。， Let that man die unconsoled who can deride the invalid for undertakinga journey to distant, healthful springs, where he often finds onlya heavier disease and a more painful death, or who can exult overthe despairing mind of a sinner, who, to obtain peace of conscienceand an alleviation of misery, makes a pilgrimage to the HolySepulchre. Each laborious step which galls his wounded feet inrough and untrodden paths pours a drop of balm into his troubledsoul, and the journey of many a weary day brings a nightly reliefto his anguished heart. Will you dare call this enthusiasm, yecrowd of pompous declaimers? Enthusiasm! 0 God! thou seest mytears. Thou hast allotted us our portion of misery: must we alsohave brethren to persecute us, to deprive us of our consolation,of our trust in thee, and in thy love and mercy? For our trust inthe virtue of the healing root, or in the strength of the vine,what is it else than a belief in thee from whom all that surroundsus derives its healing and restoring powers? Father, whom I knownot, -- who wert once wont to fill my soul, but who now hidest thyface from me, -- call me back to thee; be silent no longer; thysilence shall not delay a soul which thirsts after thee. What man,what father, could be angry with a son for returning to him suddenly,for falling on his neck, and exclaiming, "I am here again, myfather! forgive me if I have anticipated my journey, and returnedbefore the appointed time! The world is everywhere the same, --a scene of labour and pain, of pleasure and reward; but what doesit all avail? I am happy only where thou art, and in thy presenceam I content to suffer or enjoy." And wouldst thou, heavenly Father,banish such a child from thy presence?
We commenced with a minuet. I led out one lady after another,and precisely those who were the most disagreeable could not bringthemselves to leave off. Charlotte and her partner began an Englishcountry dance, and you must imagine my delight when it was theirturn to dance the figure with us. You should see Charlotte dance.She dances with her whole heart and soul: her figure is all harmony,elegance, and grace, as if she were conscious of nothing else, andhad no other thought or feeling; and, doubtless, for the moment,every other sensation is extinct.。，
She was a good creature, who had grown up in the narrow sphere ofhousehold industry and weekly appointed labour; one who knew nopleasure beyond indulging in a walk on Sundays, arrayed in herbest attire, accompanied by her friends, or perhaps joining in thedance now and then at some festival, and chatting away her sparehours with a neighbour, discussing the scandal or the quarrels ofthe village, trifles sufficient to occupy her heart. At lengththe warmth of her nature is influenced by certain new and unknownwishes. Inflamed by the flatteries of men, her former pleasuresbecome by degrees insipid, till at length she meets with a youthto whom she is attracted by an indescribable feeling; upon him shenow rests all her hopes; she forgets the world around her; shesees, hears, desires nothing but him, and him only. He aloneoccupies all her thoughts. Uncorrupted by the idle indulgence ofan enervating vanity, her affection moving steadily toward itsobject, she hopes to become his, and to realise, in an everlastingunion with him, all that happiness which she sought, all that blissfor which she longed. His repeated promises confirm her hopes:embraces and endearments, which increase the ardour of her desires,overmaster her soul. She floats in a dim, delusive anticipationof her happiness; and her feelings become excited to their utmosttension. She stretches out her arms finally to embrace the objectof all her wishes and her lover forsakes her. Stunned and bewildered,she stands upon a precipice. All is darkness around her. Noprospect, no hope, no consolation -- forsaken by him in whom herexistence was centred! She sees nothing of the wide world beforeher, thinks nothing of the many individuals who might supply thevoid in her heart; she feels herself deserted, forsaken by theworld; and, blinded and impelled by the agony which wrings hersoul, she plunges into the deep, to end her sufferings in the broadembrace of death. See here, Albert, the history of thousands; andtell me, is not this a case of physical infirmity? Nature has noway to escape from the labyrinth: her powers are exhausted: shecan contend no longer, and the poor soul must die.。，
MAY 9.。， Yesterday, when I took leave she seized me by the hand, and said,"Adieu, dear Werther." Dear Werther! It was the first time sheever called me dear: the sound sunk deep into my heart. I haverepeated it a hundred times; and last night, on going to bed, andtalking to myself of various things, I suddenly said, "Good night,dear Werther!" and then could not but laugh at myself.
The common people of the place know me already, and love me,particularly the children. When at first I associated with them,and inquired in a friendly tone about their various trifles, somefancied that I wished to ridicule them, and turned from me inexceeding ill-humour. I did not allow that circumstance to grieveme: I only felt most keenly what I have often before observed.Persons who can claim a certain rank keep themselves coldly alooffrom the common people, as though they feared to lose their importanceby the contact; whilst wanton idlers, and such as are prone to badjoking, affect to descend to their level, only to make the poorpeople feel their impertinence all the more keenly.。， I sometimes cannot understand how she can love another, how shedares love another, when I love nothing in this world so completely,so devotedly, as I love her, when I know only her, and have noother possession.
