walheim. Every incident returnedvividly to his remembrance; and h

entertained not the slightest doubt tha

hat man was the murderer to whom h

had so often spoken, and for whom h

entertained so much regard. His wa

ook him past the well-known lime trees

o the house where the body had beecarried; and his feelings were greatl

excited at the sight of the fondl

recollected spot. That threshold wher

he neighbours' children had so ofte



played together was stained with blood

ove and attachment, the noblest feeling

of human nature, had been converted int

violence and murder. The huge treestood there leafless and covered wit

hoarfrost; the beautiful hedgerows whic

surrounded the old churchyard wal

were withered; and the gravestones, hal

covered with snow, were visibl

hrough the openings.

As he approached the inn, in front o

which the whole village was assembled

screams were suddenly heard. A troop

of armed peasants was seeapproaching, and every one exclaime

hat the criminal had been apprehended

Werther looked, and was not long in

doubt. The prisoner was no other tha



he servant, who had been formerly s

attached to the widow, and whom he had

met prowling about, with tha

suppressed anger and ill-concealedespair, which we have befor

described.

"What have you done, unfortunatman?" inquired Werther, as he advanced

oward the prisoner. The latter turned hi

eyes upon him in silence, and the

replied with perfect composure; "No on

will now marry her, and she will marr

no one." The prisoner was taken into th

nn, and Werther left the place. The mindof Werther was fearfully excited by thi

shocking occurrence. He ceased

however, to be oppressed by his usua

feeling of melancholy, moroseness, and



ndifference to everything that passe

around him. He entertained a stron

degree of pity for the prisoner, and wa

seized with an indescribable anxiety tsave him from his impending fate. H

considered him so unfortunate, h

deemed his crime so excusable, an

hought his own condition so nearl

similar, that he felt convinced he could

make every one else view the matter i

he light in which he saw it himself. Hnow became anxious to undertake hi

defence, and commenced composing a

eloquent speech for the occasion; and

on his way to the hunting-lodge, he coulnot refrain from speaking aloud th

statement which he resolved to make t

he judge.



Upon his arrival, he found Albert had

been before him: and he was a littl

perplexed by this meeting; but he soo

recovered himself, and expressed hiopinion with much warmth to the judge

The latter shook, his head doubtingly

and although Werther urged his case

with the utmost zeal, feeling, an

determination in defence of his client

et, as we may easily suppose, the judg

was not much influenced by his appeaOn the contrary, he interrupted him in hi

address, reasoned with him seriously

and even administered a rebuke to hi

for becoming the advocate of murderer. He demonstrated, that

according to this precedent, every law

might be violated, and the publi



security utterly destroyed. He added

moreover, that in such a case he could

himself do nothing, without incurring th

greatest responsibility; that everythinmust follow in the usual course, an

pursue the ordinary channel.

Werther, however, did not abandonhis enterprise, and even besought th

udge to connive at the flight of th

prisoner. But this proposal wa

peremptorily rejected. Albert, who had

aken some part in the discussion

coincided in opinion with the judge. A

his Werther became enraged, and tookhis leave in great anger, after the judg

had more than once assured him that th

prisoner could not be saved.



The excess of his grief at thi

assurance may be inferred from a not

we have found amongst his papers, an

which was doubtless written upon thivery occasion.

"You cannot be saved, unfortunate

man! I see clearly that we cannot bsaved!"

Werther was highly incensed at the

observations which Albert had made tohe judge in this matter of the prisoner

He thought he could detect therein a littl

bitterness toward himself personally

and although, upon reflection, it coul

not escape his sound judgment that thei

view of the matter was correct, he fe

he greatest possible reluctance to mak



such an admission.

A memorandum of Werther's upon thi

point, expressive of his general feelingoward Albert, has been found amongs

his papers.

"What is the use of my continuallrepeating that he is a good and estimabl

man? He is an inward torment to me, an

am incapable of being just towar

him."

One fine evening in winter, when th

weather seemed inclined to thaw

Charlotte and Albert were returninhome together. The former looked from

ime to time about her, as if she missed

Werther's company. Albert began to



speak of him, and censured him for hi

prejudices. He alluded to his unfortunat

attachment, and wished it were possibl

o discontinue his acquaintance. "I desirt on our own account," he added; "and

request you will compel him to alter hi

deportment toward you, and to visit yo

ess frequently. The world is censorious

and I know that here and there we ar

spoken of." Charlotte made no reply, and

Albert seemed to feel her silence. Aeast, from that time he never agai

spoke of Werther; and, when she

ntroduced the subject, he allowed th

conversation to die away, or else hdirected the discourse into anothe

channel.

The vain attempt Werther had made to



save the unhappy murderer was the las

feeble glimmering of a flame about to b

extinguished. He sank almos

mmediately afterward into a state ogloom and inactivity, until he was a

ength brought to perfect distraction b

earning that he was to be summoned a

a witness against the prisoner, who

asserted his complete innocence.

His mind now became oppressed b

he recollection of every misfortune o

his past life. The mortification he ha

suffered at the ambassador's, and hi

subsequent troubles, were revived in himemory. He became utterly inactive

Destitute of energy, he was cut off from

every pursuit and occupation whic

compose the business of common life



and he became a victim to his ow

susceptibility, and to his restless passio

for the most amiable and beloved o

women, whose peace he destroyed. Ihis unvarying monotony of existence hi

days were consumed; and his power

became exhausted without aim or design

until they brought him to a sorrowfu

end.

A few letters which he left behind

and which we here subjoin, afford th

best proofs of his anxiety of mind and o

he depth of his passion, as well as o

his doubts and struggles, and of hiweariness of life.

DECEMBER 12.



Dear Wilhelm, I am reduced to th

condition of those unfortunate wretche

who believe they are pursued by an evi

spirit. Sometimes I am oppressed, not bapprehension or fear, but by a

nexpressible internal sensation, whic

weighs upon my heart, and impedes m

breath! Then I wander forth at nigh

even in this tempestuous season, and fee

pleasure in surveying the dreadfu

scenes around me.

