I have been interrupted by an insufferable visit.  I have dried my tears, and composed my thoughts.  Adieu, my best friend!

August 4.

I am not alone unfortunate.  All men are disappointed in their hopes, and deceived in their expectations.  I have paid a visit to my good old woman under the lime-trees.  The eldest boy ran out to meet me:  his exclamation of joy brought out his mother, but she had a very melancholy look.  Her first word was, “Alas! dear sir, my little John is dead.”  He was the youngest of her children.  I was silent.  “And my husband has returned from Switzerland without any money; and, if some kind people had not assisted him, he must have begged his way home.  He was taken ill with fever on his journey.”  I could answer nothing, but made the little one a present.  She invited me to take some fruit:  I complied, and left the place with a sorrowful heart.

August 21.

My sensations are constantly changing.  Sometimes a happy prospect opens before me; but alas! it is only for a moment; and then, when I am lost in reverie, I cannot help saying to myself, “If Albert were to die? —­ Yes, she would become —­ and I should be” —­ and so I pursue a chimera, till it leads me to the edge of a precipice at which I shudder.

When I pass through the same gate, and walk along the same road which first conducted me to Charlotte, my heart sinks within me at the change that has since taken place.  All, all, is altered!  No sentiment, no pulsation of my heart, is the same.  My sensations are such as would occur to some departed prince whose spirit should return to visit the superb palace which he had built in happy times, adorned with costly 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 dares love another, when I love nothing in this world so completely, so devotedly, as I love her, when I know only her, and have no other possession.

September 4.

It is even so!  As nature puts on her autumn tints it becomes autumn with me and around me.  My leaves are sere and yellow, and the neighbouring trees are divested of their foliage.  Do you remember my writing to you about a peasant boy shortly after my arrival here?  I have just made inquiries about him in Walheim.  They say he has been dismissed from his service, and is now avoided by every one.  I met him yesterday on the road, going to a neighbouring village.  I spoke to him, and he told me his story.  It interested me exceedingly, as you will easily understand when I repeat it to you.  But why should I trouble you?  Why should I not reserve all my sorrow for myself?  Why should I continue to give you occasion to pity and blame me?  But no matter:  this also is part of my destiny.