。， Witness, Heaven, how often I lie down in my bed with a wish, andeven a hope, that I may never awaken again. And in the morning,when I open my eyes, I behold the sun once more, and am wretched.If I were whimsical, I might blame the weather, or an acquaintance,or some personal disappointment, for my discontented mind; and thenthis insupportable load of trouble would not rest entirely uponmyself. But, alas! I feel it too sadly. I am alone the causeof my own woe, am I not? Truly, my own bosom contains the sourceof all my sorrow, as it previously contained the source of all mypleasure. Am I not the same being who once enjoyed an excess ofhappiness, who, at every step, saw paradise open before him, andwhose heart was ever expanded toward the whole world? And thisheart is now dead, no sentiment can revive it; my eyes are dry;and my senses, no more refreshed by the influence of soft tears,wither and consume my brain. I suffer much, for I have lost theonly charm of life: that active, sacred power which created worldsaround me, -- it is no more. When I look from my window at thedistant hills, and behold the morning sun breaking through themists, and illuminating the country around, which is still wrappedin silence, whilst the soft stream winds gently through the willows,which have shed their leaves; when glorious nature displays allher beauties before me, and her wondrous prospects are ineffectualto extract one tear of joy from my withered heart, I feel that insuch a moment I stand like a reprobate before heaven, hardened,insensible, and unmoved. Oftentimes do I then bend my knee to theearth, and implore God for the blessing of tears, as the despondinglabourer in some scorching climate prays for the dews of heavento moisten his parched corn.
"See, Charlotte, I do not shudder to take the cold and fatal cup,from which I shall drink the draught of death. Your hand presentsit to me, and I do not tremble. All, all is now concluded: thewishes and the hopes of my existence are fulfilled. With cold,unflinching hand I knock at the brazen portals of Death. Oh, thatI had enjoyed the bliss of dying for you! how gladly would I havesacrificed myself for you; Charlotte! And could I but restorepeace and joy to your bosom, with what resolution, with what joy,would I not meet my fate! But it is the lot of only a chosen fewto shed their blood for their friends, and by their death toaugment, a thousand times, the happiness of those by whom they arebeloved.。， "And such a being," She continued, "was to leave us, Werther!Great God, must we thus part with everything we hold dear in thisworld? Nobody felt this more acutely than the children: they criedand lamented for a long time afterward, complaining that men hadcarried away their dear mamma."
， I thank you, Albert, for having deceived me. I waited for thenews that your wedding-day was fixed; and I intended on that day,with solemnity, to take down Charlotte's profile from the wall,and to bury it with some other papers I possess. You are nowunited, and her picture still remains here. Well, let it remain!Why should it not? I know that I am still one of your society,that I still occupy a place uninjured in Charlotte's heart, thatI hold the second place therein; and I intend to keep it. Oh, Ishould become mad if she could forget! Albert, that thought ishell! Farewell, Albert farewell, angel of heaven farewell, Charlotte!。， Unhappy being that I am! Why do I thus deceive myself? What isto come of all this wild, aimless, endless passion? I cannot prayexcept to her. My imagination sees nothing but her: all surroundingobjects are of no account, except as they relate to her. In thisdreamy state I enjoy many happy hours, till at length I feelcompelled to tear myself away from her. Ah, Wilhelm, to whatdoes not my heart often compel me! When I have spent several hoursin her company, till I feel completely absorbed by her figure, hergrace, the divine expression of her thoughts, my mind becomesgradually excited to the highest excess, my sight grows dim, myhearing confused, my breathing oppressed as if by the hand of amurderer, and my beating heart seeks to obtain relief for my achingsenses. I am sometimes unconscious whether I really exist. Ifin such moments I find no sympathy, and Charlotte does not allowme to enjoy the melancholy consolation of bathing her hand withmy tears, I feel compelled to tear myself from her, when I eitherwander through the country, climb some precipitous cliff, or forcea path through the trackless thicket, where I am lacerated andtorn by thorns and briers; and thence I find relief. Sometimes Ilie stretched on the ground, overcome with fatigue and dying withthirst; sometimes, late in the night, when the moon shines aboveme, I recline against an aged tree in some sequestered forest, torest my weary limbs, when, exhausted and worn, I sleep till breakof day. O Wilhelm! the hermit's cell, his sackcloth, and girdleof thorns would be luxury and indulgence compared with what I suffer.Adieu! I see no end to this wretchedness except the grave.