This love, then, this constancy, this passion, is no poetical fiction.  It is actual, and dwells in its greatest purity amongst that class of mankind whom we term rude, uneducated.  We are the educated, not the perverted.  But read this story with attention, I implore you.  I am tranquil to-day, for I have been employed upon this narration:  you see by my writing that I am not so agitated as usual.  I read and re-read this tale, Wilhelm:  it is the history of your friend!  My fortune has been and will be similar; and I am neither half so brave nor half so determined as the poor wretch with whom I hesitate to compare myself.

September 5.

Charlotte had written a letter to her husband in the country, where he was detained by business.  It commenced, “My dearest love, return as soon as possible:  I await you with a thousand raptures.”  A friend who arrived, brought word, that, for certain reasons, he could not return immediately.  Charlotte’s letter was not forwarded, and the same evening it fell into my hands.  I read it, and smiled.  She asked the reason.  “What a heavenly treasure is imagination:”  I exclaimed; “I fancied for a moment that this was written to me.”  She paused, and seemed displeased.  I was silent.

September 6.

It cost me much to part with the blue coat which I wore the first time I danced with Charlotte.  But I could not possibly wear it any longer.  But I have ordered a new one, precisely similar, even to the collar and sleeves, as well as a new waistcoat and pantaloons.

But it does not produce the same effect upon me.  I know not how it is, but I hope in time I shall like it better.

September 12.

She has been absent for some days.  She went to meet Albert.  To-day I visited her:  she rose to receive me, and I kissed her hand most tenderly.

A canary at the moment flew from a mirror, and settled upon her shoulder.  “Here is a new friend,” she observed, while she made him perch upon her hand:  “he is a present for the children.  What a dear he is!  Look at him!  When I feed him, he flutters with his wings, and pecks so nicely.  He kisses me, too, only look!”

She held the bird to her mouth; and he pressed her sweet lips with so much fervour that he seemed to feel the excess of bliss which he enjoyed.

“He shall kiss you too,” she added; and then she held the bird toward me.  His little beak moved from her mouth to mine, and the delightful sensation seemed like the forerunner of the sweetest bliss.

“A kiss,” I observed, “does not seem to satisfy him:  he wishes for food, and seems disappointed by these unsatisfactory endearments.”

“But he eats out of my mouth,” she continued, and extended her lips to him containing seed; and she smiled with all the charm of a being who has allowed an innocent participation of her love.

I turned my face away.  She should not act thus.  She ought not to excite my imagination with such displays of heavenly innocence and happiness, nor awaken my heart from its slumbers, in which it dreams of the worthlessness of life!  And why not?  Because she knows how much I love her.