Yesterday evening I went forth. A

rapid thaw had suddenly set in: I ha

been informed that the river had risenhat the brooks had all overflowed thei

banks, and that the whole vale o

Walheim was under water! Upon the

stroke of twelve I hastened forth.



beheld a fearful sight. The foamin

orrents rolled from the mountains in th

moonlight,—fields and meadows, tree

and hedges, were confounded togetherand the entire valley was converted int

a deep lake, which was agitated by th

roaring wind! And when the moon shon

forth, and tinged the black clouds wit

silver, and the impetuous torrent at m

feet foamed and resounded with awfu

and grand impetuosity, I was overcomby a mingled sensation of apprehensio

and delight. With extended arms I looke

down into the yawning abyss, and cried

"Plunge!'" For a moment my senseforsook me, in the intense delight o

ending my sorrows and my sufferings b

a plunge into that gulf! And then I felt a



f I were rooted to the earth, an

ncapable of seeking an end to my woes

But my hour is not yet come: I feel it i

not. O Wilhelm, how willingly could abandon my existence to ride th

whirlwind, or to embrace the torrent

and then might not rapture perchance b

he portion of this liberated soul?

I turned my sorrowful eyes toward

favourite spot, where I was accustome

o sit with Charlotte beneath a willow

after a fatiguing walk. Alas! it wa

covered with water, and with difficulty

found even the meadow. And the fieldaround the hunting-lodge, thought I. Ha

our dear bower been destroyed by thi

unpitying storm? And a beam of pas

happiness streamed upon me, as th



mind of a captive is illumined by dream

of flocks and herds and bygone joys o

home! But I am free from blame. I hav

courage to die! Perhaps I have,—but still sit here, like a wretched pauper

who collects fagots, and begs her brea

from door to door, that she may prolon

for a few days a miserable existenc

which she is unwilling to resign.

DECEMBER 15.

What is the matter with me, dea

Wilhelm? I am afraid of myself! Is no

my love for her of the purest, most holy

and most brotherly nature? Has my sou

ever been sullied by a single sensua

desire? but I will make no protestations

And now, ye nightly visions, how trul



have those mortals understood you, wh

ascribe your various contradictor

effects to some invincible power! Thi

night I tremble at the avowal—I held hen my arms, locked in a close embrace:

pressed her to my bosom, and covere

with countless kisses those dear lip

which murmured in reply sof

protestations of love. My sight becam

confused by the delicious intoxication o

her eyes. Heavens! is it sinful to reveagain in such happiness, to recall onc

more those rapturous moments wit

ntense delight? Charlotte! Charlotte!

am lost! My senses are bewildered, mrecollection is confused, mine eyes ar

bathed in tears—I am ill; and yet I a

well—I wish for nothing—I have n



desires—it were better I were gone.

Under the circumstances narrate

above, a determination to quit this worlhad now taken fixed possession o

Werther's soul. Since Charlotte's return

his thought had been the final object o

all his hopes and wishes; but he haresolved that such a step should not b

aken with precipitation, but wit

calmness and tranquillity, and with th

most perfect deliberation.

His troubles and internal struggle

may be understood from the followin

fragment, which was found, without an

date, amongst his papers, and appears t

have formed the beginning of a letter t

Wilhelm.



"Her presence, her fate, her sympath

for me, have power still to extract tear

from my withered brain.

"One lifts up the curtain, and passes t

he other side,—that is all! And why al

hese doubts and delays? Because w

know not what is behind—because thers no returning—and because our min

nfers that all is darkness and confusion

where we have nothing but uncertainty."

His appearance at length became quit

altered by the effect of his melanchol

houghts; and his resolution was now

finally and irrevocably taken, of whic

he following ambiguous letter, which h

addressed to his friend, may appear t

afford some proof.



DECEMBER 20.

I am grateful to your love, Wilhelm

for having repeated your advice sseasonably. Yes, you are right: it is

undoubtedly better that I should depart

But I do not entirely approve you

scheme of returning at once to youneighbourhood; at least, I should like t

make a little excursion on the way

particularly as we may now expect

continued frost, and consequently goo

roads. I am much pleased with you

ntention of coming to fetch me; onl

delay your journey for a fortnight, anwait for another letter from me. On

should gather nothing before it is ripe

and a fortnight sooner or later makes

great difference. Entreat my mother t



pray for her son, and tell her I beg he

pardon for all the unhappiness I hav

occasioned her. It has ever been my fat

o give pain to those whose happiness should have promoted. Adieu, m

dearest friend. May every blessing o

Heaven attend you! Farewell.

We find it difficult to express the

emotions with which Charlotte's sou

was agitated during the whole of thi

ime, whether in relation to her husban

or to her unfortunate friend; although w

are enabled, by our knowledge of he

character, to understand their nature.

It is certain that she had formed

determination, by every means in he

power to keep Werther at a distance



and, if she hesitated in her decision,

was from a sincere feeling of friendl

pity, knowing how much it would cos

him, indeed, that he would find it almosmpossible to comply with her wishes

But various causes now urged her to b

firm. Her husband preserved a stric

silence about the whole matter; and sh

never made it a subject of conversation

feeling bound to prove to him by he

conduct that her sentiments agreed withis.

The same day, which was the Sunda

before Christmas, after Werther hadwritten the last-mentioned letter to hi

friend, he came in the evening t

Charlotte's house, and found her alone

She was busy preparing some little gift



for her brothers and sisters, which wer

o be distributed to them on Christma

Day. He began talking of the delight o

he children, and of that age when thsudden appearance of the Christmas

ree, decorated with fruit an

sweetmeats, and lighted up with wa

candles, causes such transports of joy

"You shall have a gift too, if you behave

well," said Charlotte, hiding he

embarrassment under sweet smile. "Anwhat do you call behaving well? Wha

should I do, what can I do, my dea

Charlotte?" said he. "Thursday night,

she answered, "is Christmas Eve. Thchildren are all to be here, and my fathe

oo: there is a present for each; do yo

come likewise, but do not come befor



hat time." Werther started. "I desire you

will not: it must be so," she continued. "

ask it of you as a favour, for my ow

peace and tranquillity. We cannot go onn this manner any longer." He turned

away his face walked hastily up an

down the room, muttering indistinctly

"We cannot go on in this manner any

onger!" Charlotte, seeing the violen

agitation into which these words ha

hrown him, endeavoured to divert hihoughts by different questions, but i

vain. "No, Charlotte!" he exclaimed; "

will never see you any more!" "And wh

so?" she answered. "We may—we mussee each other again; only let it be wit

more discretion. Oh! why were you bor

with that excessive, that ungovernabl



passion for everything that is dear t

ou?" Then, taking his hand, she said, "

