agonies of pain and horror; and these women, Wilhelm, talk of all this with as much indifference as one would mention the death of a stranger.  And when I look around the apartment where I now am —­ when I see Charlotte’s apparel lying before me, and Albert’s writings, and all those articles of furniture which are so familiar to me, even to the very inkstand which I am using, —­ when I think what I am to this family —­ everything.  My friends esteem me; I often contribute to their happiness, and my heart seems as if it could not beat without them; and yet —–­ if I were to die, if I were to be summoned from the midst of this circle, would they feel —­ or how long would they feel the void which my loss would make in their existence?  How long!  Yes, such is the frailty of man, that even there, where he has the greatest consciousness of his own being, where he makes the strongest and most forcible impression, even in the memory, in the heart, of his beloved, there also he must perish, —­ vanish, —­ and that quickly.

October 27.

I could tear open my bosom with vexation to think how little we are capable of influencing the feelings of each other.  No one can communicate to me those sensations of love, joy, rapture, and delight which I do not naturally possess; and, though my heart may glow with the most lively affection, I cannot make the happiness of one in whom the same warmth is not inherent.

October 27:  Evening.

I possess so much, but my love for her absorbs it all.  I possess so much, but without her I have nothing.

October 30.

One hundred times have I been on the point of embracing her.  Heavens! what a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing before us, and yet not dare to lay hold of it!  And laying hold is the most natural of human instincts.  Do not children touch everything they see?  And I!

November 3.

Witness, Heaven, how often I lie down in my bed with a wish, and even 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 then this insupportable load of trouble would not rest entirely upon myself.  But, alas!  I feel it too sadly.  I am alone the cause of my own woe, am I not?  Truly, my own bosom contains the source of all my sorrow, as it previously contained the source of all my pleasure.  Am I not the same being who once enjoyed an excess of happiness, who, at every step, saw paradise open before him, and whose heart was ever expanded toward the whole world?  And this heart 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 the only charm of life:  that active, sacred power