first transport of his love, when he had only experienced the sweetness of it, Werter loved every body, the village conversations, the prattling of children, the stories of old women; he loved to see the vapors of the morning rising in the valley, the sun at noonday in the forest, the grass growing on the margin of the streams, the insects in the grass,-life every where, God every where. But let us not be deceived. This mingled tenderness and love which he feels for every thing, was the effect of this cheerfulness of the heart which love inspires. These outpourings of the heart do not continue long; the heart soon becomes hardened, and fixes itself upon the beloved object; very soon the lover, without being conscious of it, knows but two persons, his betrothed and himself. He loves himself so much the more, since he feels that he is beloved, and the love which he feels elevates him in his own eyes. "She loves me," said Werter to his friend; "you may imagine how happy I am, how much (I say it confidentially to you, for you will understand me) I adore myself, since she loves me." This expression admirably portrays this egotism which constitutes the foundation of love; a charming egotism of which we are unconscious, and imagine that we are living for another when we are living only for ourselves!

In

Happy and proud of this love, Werter does not know what to do; he cannot marry Charlotte; he cannot, nor does he wish to seduce her. He has now reached that point where, as Lord Edward said to Saint Preux, being forced to act like an honorable man, he prefers to die. But in Goethe, this idea of suicide, of which Jean Jacques Rousseau has only made an eloquent controversy between Lord Edward and Saint Preux, becomes the subject of his romance. proportion as Werter loses the hope of a success which he does not even desire, he is inclined to commit suicide. The works of nature which formerly enchanted his senses and his soul, now sadden and oppress him. Formerly when he was happy, but when his love for Charlotte "had made his blood boil," he went to Wahleim; there he saw in a little cottage a peasant woman working with her children around her; he played himself with the youngest, and on returning home he wrote to a friend "that nothing so much calms the passions as seeing such a creature as she, who in peace and happiness ran within the narrow circle of her ex

istence, finding each day what was necessary for her comfort, and seeing the leaves fall without thinking of any thing but the approach of winter." Now this quiet repose seems irksome, this labor dull, because his own happiness formerly threw a charm over the sight of human occupations.

We have explained the character of Werter, such as we have conceived it. The little taste which we have for this sort of character, (common even among people who do not kill themselves,) does not however prevent us from recognizing the interest with which Goëthe has invested his hero. We do not love Werter, but we love to see the struggles which he makes against the disgust of life. We love to see how the idea of death by degrees gets the better of his mind. Goëthe well knew that whatever disgust we may have for life, there is nevertheless a great distance between this disgust and a determination to die. Even in those who have most firmly resolved to die, what contradictory sentiments, what different emotions in the interval between the first and the last thought! The soul then seems to become more alive and sensible than ever. It attaches itself with a kind of mournful joy to the recollections of life, which seems more pleasing as we are about to quit it, and without ceasing to wish to die, it breaks out in unavailing regrets; it feels itself smitten with an indescribable sensibility, which causes the slightest circumstance, even a word, a motion, or a look, to shock and wound it. But in this very impatience, we feel the struggle and the revolt of life against a fatal resolution, which a man who has reached this point has no longer the power to change and no longer the courage to accomplish. The spectacle of man in these moments of hesitation and suffering is full of interest, and it is on this account that Goëthe has prolonged the history of the last days of Werter. The details are apparently minute and trivial, and admirably calculated to hurry him on to suicide. It was the Sunday before Christmas. Christmas is a holiday for children in Germany and when Werter goes to see Charlotte, he finds her occupied in preparing playthings for her brothers and sisters. She had determined to do every thing in order to avoid meeting Werter; she felt that it was for his honor and her repose. She was embarrassed in seeing him; yet they entered into a conversation.

"You also,' said Charlotte, (concealing her embarrass

ment under an amiable smile,) 'you also will have pleasant Christmases, if you are very prudent.' 'And what do you mean by being very prudent?' exclaimed he. 'How must I become so ?' 'How ?-Tuesday is Christmas eve,' said she; my father and the children will come to see me. You must come also. But not before . . .'-Werter was disconcerted. I beg you,' said she, 'for the sake of my repose, that it may be so. This cannot continue thus; no, it cannot.' He turned away his eyes from her and began to take long strides across the room, repeating to himself, 'This cannot continue thus.' Charlotte, who perceived the miserable state into which these words had thrown him, sought, by a thousand questions, to distract him from his gloomy meditations; but it was in vain. No, Charlotte,' said he, 'I will never see you more.' 'Why then, Werter,' replied she, you can, you must see us again. Oh! why were you born with this ardent and uncontrollable passion which you have for every thing to which you become attached? I entreat you,' said she in taking hold of his hand, be master of yourself. What happiness your talents and accomplishments would procure you, if you would only break this fatal attachment for a creature who can do nothing but pity you!' He looked at her with a melancholy air. She took his hand. 'Be calm for a moment,' said she. Do you not perceive that you are hastening to your destruction? Why should it be for me? I, who am the property of another-precisely me? I fear, yes, I fear that it is the very impossibility of possessing me, which renders your desires so ardent.' He withdrew his hand from hers, and regarding her with a fixed and sad look: 'It is well,' exclaimed he, 'it is very well! This remark is perhaps from Albert! It is profound! very profound!' Any body could have made it,' she replied. 'Is there no woman in the whole world who can fill the wishes of your heart? Go in search of her; I am sure you will find her. I have grieved for a long time for the solitude in which you have shut yourself up. A voyage will certainly do you good. Seek an object worthy of your affections, and then return. enjoy together the felicity which a sincere friendship bestows.' "You may print that,' said Werter, with a bitter smile, ' and recommend it to all governesses. Ah! Charlotte, give me some respite; all will be set aright.' 'Ah well, Werter! but do not return before Christmas eve!' He wished to