entreat of you to be more calm: you

alents, your understanding, your geniuswill furnish you with a thousan

resources. Be a man, and conquer a

unhappy attachment toward a creatur

who can do nothing but pity you." He b

his lips, and looked at her with a gloom

countenance. She continued to hold hi

hand. "Grant me but a moment'patience, Werther," she said. "Do you

not see that you are deceiving yourself

hat you are seeking your ow

destruction? Why must you love me, monly, who belong to another? I fear,

much fear, that it is only th

mpossibility of possessing me whic



makes your desire for me so strong." H

drew back his hand, whilst he surveye

her with a wild and angry look. "'Ti

well!" he exclaimed, "'tis very well! Dinot Albert furnish you with thi

reflection? It is profound, a ver

profound remark." "A reflection that an

one might easily make," she answered

"and is there not a woman in the whol

world who is at liberty, and has th

power to make you happy? Conqueourself: look for such a being, an

believe me when I say that you wil

certainly find her. I have long felt fo

ou, and for us all: you have confineourself too long within the limits of to

narrow a circle. Conquer yourself; mak

an effort: a short journey will be o



dropped. Albert asked his wife abou

some household matters; and, findin

hat his commissions were not executed

he used some expressions which, tWerther's ear, savoured of extreme

harshness. He wished to go, but had no

power to move; and in this situation h

remained till eight o'clock, hi

uneasiness and discontent continuall

ncreasing. At length the cloth was laid

for supper, and he took up his hat andstick. Albert invited him to remain; bu

Werther, fancying that he was merely

paying a formal compliment, thanke

him coldly, and left the house.

Werther returned home, took the

candle from his servant, and retired t

his room alone. He talked for some tim



with great earnestness to himself, wep

aloud, walked in a state of grea

excitement through his chamber; till a

ength, without undressing, he threwhimself on the bed, where he was foun

by his servant at eleven o'clock, whe

he latter ventured to enter the room, an

ake off his boots. Werther did no

prevent him, but forbade him to come i

he morning till he should ring.

On Monday morning, the 21st o

December, he wrote to Charlotte th

following letter, which was found

sealed, on his bureau after his death, anwas given to her. I shall insert it i

fragments; as it appears, from severa

circumstances, to have been written i

hat manner.



"It is all over, Charlotte: I am

resolved to die! I make this declaratio

deliberately and coolly, without an

romantic passion, on this morning of thday when I am to see you for the las

ime. At the moment you read these lines

O best of women, the cold grave wil

hold the inanimate remains of tha

restless and unhappy being who, in th

ast moments of his existence, knew n

pleasure so great as that of conversinwith you! I have passed a dreadful nigh

or rather, let me say, a propitious one

for it has given me resolution, it ha

fixed my purpose. I am resolved to dieWhen I tore myself from you yesterday

my senses were in tumult and disorder

my heart was oppressed, hope an



pleasure had fled from me for ever, and

a petrifying cold had seized m

wretched being. I could scarcely reac

my room. I threw myself on my kneesand Heaven, for the last time, granted m

he consolation of shedding tears. A

housand ideas, a thousand schemes

arose within my soul; till at length on

ast, fixed, final thought took possessio

of my heart. It was to die. I lay down t

rest; and in the morning, in the quiet houof awakening, the same determinatio

was upon me. To die! It is not despair: i

s conviction that I have filled up th

measure of my sufferings, that I havreached my appointed term, and mus

sacrifice myself for thee. Yes, Charlotte

why should I not avow it? One of u



hree must die: it shall be Werther. O

beloved Charlotte! this heart, excited b

rage and fury, has often conceived th

horrid idea of murdering your husband—ou—myself! The lot is cast at length

And in the bright, quiet evenings o

summer, when you sometimes wande

oward the mountains, let your thought

hen turn to me: recollect how often yo

have watched me coming to meet yo

from the valley; then bend your eyeupon the churchyard which contains m

grave, and, by the light of the setting sun

mark how the evening breeze waves th

all grass which grows above my tomb. was calm when I began this letter, bu

he recollection of these scenes make

me weep like a child."



About ten in the morning, Werthe

called his servant, and, whilst he wa

dressing, told him that in a few days h

ntended to set out upon a journey, andbade him therefore lay his clothes i

order, and prepare them for packing up

call in all his accounts, fetch home th

books he had lent, and give two months

pay to the poor dependants who wer

accustomed to receive from him

weekly allowance.

He breakfasted in his room, and the

mounted his horse, and went to visit th

steward, who, however, was not ahome. He walked pensively in th

garden, and seemed anxious to renew al

he ideas that were most painful to him.



The children did not suffer him t

remain alone long. They followed him

skipping and dancing before him, an

old him, that after to-morrow anomorrow and one day more, they wer

o receive their Christmas gift fro

Charlotte; and they then recounted all th

wonders of which they had formed idea

n their child imaginations. "Tomorrow

and tomorrow," said he, "and one day

more!" And he kissed them tenderly. Hewas going; but the younger boy stoppe

him, to whisper something in his ear. H

old him that his elder brothers ha

written splendid New-Year's wishes soarge! one for papa, and another fo

Albert and Charlotte, and one fo

Werther; and they were to be presented



early in the morning, on New Year'

Day. This quite overcame him. He mad

each of the children a present, mounte

his horse, left his compliments for papand mamma, and, with tears in his eyes

rode away from the place.

He returned home about five o'clockordered his servant to keep up his fire

desired him to pack his books and line

at the bottom of the trunk, and to plac

his coats at the top. He then appears t

have made the following addition to th

etter addressed to Charlotte:

"You do not expect me. You think I

will obey you, and not visit you agai

ill Christmas Eve. O Charlotte, today o

never! On Christmas Eve you will hol



his paper in your hand; you wil

remble, and moisten it with your tears.

will—I must! Oh, how happy I feel to b

determined!"

In the meantime, Charlotte was in

pitiable state of mind. After her las

conversation with Werther, she foundhow painful to herself it would be t

decline his visits, and knew how

severely he would suffer from thei

separation.

She had, in conversation with Albert

mentioned casually that Werther would

not return before Christmas Eve; an

soon afterward Albert went o

horseback to see a person in th

neighbourhood, with whom he had t



ransact some business which woul

detain him all night.

