“This speech,” replied Werther with a cold smile, “this speech should be printed, for the benefit of all teachers.  My dear Charlotte, allow me but a short time longer, and all will be well.”  “But however, Werther,” she added, “do not come again before Christmas.”  He was about to make some answer, when Albert came in.  They saluted each other coldly, and with mutual embarrassment paced up and down the room.  Werther made some common remarks; Albert did the same, and their conversation soon dropped.  Albert asked his wife about some household matters; and, finding that his commissions were not executed, he used some expressions which, to Werther’s ear, savoured of extreme harshness.  He wished to go, but had not power to move; and in this situation he remained till eight o’clock, his uneasiness and discontent continually increasing.  At length the cloth was laid for supper, and he took up his hat and stick.  Albert invited him to remain; but Werther, fancying that he was merely paying a formal compliment, thanked him coldly, and left the house.

Werther returned home, took the candle from his servant, and retired to his room alone.  He talked for some time with great earnestness to himself, wept aloud, walked in a state of great excitement through his chamber; till at length, without undressing, he threw himself on the bed, where he was found by his servant at eleven o’clock, when the latter ventured to enter the room, and take off his boots.  Werther did not prevent him, but forbade him to come in the morning till he should ring.

On Monday morning, the 21st of December, he wrote to Charlotte the following letter, which was found, sealed, on his bureau after his death, and was given to her.  I shall insert it in fragments; as it appears, from several circumstances, to have been written in that manner.

“It is all over, Charlotte:  I am resolved to die!  I make this declaration deliberately and coolly, without any romantic passion, on this morning of the day when I am to see you for the last time.  At the moment you read these lines, O best of women, the cold grave will hold the inanimate remains of that restless and unhappy being who, in the last moments of his existence, knew no pleasure so great as that of conversing with you!  I have passed a dreadful night or rather, let me say, a propitious one; for it has given me resolution, it has fixed my purpose.  I am resolved to die.  When I tore myself from you yesterday, my senses were in tumult and disorder; my heart was oppressed, hope and pleasure had fled from me for ever, and a petrifying cold had seized my wretched being.  I could scarcely reach my room.  I threw myself on my knees; and Heaven, for the last time, granted me the consolation of shedding tears.  A thousand ideas, a thousand schemes, arose within my soul; till at length one last, fixed, final thought took possession of my heart.  It was to die.  I lay down to rest; and in the