He survived this dreadful scene but three days, and I feel, and always shall feel, that I have been his murderer.  I began these memoirs to vindicate my character.  I have now no character that I wish to vindicate.

* * * * *

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE

The Sorrows of Young Werther

Johann Wolfgang von Goethe, the greatest of German poets, and one of the most highly gifted men of the eighteenth century, was born in 1749 at Frankfort-on-the-Main.  He received his early education from his father, who was an imperial councillor, and in the year 1765 he went to the University of Leipzig.  Goethe’s first great work was “Goetz von Berlichingen” (see Vol.  XVII). which was translated into English by Sir Walter Scott.  “The Sorrows of Young Werther” ("Die Leiden des jungen Werthers”) was begun in 1772, when Goethe was twenty-three years old, and was published anonymously two years later.  It immediately created an immense sensation, made a round of the world, and was everywhere either enthusiastically praised or severely condemned.  It became the fashion of young men to dress themselves in blue coats and yellow breeches in imitation of the hero, and many of them were moved to follow Werther’s example as the simplest way of settling their love affairs.  Nevertheless, “Werther” formed the real basis of Goethe’s fame.  It was the first revelation to the world of the genius, which, a quarter of a century later, was to give it “Faust” (Vol.  XVI).  The story is frankly sentimental, but as such it is easily the best of the sentimental novels of the eighteenth century.  When, many years later, Goethe was invited to an audience with Napoleon, the emperor volunteered the information that he had read “Werther” through six times.  Goethe died in March, 1832, in his eighty-fourth year.

I.—­“I Have Found an Angel"

May 4.  What a strange thing is the heart of man.  To leave my dearest friend, and yet to feel happy!  I know you will forgive me, and I in return will promise that I will no longer worry myself over every petty stab of fortune.  Poor Leonora!  And yet I was not to blame.  Was I in fault that, while I was pleasantly entertained by the charms of her sister, her feeble heart conceived a passion for me?  And yet I am not wholly blameless.  Did I not encourage her emotion?  Did I not—­but what is man that he dares so to accuse himself?  Beyond doubt, the sufferings of mankind would be far less did they but endure the present with equanimity, instead of raking up the past for memories of sorrow.

A wonderful calm has come over me; I am alone, and feel that a spot like this was created for the happiness of souls like mine.  You ask if you shall send me books; I pray you spare me.  My heart craves for no excitement; I need strains to soothe me, and I find them to perfection in my Homer.