Charlotte was sitting alone. None oher family were near, and she gav

herself up to the reflections that silentl

ook possession of her mind. She wa

for ever united to a husband whose lovand fidelity she had proved, to who

she was heartily devoted, and wh

seemed to be a special gift from Heave

o ensure her happiness. On the othe

hand, Werther had become dear to her

There was a cordial unanimity o

sentiment between them from the verfirst hour of their acquaintance, and thei

ong association and repeated interview

had made an indelible impression upo

her heart. She had been accustomed t



communicate to him every thought an

feeling which interested her, and hi

absence threatened to open a void in he

existence which it might be impossiblo fill. How heartily she wished that sh

might change him into her brother,—tha

she could induce him to marry one of he

own friends, or could reestablish hi

ntimacy with Albert.

She passed all her intimate friends i

review before her mind, but foun

something objectionable in each, an

could decide upon none to whom sh

would consent to give him.

Amid all these considerations she fe

deeply but indistinctly that her own rea

but unexpressed wish was to retain hi



for herself, and her pure and amiabl

heart felt from this thought a sense o

oppression which seemed to forbid

prospect of happiness. She wawretched: a dark cloud obscured he

mental vision.

It was now half-past six o'clock, anshe heard Werther's step on the stairs

She at once recognised his voice, as h

nquired if she were at home. Her hear

beat audibly—we could almost say fo

he first time—at his arrival. It was to

ate to deny herself; and, as he entered

she exclaimed, with a sort of ilconcealed confusion, "You have not kep

our word!" "I promised nothing," h

answered. "But you should hav

complied, at least for my sake," sh



continued. "I implore you, for both ou

sakes."

She scarcely knew what she said odid; and sent for some friends, who, b

heir presence, might prevent her bein

eft alone with Werther. He put down

some books he had brought with himhen made inquiries about some others

until she began to hope that her friend

might arrive shortly, entertaining at th

same time a desire that they might sta

away.

At one moment she felt anxious tha

he servant should remain in th

adjoining room, then she changed he

mind. Werther, meanwhile, walked

mpatiently up and down. She went t



he piano, and determined not to retire

She then collected her thoughts, and sa

down quietly at Werther's side, who had

aken his usual place on the sofa.

"Have you brought nothing to read?

she inquired. He had nothing. "There i

my drawer," she continued, "you wilfind your own translation of some of th

songs of Ossian. I have not yet rea

hem, as I have still hoped to hear yo

recite them; but, for some time past,

have not been able to accomplish such

wish." He smiled, and went for th

manuscript, which he took with shudder. He sat down; and, with eye

full of tears, he began to read.

"Star of descending night! fair is th



ight in the west! thou liftest thy unshor

head from thy cloud; thy steps are statel

on thy hill. What dost thou behold in th

plain? The stormy winds are laid. Thmurmur of the torrent comes from afar

Roaring waves climb the distant rock

The flies of evening are on their feebl

wings: the hum of their course is on th

field. What dost thou behold, fair light

But thou dost smile and depart. Th

waves come with joy around thee: thebathe thy lovely hair. Farewell, tho

silent beam! Let the light of Ossian'

soul arise!

"And it does arise in its strength!

behold my departed friends. Thei

gathering is on Lora, as in the days o

other years. Fingal comes like a water



column of mist! his heroes are around

and see the bards of song, gray-haire

Ullin! stately Ryno! Alpin with the

uneful voice: the soft complaint oMinona! How are ye changed, m

friends, since the days of Selma's feast

when we contended, like gales of sprin

as they fly along the hill, and bend b

urns the feebly whistling grass.

"Minona came forth in her beauty

with downcast look and tearful eye. He

hair was flying slowly with the blast tha

rushed unfrequent from the hill. Th

souls of the heroes were sad when shraised the tuneful voice. Oft had the

seen the grave of Salgar, the dar

dwelling of white-bosomed Colma

Colma left alone on the hill with all he



voice of song! Salgar promised to come

but the night descended around. Hear th

voice of Colma, when she sat alone o

he hill!

"Colma. It is night: I am alone, forlor

on the hill of storms. The wind is hear

on the mountain. The torrent is howlindown the rock. No hut receives me fro

he rain: forlorn on the hill of winds!

"Rise moon! from behind thy cloudsStars of the night, arise! Lead me, som

ight, to the place where my love rest

from the chase alone! His bow near hi

unstrung, his dogs panting around him

But here I must sit alone by the rock o

he mossy stream. The stream and th

wind roar aloud. I hear not the voice o



my love! Why delays my Salgar; why th

chief of the hill his promise? Here is th

rock and here the tree! here is th

roaring stream! Thou didst promise witnight to be here. Ah! whither is m

Salgar gone? With thee I would fly from

my father, with thee from my brother o

pride. Our race have long been foes: w

are not foes, O Salgar!

"Cease a little while, O wind! stream

be thou silent awhile! let my voice b

heard around! let my wanderer hear me

Salgar! it is Colma who calls. Here i

he tree and the rock. Salgar, my love, am here! Why delayest thou thy coming

Lo! the calm moon comes forth. Th

flood is bright in the vale. The rocks ar

gray on the steep. I see him not on th



brow. His dogs come not before him

with tidings of his near approach. Here

must sit alone!

"Who lie on the heath beside me? Ar

hey my love and my brother? Speak t

me, O my friends! To Colma they giv

no reply. Speak to me: I am alone! Mysoul is tormented with fears. Ah, they

are dead! Their swords are red from th

fight. O my brother! my brother! wh

hast thou slain my Salgar! Why, O

Salgar, hast thou slain my brother! Dea

were ye both to me! what shall I say i

our praise? Thou wert fair on the hilamong thousands! he was terrible i

fight! Speak to me! hear my voice! hea

me, sons of my love! They are silent

silent for ever! Cold, cold, are thei



breasts of clay! Oh, from the rock on th

hill, from the top of the windy steep

speak, ye ghosts of the dead! Speak,

will not be afraid! Whither are ye gono rest? In what cave of the hill shall

find the departed? No feeble voice is o

he gale: no answer half drowned in th

storm!

"I sit in my grief: I wait for morning i

my tears! Rear the tomb, ye friends o

he dead. Close it not till Colma come

My life flies away like a dream. Wh

should I stay behind? Here shall I res

with my friends, by the stream of thsounding rock. When night comes on th

hill when the loud winds arise my ghos

shall stand in the blast, and mourn th

death of my friends. The hunter shal



hear from his booth; he shall fear, bu

ove my voice! For sweet shall my voic

be for my friends: pleasant were he

friends to Colma.