We will

answer; Albert entered. They saluted each other with coolness. They walked by each other with an embarrassed air, and very soon ceased to speak. Albert did the same. Then he asked his wife about some business with which he had charged her. In learning that they were not attended to, he spoke some words which Werter thought very cold and harsh. He wished to go, but could not. He hesitated

until eight o'clock, and his temper became still more soured. When he had taken up his hat and cane, Albert requested him to remain; but he saw that this was only from politeness; he therefore thanked him coldly, and departed.

"He returned home, took the light from the hands of his servant, and retired to his chamber alone. He began to sob, and to walk backwards and forwards with long strides in his chamber, speaking to himself with a loud voice, and in a very excited manner. He ended by throwing himself on his bed with his clothes on, where his servant found him, who entered his chamber to ask him if he did not wish to have his boots taken off. He consented, and told him not to enter his chamber in the morning until he was called. On Monday morning he commenced to write to Charlotte the following letter, which, after his death, was found in his secretary, and which was remitted to Charlotte:

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"It is a thing resolved, Charlotte; I wish to die; and I write to you in cold blood, without any romantic exaltation, on the morning of the day when I will see you for the last time. When you will read this, my beloved, the tomb will have already covered the cold remains of the unfortunate man who did not know a sweeter pleasure, in the last moments of his life, than to converse with you. I have passed a terrible yet profitable night. It has confirmed and fixed my resolution. I wish to die! When I tore myself away from you yesterday, what dreadful convulsions did I not experience! What terrible heartaches! How my life, consuming itself near you, without joy, without hope, chilled me, and filled me with horror! I could scarcely reach my chamber; I threw myself on my knees, entirely beside myself; and, O God! you granted me the relief of bitter tears. A thousand projects, a thousand ideas, struggled in my soul; at last there remained but one idea: I wish to die! I retired to my bed, and this morning, when I awoke, calm and tranquil, I found still in my heart this resolution, firm and un

changed: I wish to die! It is not despair, it is the certainty that I have finished my career, and that I will sacrifice myself for you. Yes, Charlotte, why should I conceal it from you! It is necessary that one of us should perish, and I prefer that it should be me. . . Be it so! When, upon the evening of a beautiful summer's day, you ascend the mountain, think of me then, and remember how often I have walked this valley! Look, then, towards the graveyard, and see how the wind waves the long grass over my tomb, at the last rays of the setting sun! .. I was calm when I began; but now these images affect me so much, that I weep like a child.'"

And if we ourselves perhaps weep in reading this letter, it is because it is full of the sentiment of life, concealed, or rather extinguished, by the determination to die. We see, when Werter is contemplating suicide, how all his thoughts refer to life; how he continually calls it to remembrance when about to quit it! Charlotte will read this letter which he has written; Charlotte, in walking through the valley which he loved, will remember him; Charlotte will see the wind waving the grass which covers his tomb, in the last rays of the setting sun! We see the images of life every where, every where the idea of those who will live. The thought of death seems to be there only to give to those ideas something more vivid and touching. There is the same art and the same interest in the recital which precedes and introduces this letter. This embarrassment of Albert and Werter, this careless conversation, began, abandoned, and resumed; this sourness, becoming increased at every word; this cold invitation to supper; this cold refusal; what are all these but the daily occurrences of life, when that which is ordinary and indif ferent becomes terrible and solemn; when a great and dolorous emotion increases it by the grandeur of the contrast? There were, perhaps, between Albert and Werter, twenty other evenings of this kind; but this last is more affecting than the others, because it is the last evening of Werter.

We will not close our reflections upon Werter, without saying a word with regard to the influence which the Nouvelle Héloïse of Rousseau has had upon the Werter of Goëthe. Werter is of the school of Saint Preux. His enthusiastic love is love such as Rousseau conceived it. Until Rousseau, the literature of the eighteenth century only treated of frivolous