"Such was thy song, Minona, softl

blushing daughter of Torman. Our tear

descended for Colma, and our soulwere sad! Ullin came with his harp; h

gave the song of Alpin. The voice o

Alpin was pleasant, the soul of Ryno

was a beam of fire! But they had reste

n the narrow house: their voice ha

ceased in Selma! Ullin had returned on

day from the chase before the heroefell. He heard their strife on the hill

heir song was soft, but sad! The

mourned the fall of Morar, first of morta

men! His soul was like the soul o



Fingal: his sword like the sword o

Oscar. But he fell, and his fathe

mourned: his sister's eyes were full o

ears. Minona's eyes were full of tearshe sister of car-borne Morar. Sh

retired from the song of Ullin, like th

moon in the west, when she foresees th

shower, and hides her fair head in

cloud. I touched the harp with Ullin: th

song of morning rose!

"Ryno. The wind and the rain are past

calm is the noon of day. The clouds ar

divided in heaven. Over the green hill

flies the inconstant sun. Red through thstony vale comes down the stream of th

hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream

but more sweet is the voice I hear. It i

he voice of Alpin, the son of song



mourning for the dead! Bent is his hea

of age: red his tearful eye. Alpin, thou

son of song, why alone on the silent hill

why complainest thou, as a blast in thwood as a wave on the lonely shore?

"Alpin. My tears, O Ryno! are for th

dead my voice for those that have passeaway. Tall thou art on the hill; fai

among the sons of the vale. But tho

shalt fall like Morar: the mourner shal

sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know the

no more: thy bow shall lie in thy hal

unstrung!

"Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a ro

on the desert: terrible as a meteor o

fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Th

sword in battle as lightning in the field



Thy voice was as a stream after rain

ike thunder on distant hills. Many fel

by thy arm: they were consumed in th

flames of thy wrath. But when thou didsreturn from war, how peaceful was th

brow. Thy face was like the sun afte

rain: like the moon in the silence o

night: calm as the breast of the lak

when the loud wind is laid.

"Narrow is thy dwelling now! dar

he place of thine abode! With thre

steps I compass thy grave, O thou wh

wast so great before! Four stones, wit

heir heads of moss, are the onlmemorial of thee. A tree with scarce a

eaf, long grass which whistles in th

wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grav

of the mighty Morar. Morar! thou art low



ndeed. Thou hast no mother to mour

hee, no maid with her tears of love

Dead is she that brought thee forth

Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

"Who on his staff is this? Who is thi

whose head is white with age, whos

eyes are red with tears, who quakes aevery step? It is thy father, O Morar! th

father of no son but thee. He heard of th

fame in war, he heard of foes dispersed

He heard of Morar's renown, why did h

not hear of his wound? Weep, thou fathe

of Morar! Weep, but thy son heareth thee

not. Deep is the sleep of the dead, lowheir pillow of dust. No more shall h

hear thy voice, no more awake at th

call. When shall it be morn in the grave

o bid the slumberer awake? Farewel



hou bravest of men! thou conqueror i

he field! but the field shall see thee n

more, nor the dark wood be lightene

with the splendour of thy steel. Thou haeft no son. The song shall preserve th

name. Future times shall hear of the

hey shall hear of the fallen Morar!

"The grief of all arose, but most th

bursting sigh of Armin. He remember

he death of his son, who fell in the day

of his youth. Carmor was near the hero

he chief of the echoing Galmal. Wh

burst the sigh of Armin? he said. Is ther

a cause to mourn? The song comes witts music to melt and please the soul. I

s like soft mist that, rising from a lake

pours on the silent vale; the gree

flowers are filled with dew, but the sun



returns in his strength, and the mist i

gone. Why art thou sad, O Armin, chie

of sea-surrounded Gorma?

"Sad I am! nor small is my cause o

woe! Carmor, thou hast lost no son; thou

hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colga

he valiant lives, and Annira, fairesmaid. The boughs of thy house ascend, O

Carmor! but Armin is the last of his race

Dark is thy bed, O Daura! deep thy sleep

n the tomb! When shalt thou wake wit

hy songs? with all thy voice of music?

"Arise, winds of autumn, arise: blow

along the heath. Streams of th

mountains, roar; roar, tempests in th

groves of my oaks! Walk through broken

clouds, O moon! show thy pale face a



ntervals; bring to my mind the nigh

when all my children fell, when Arinda

he mighty fell—when Daura the lovel

failed. Daura, my daughter, thou werfair, fair as the moon on Fura, white a

he driven snow, sweet as the breathin

gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong, th

spear was swift on the field, thy loo

was like mist on the wave, thy shield

red cloud in a storm! Armar, renowned

n war, came and sought Daura's loveHe was not long refused: fair was th

hope of their friends.

"Erath, son of Odgal, repined: hibrother had been slain by Armar. H

came disguised like a son of the sea: fai

was his cliff on the wave, white hi

ocks of age, calm his serious brow



Fairest of women, he said, lovel

daughter of Armin! a rock not distant i

he sea bears a tree on its side; re

shines the fruit afar. There Armar waitfor Daura. I come to carry his love! sh

went she called on Armar. Nough

answered, but the son of the rock

Armar, my love, my love! wh

ormentest thou me with fear? Hear, so

of Arnart, hear! it is Daura who callet

hee. Erath, the traitor, fled laughing tohe land. She lifted up her voice—sh

called for her brother and her father

Arindal! Armin! none to relieve you

Daura.

"Her voice came over the sea

Arindal, my son, descended from th

hill, rough in the spoils of the chase. Hi



arrows rattled by his side; his bow wa

n his hand, five dark-gray dogs attende

his steps. He saw fierce Erath on th

shore; he seized and bound him to aoak. Thick wind the thongs of the hid

around his limbs; he loads the wind

with his groans. Arindal ascends th

deep in his boat to bring Daura to land

Armar came in his wrath, and let fly th

gray-feathered shaft. It sung, it sunk i

hy heart, O Arindal, my son! for Erathe traitor thou diest. The oar is stoppe

at once: he panted on the rock, an

expired. What is thy grief, O Daura

when round thy feet is poured thbrother's blood. The boat is broken i

wain. Armar plunges into the sea to

rescue his Daura, or die. Sudden a blas



from a hill came over the waves; h

sank, and he rose no more.

"Alone, on the sea-beat rock, mdaughter was heard to complain

frequent and loud were her cries. Wha

could her father do? All night I stood o

he shore: I saw her by the faint beam ohe moon. All night I heard her cries

Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard o

he hill. Before morning appeared, he

voice was weak; it died away like th

evening breeze among the grass of th

rocks. Spent with grief, she expired, an

eft thee, Armin, alone. Gone is mstrength in war, fallen my pride amon

women. When the storms aloft arise

when the north lifts the wave on high,

sit by the sounding shore, and look o



he fatal rock.

"Often by the setting moon I see th

ghosts of my children; half viewless thewalk in mournful conference together."

A torrent of tears which streamed

from Charlotte's eyes and gave relief ther bursting heart, stopped Werther'

recitation. He threw down the book

seized her hand, and wept bitterly

Charlotte leaned upon her hand, anburied her face in her handkerchief: th

agitation of both was excessive. The

felt that their own fate was pictured i

he misfortunes of Ossian's heroes, the

felt this together, and their tear

redoubled. Werther supported hi

forehead on Charlotte's arm: sh



rembled, she wished to be gone; bu

sorrow and sympathy lay like a leade

weight upon her soul. She recovere

herself shortly, and begged Wertherwith broken sobs, to leave her, implored

him with the utmost earnestness t

comply with her request. He trembled

his heart was ready to burst: then, takin

up the book again, he recommence

reading, in a voice broken by sobs.

"Why dost thou waken me, O spring

Thy voice woos me, exclaiming,

refresh thee with heavenly dews; but th

ime of my decay is approaching, thstorm is nigh that shall whither m

eaves. Tomorrow the traveller shal

come, he shall come, who beheld me i

beauty: his eye shall seek me in the fiel



around, but he shall not find me."

The whole force of these words fel

upon the unfortunate Werther. Full odespair, he threw himself at Charlotte'

feet, seized her hands, and pressed the

o his eyes and to his forehead. A

apprehension of his fatal project nowstruck her for the first time. Her sense

were bewildered: she held his hands

pressed them to her bosom; and, leanin

oward him with emotions of th

enderest pity, her warm cheek touched

his. They lost sight of everything. Th

world disappeared from their eyes. Hclasped her in his arms, strained her t

his bosom, and covered her tremblin

ips with passionate kisses. "Werther!

she cried with a faint voice, turnin



herself away; "Werther!" and, with a

feeble hand, she pushed him from her. A

ength, with the firm voice of virtue, sh

exclaimed, "Werther!" He resisted notbut, tearing himself from her arms, fel

on his knees before her. Charlotte rose

and, with disordered grief, in mingle

ones of love and resentment, sh

exclaimed, "It is the last time, Werther

You shall never see me any more!

Then, casting one last, tender look upoher unfortunate lover, she rushed into th

adjoining room, and locked the door

Werther held out his arms, but did no

dare to detain her. He continued on thground, with his head resting on the sofa

for half an hour, till he heard a nois

which brought him to his senses. Th



servant entered. He then walked up an

down the room; and, when he was agai

eft alone, he went to Charlotte's door

and, in a low voice, said, "CharlotteCharlotte! but one word more, one las

adieu!" She returned no answer. H

stopped, and listened and entreated; bu

all was silent. At length he tore himsel

from the place, crying, "Adieu

Charlotte, adieu for ever!"

Werther ran to the gate of the town

The guards, who knew him, let him pas

n silence. The night was dark an

stormy,—it rained and snowed. Hreached his own door about eleven. Hi

servant, although seeing him enter th

house without his hat, did not venture t

say anything; and; as he undressed hi



master, he found that his clothes wer

wet. His hat was afterward found on th

point of a rock overhanging the valley

and it is inconceivable how he coulhave climbed to the summit on such

dark, tempestuous night without losin

his life.

He retired to bed, and slept to a lat

hour. The next morning his servant, upo

being called to bring his coffee, foun

him writing. He was adding, t

Charlotte, what we here annex.

"For the last, last time I open thes

eyes. Alas! they will behold the sun no

more. It is covered by a thick

mpenetrable cloud. Yes, Nature! put on

mourning: your child, your friend, you



over, draws near his end! This thought

Charlotte, is without parallel; and yet

seems like a mysterious dream when

repeat—this is my last day! The lastCharlotte, no word can adequatel

express this thought. The last! To-day

stand erect in all my strength to-morrow

cold and stark, I shall lie extended upo

he ground. To die! what is death? We

do but dream in our discourse upon it.

have seen many human beings die; butso straitened is our feeble nature, w

have no clear conception of th

beginning or the end of our existence. A

his moment I am my own—or rather am thine, thine, my adored! and the nex

we are parted, severed—perhaps fo

ever! No, Charlotte, no! How can I, how



can you, be annihilated? We exist. Wha

s annihilation? A mere word, an

unmeaning sound that fixes n

mpression on the mind. DeadCharlotte! laid in the cold earth, in th

dark and narrow grave! I had a frien

once who was everything to me in earl

outh. She died. I followed her hearse;

stood by her grave when the coffin wa

owered; and when I heard the creakin

of the cords as they were loosened andrawn up, when the first shovelful o

earth was thrown in, and the coffi

returned a hollow sound, which grew

fainter and fainter till all was completelcovered over, I threw myself on th

ground; my heart was smitten, grieved

shattered, rent—but I neither knew wha



had happened, nor what was to happe

o me. Death! the grave! I understand no

he words.—Forgive, oh, forgive me

Yesterday—ah, that day should havebeen the last of my life! Thou angel! fo

he first time in my existence, I fe

rapture glow within my inmost soul. Sh

oves, she loves me! Still burns upon m

ips the sacred fire they received fro

hine. New torrents of deligh

overwhelm my soul. Forgive me, ohforgive!

"I knew that I was dear to you; I saw

t in your first entrancing look, knew by the first pressure of your hand; bu

when I was absent from you, when I saw

Albert at your side, my doubts and fear

returned.



"Do you remember the flowers yo

sent me, when, at that crowde

assembly, you could neither speak no

extend your hand to me? Half the night was on my knees before those flowers

and I regarded them as the pledges o

our love; but those impressions grew

fainter, and were at length effaced.

"Everything passes away; but a whol

eternity could not extinguish the livin

flame which was yesterday kindled b

our lips, and which now burns withi

me. She loves me! These arms hav

encircled her waist, these lips havrembled upon hers. She is mine! Yes

Charlotte, you are mine for ever!

"And what do they mean by sayin



Albert is your husband? He may be s

for this world; and in this world it is

sin to love you, to wish to tear you fro

his embrace. Yes, it is a crime; and suffer the punishment, but I have enjoye

he full delight of my sin. I have inhale

a balm that has revived my soul. Fro

his hour you are mine; yes, Charlotte

ou are mine! I go before you. I go to m

Father and to your Father. I will pour ou

my sorrows before him, and he will givme comfort till you arrive. Then will

fly to meet you. I will claim you, an

remain your eternal embrace, in th

presence of the Almighty.

"I do not dream, I do not rave

Drawing nearer to the grave m

perceptions become clearer. We shal



exist; we shall see each other again; w

shall behold your mother; I shall behol

her, and expose to her my inmost heart

Your mother—your image!"

About eleven o'clock Werther asked

his servant if Albert had returned. H

answered, "Yes;" for he had seen himpass on horseback: upon which Werthe

sent him the following note, unsealed:

"Be so good as to lend me youpistols for a journey. Adieu."

Charlotte had slept little during th

past night. All her apprehensions werrealised in a way that she could neithe

foresee nor avoid. Her blood wa

boiling in her veins, and a thousan



painful sensations rent her pure hear

Was it the ardour of Werther's

passionate embraces that she felt withi

her bosom? Was it anger at his daring?Was it the sad comparison of her presen

condition with former days of innocence

ranquillity, and self-confidence? How

could she approach her husband, an

confess a scene which she had no reaso

o conceal, and which she yet felt

nevertheless, unwilling to avow? Thehad preserved so long a silence towar

each other and should she be the first t

break it by so unexpected a discovery

She feared that the mere statement oWerther's visit would trouble him, and

his distress would be heightened by he

perfect candour. She wished that h



could see her in her true light, and judg

her without prejudice; but was sh

anxious that he should read her inmos

soul? On the other hand, could shdeceive a being to whom all her thought

had ever been exposed as clearly a

crystal, and from whom no sentiment ha

ever been concealed? These reflection

made her anxious and thoughtful. He

mind still dwelt on Werther, who wa

now lost to her, but whom she could nobring herself to resign, and for whom sh

knew nothing was left but despair if sh

should be lost to him for ever.

A recollection of that mysteriou

estrangement which had lately subsiste

between herself and Albert, and whic

she could never thoroughly understand



was now beyond measure painful to her

Even the prudent and the good hav

before now hesitated to explain thei

mutual differences, and have dwelt isilence upon their imaginary grievances

until circumstances have become s

entangled, that in that critical juncture

when a calm explanation would hav

saved all parties, an understanding wa

mpossible. And thus if domesti

confidence had been earlier establishebetween them, if love and kin

forbearance had mutually animated an

expanded their hearts, it might not

perhaps, even yet have been too late tsave our friend.

But we must not forget on

remarkable circumstance. We may



observe from the character of Werther'

correspondence, that he had neve

affected to conceal his anxious desire t

quit this world. He had often discussehe subject with Albert; and, between th

atter and Charlotte, it had no

unfrequently formed a topic o

conversation. Albert was so opposed to

he very idea of such an action, that, wit

a degree of irritation unusual in him, h

had more than once given Werther tounderstand that he doubted th

seriousness of his threats, and not onl

urned them into ridicule, but cause

Charlotte to share his feelings oncredulity. Her heart was thu

ranquillised when she felt disposed t

view the melancholy subject in a seriou



point of view, though she neve

communicated to her husband th

apprehensions she sometime

experienced.

Albert, upon his return, was receive

by Charlotte with ill-conceale

embarrassment. He was himself out ohumour; his business was unfinished

and he had just discovered that th

neighbouring official with whom he ha

o deal, was an obstinate and narrow

minded personage. Many things ha

occurred to irritate him.

He inquired whether anything ha

happened during his absence, an

Charlotte hastily answered that Werthe

had been there on the evenin



previously. He then inquired for hi

etters, and was answered that severa

packages had been left in his study. H

hereon retired, leaving Charlotte alone.

The presence of the being she love

and honoured produced a new

mpression on her heart. Threcollection of his generosity, kindness

and affection had calmed her agitation:

secret impulse prompted her to follow

him; she took her work and went to hi

study, as was often her custom. He wa

busily employed opening and reading hi

etters. It seemed as if the contents osome were disagreeable. She aske

some questions: he gave short answers

and sat down to write.



Several hours passed in this manner

and Charlotte's feelings became mor

and more melancholy. She felt th

extreme difficulty of explaining to hehusband, under any circumstances, th

weight that lay upon her heart; and he

depression became every momen

greater, in proportion as sh

endeavoured to hide her grief, and t

conceal her tears.

The arrival of Werther's servan

occasioned her the greates

embarrassment. He gave Albert a note

which the latter coldly handed to hiwife, saying, at the same time, "Give hi

he pistols. I wish him a pleasan

ourney," he added, turning to th

servant. These words fell upon Charlott



ike a thunderstroke: she rose from he

seat half-fainting, and unconscious o

what she did. She walked mechanicall

oward the wall, took down the pistolwith a trembling hand, slowly wiped th

dust from them, and would have delaye

onger, had not Albert hastened he

movements by an impatient look. Sh

hen delivered the fatal weapons to th

servant, without being able to utter

word. As soon as he had departed, shfolded up her work, and retired at onc

o her room, her heart overcome with th

most fearful forebodings. Sh

anticipated some dreadful calamity. Shwas at one moment on the point of goin

o her husband, throwing herself at hi

feet, and acquainting him with all tha



had happened on the previous evening

hat she might acknowledge her faul

and explain her apprehensions; then sh

saw that such a step would be uselessas she would certainly be unable t

nduce Albert to visit Werther. Dinner

was served; and a kind friend whom sh

had persuaded to remain assisted t

sustain the conversation, which wa

carried on by a sort of compulsion, til

he events of the morning were forgotten

When the servant brought the pistol

o Werther, the latter received them with

ransports of delight upon hearing thaCharlotte had given them to him with he

own hand. He ate some bread, dran

some wine, sent his servant to dinner

and then sat down to write as follows:



"They have been in your hands yo

wiped the dust from them. I kiss them

housand times—you have touched them

Yes, Heaven favours my design, andou, Charlotte, provide me with the fata

nstruments. It was my desire to receiv

my death from your hands, and my wis

s gratified. I have made inquiries of m

servant. You trembled when you gave

him the pistols, but you bade me n

adieu. Wretched, wretched that I am—not one farewell! How could you shu

our heart against me in that hour whic

makes you mine for ever? Charlotte

ages cannot efface the impression—feel you cannot hate the man who s

passionately loves you!"

After dinner he called his servant



desired him to finish the packing up

destroyed many papers, and then wen

out to pay some trifling debts. He soo

returned home, then went out againnotwithstanding the rain, walked fo

some time in the count's garden, an

afterward proceeded farther into th

country. Toward evening he came back

once more, and resumed his writing.

"Wilhelm, I have for the last tim

beheld the mountains, the forests, and th

sky. Farewell! And you, my deares

mother, forgive me! Console her

Wilhelm. God bless you! I have settledall my affairs! Farewell! We shall mee

again, and be happier than ever."

"I have requited you badly, Albert; bu



ou will forgive me. I have disturbed th

peace of your home. I have sowe

distrust between you. Farewell! I wil

end all this wretchedness. And oh, thamy death may render you happy! Albert

Albert! make that angel happy, and th

blessing of Heaven be upon you!"

He spent the rest of the evening i

arranging his papers: he tore and burne

a great many; others he sealed up, an

directed to Wilhelm. They contained

some detached thoughts and maxims

some of which I have perused. At te

o'clock he ordered his fire to be madup, and a bottle of wine to be brought t

him. He then dismissed his servant

whose room, as well as the apartment

of the rest of the family, was situated in



another part of the house. The servan

ay down without undressing, that h

might be the sooner ready for his journe

n the morning, his master havinnformed him that the post-horses woul

be at the door before six o'clock.

"Past eleven o'clock! All is silenaround me, and my soul is calm. I than

hee, O God, that thou bestowest strengt

and courage upon me in these las

moments! I approach the window, m

dearest of friends; and through th

clouds, which are at this moment drive

rapidly along by the impetuous winds, behold the stars which illumine th

eternal heavens. No, you will not fal

celestial bodies: the hand of th

Almighty supports both you and me!



have looked for the last time upon th

constellation of the Greater Bear: it i

my favourite star; for when I bade yo

farewell at night, Charlotte, and turnemy steps from your door, it alway

shone upon me. With what rapture have

at times beheld it! How often have

mplored it with uplifted hands t

witness my felicity! and even still—Bu

what object is there, Charlotte, whic

fails to summon up your image beforme? Do you not surround me on al

sides? and have I not, like a child

reasured up every trifle which you hav

consecrated by your touch?

"Your profile, which was so dear to

me, I return to you; and I pray you t

preserve it. Thousands of kisses have



mprinted upon it, and a thousand time

has it gladdened my heart on departin

from and returning to my home.

"I have implored your father to protec

my remains. At the corner of th

churchyard, looking toward the fields

here are two lime-trees—there I wish tie. Your father can, and doubtless will

do this much for his friend. Implore it o

him. But perhaps pious Christians wil

not choose that their bodies should b

buried near the corpse of a poor

unhappy wretch like me. Then let me b

aid in some remote valley, or near thhighway, where the priest and Levit

may bless themselves as they pass by m

omb, whilst the Samaritan will shed

ear for my fate.



"See, Charlotte, I do not shudder t

ake the cold and fatal cup, from which

shall drink the draught of death. You

hand presents it to me, and I do noremble. All, all is now concluded: th

wishes and the hopes of my existenc

are fulfilled. With cold, unflinching hand

knock at the brazen portals of Death

Oh, that I had enjoyed the bliss of dyin

for you! how gladly would I hav

sacrificed myself for you; CharlotteAnd could I but restore peace and joy t

our bosom, with what resolution, wit

what joy, would I not meet my fate! Bu

t is the lot of only a chosen few to sheheir blood for their friends, and by thei

death to augment, a thousand times, th

happiness of those by whom they ar



beloved.

"I wish, Charlotte, to be buried in th

dress I wear at present: it has beerendered sacred by your touch. I hav

begged this favour of your father. M

spirit soars above my sepulchre. I do no

wish my pockets to be searched. Thknot of pink ribbon which you wore o

our bosom the first time I saw you

surrounded by the children—Oh, kis

hem a thousand times for me, and tel

hem the fate of their unhappy friend!

hink I see them playing around me. Th

dear children! How warmly have I beeattached to you, Charlotte! Since the firs

hour I saw you, how impossible have

found it to leave you. This ribbon mus

be buried with me: it was a present fro



ou on my birthday. How confused it al

appears! Little did I then think that

should journey this road. But peace!

pray you, peace!

"They are loaded—the clock strike

welve. I say amen. Charlotte, Charlotte

farewell, farewell!"

A neighbour saw the flash, and heard

he report of the pistol; but, as everythin

remained quiet, he thought no more of it

In the morning, at six o'clock, th

servant went into Werther's room with a

candle. He found his master stretcheupon the floor, weltering in his blood

and the pistols at his side. He called, h

ook him in his arms, but received n



answer. Life was not yet quite extinct

The servant ran for a surgeon, and the

went to fetch Albert. Charlotte heard th

ringing of the bell: a cold shudder seizeher. She wakened her husband, and the

both rose. The servant, bathed in tear

faltered forth the dreadful news

Charlotte fell senseless at Albert's feet.

When the surgeon came to th

unfortunate Werther, he was still lying

on the floor; and his pulse beat, but hi

imbs were cold. The bullet, entering th

forehead, over the right eye, ha

penetrated the skull. A vein was openedn his right arm: the blood came, and h

still continued to breathe.

From the blood which flowed fro



he chair, it could be inferred that he had

committed the rash act sitting at hi

bureau, and that he afterward fell upo

he floor. He was found lying on hiback near the window. He was in full

dress costume.

The house, the neighbourhood, and thwhole town were immediately i

commotion. Albert arrived. They had

aid Werther on the bed: his head wa

bound up, and the paleness of death wa

upon his face. His limbs wer

motionless; but he still breathed, at on

ime strongly, then weaker—his deatwas momently expected.

He had drunk only one glass of th

wine. "Emilia Galotti" lay open upon hi



bureau.

I shall say nothing of Albert's distress

or of Charlotte's grief.

The old steward hastened to the hous

mmediately upon hearing the news: h

embraced his dying friend amid a flooof tears. His eldest boys soon followe

him on foot. In speechless sorrow the

hrew themselves on their knees by th

bedside, and kissed his hands and faceThe eldest, who was his favourite, hun

over him till he expired; and even the

he was removed by force. At twelv

o'clock Werther breathed his last. Th

presence of the steward, and th

precautions he had adopted, prevented

disturbance; and that night, at the hour o



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