Tobias Smollett - "The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom, Part II."

Thomas Bulfinch - "The Age of Chivalry"

Horatio Alger - "Struggling Upward"

Algernon Charles Swinburne - "Chastelard, A Tragedy"

The Sorrows of Young Werther

J >> Johann Wolfgang von Goethe >> The Sorrows of Young Werther




"Ryno. The wind and the rain are past, calm is the noon of day.
The clouds are divided in heaven. Over the green hills flies the
inconstant sun. Red through the stony vale comes down the stream
of the hill. Sweet are thy murmurs, O stream! but more sweet is
the voice I hear. It is the voice of Alpin, the son of song,
mourning for the dead! Bent is his head of age: red his tearful
eye. Alpin, thou son of song, why alone on the silent hill? why
complainest thou, as a blast in the wood as a wave on the lonely
shore?

"Alpin. My tears, O Ryno! are for the dead my voice for those
that have passed away. Tall thou art on the hill; fair among the
sons of the vale. But thou shalt fall like Morar: the mourner
shall sit on thy tomb. The hills shall know thee no more: thy bow
shall lie in thy hall unstrung!

"Thou wert swift, O Morar! as a roe on the desert: terrible as a
meteor of fire. Thy wrath was as the storm. Thy sword in battle
as lightning in the field. Thy voice was as a stream after rain,
like thunder on distant hills. Many fell by thy arm: they were
consumed in the flames of thy wrath. But when thou didst return
from war, how peaceful was thy brow. Thy face was like the sun
after rain: like the moon in the silence of night: calm as the
breast of the lake when the loud wind is laid.

"Narrow is thy dwelling now! dark the place of thine abode! With
three steps I compass thy grave, O thou who wast so great before!
Four stones, with their heads of moss, are the only memorial of
thee. A tree with scarce a leaf, long grass which whistles in the
wind, mark to the hunter's eye the grave of the mighty Morar.
Morar! thou art low indeed. Thou hast no mother to mourn thee,
no maid with her tears of love. Dead is she that brought thee
forth. Fallen is the daughter of Morglan.

"Who on his staff is this? Who is this whose head is white with
age, whose eyes are red with tears, who quakes at every step? It
is thy father, O Morar! the father of no son but thee. He heard
of thy fame in war, he heard of foes dispersed. He heard of Morar's
renown, why did he not hear of his wound? Weep, thou father of
Morar! Weep, but thy son heareth thee not. Deep is the sleep of
the dead, low their pillow of dust. No more shall he hear thy
voice, no more awake at thy call. When shall it be morn in the
grave, to bid the slumberer awake? Farewell, thou bravest of men!
thou conqueror in the field! but the field shall see thee no more,
nor the dark wood be lightened with the splendour of thy steel.
Thou has left no son. The song shall preserve thy name. Future
times shall hear of thee they shall hear of the fallen Morar!

"The grief of all arose, but most the bursting sigh of Armin. He
remembers the death of his son, who fell in the days of his youth.
Carmor was near the hero, the chief of the echoing Galmal. Why
burst the sigh of Armin? he said. Is there a cause to mourn? The
song comes with its music to melt and please the soul. It is like
soft mist that, rising from a lake, pours on the silent vale;
the green flowers are filled with dew, but the sun returns in his
strength, and the mist is gone. Why art thou sad, O Armin, chief
of sea-surrounded Gorma?

"Sad I am! nor small is my cause of woe! Carmor, thou hast lost
no son; thou hast lost no daughter of beauty. Colgar the valiant
lives, and Annira, fairest maid. The boughs of thy house ascend,
O Carmor! but Armin is the last of his race. Dark is thy bed, O
Daura! deep thy sleep in the tomb! When shalt thou wake with thy
songs? with all thy voice of music?

"Arise, winds of autumn, arise: blow along the heath. Streams of
the mountains, roar; roar, tempests in the groves of my oaks! Walk
through broken clouds, O moon! show thy pale face at intervals;
bring to my mind the night when all my children fell, when Arindal
the mighty fell -- when Daura the lovely failed. Daura, my daughter,
thou wert fair, fair as the moon on Fura, white as the driven snow,
sweet as the breathing gale. Arindal, thy bow was strong, thy spear
was swift on the field, thy look was like mist on the wave, thy
shield a red cloud in a storm! Armar, renowned in war, came and
sought Daura's love. He was not long refused: fair was the hope
of their friends.

"Erath, son of Odgal, repined: his brother had been slain by Armar.
He came disguised like a son of the sea: fair was his cliff on the
wave, white his locks of age, calm his serious brow. Fairest of
women, he said, lovely daughter of Armin! a rock not distant in
the sea bears a tree on its side; red shines the fruit afar. There
Armar waits for Daura. I come to carry his love! she went she
called on Armar. Nought answered, but the son of the rock. Armar,
my love, my love! why tormentest thou me with fear? Hear, son of
Arnart, hear! it is Daura who calleth thee. Erath, the traitor,
fled laughing to the land. She lifted up her voice-- she called
for her brother and her father. Arindal! Armin! none to relieve
you, Daura.

"Her voice came over the sea. Arindal, my son, descended from the
hill, rough in the spoils of the chase. His arrows rattled by his
side; his bow was in his hand, five dark-gray dogs attended his
steps. He saw fierce Erath on the shore; he seized and bound him
to an oak. Thick wind the thongs of the hide around his limbs;
he loads the winds with his groans. Arindal ascends the deep in
his boat to bring Daura to land. Armar came in his wrath, and
let fly the gray-feathered shaft. It sung, it sunk in thy heart,
O Arindal, my son! for Erath the traitor thou diest. The oar is
stopped at once: he panted on the rock, and expired. What is thy
grief, O Daura, when round thy feet is poured thy brother's blood.
The boat is broken in twain. Armar plunges into the sea to rescue
his Daura, or die. Sudden a blast from a hill came over the waves;
he sank, and he rose no more.

"Alone, on the sea-beat rock, my daughter was heard to complain;
frequent and loud were her cries. What could her father do? All
night I stood on the shore: I saw her by the faint beam of the moon.
All night I heard her cries. Loud was the wind; the rain beat hard
on the hill. Before morning appeared, her voice was weak; it died
away like the evening breeze among the grass of the rocks. Spent
with grief, she expired, and left thee, Armin, alone. Gone is my
strength in war, fallen my pride among women. When the storms
aloft arise, when the north lifts the wave on high, I sit by the
sounding shore, and look on the fatal rock.

"Often by the setting moon I see the ghosts of my children; half
viewless they walk in mournful conference together."

A torrent of tears which streamed from Charlotte's eyes and gave
relief to her bursting heart, stopped Werther's recitation. He
threw down the book, seized her hand, and wept bitterly. Charlotte
leaned upon her hand, and buried her face in her handkerchief:
the agitation of both was excessive. They felt that their own
fate was pictured in the misfortunes of Ossian's heroes, they
felt this together, and their tears redoubled. Werther supported
his forehead on Charlotte's arm: she trembled, she wished to be
gone; but sorrow and sympathy lay like a leaden weight upon her
soul. She recovered herself shortly, and begged Werther, with
broken sobs, to leave her, implored him with the utmost earnestness
to comply with her request. He trembled; his heart was ready to
burst: then, taking up the book again, he recommenced reading, in
a voice broken by sobs.

"Why dost thou waken me, O spring? Thy voice woos me, exclaiming,
I refresh thee with heavenly dews; but the time of my decay is
approaching, the storm is nigh that shall whither my leaves.
Tomorrow the traveller shall come, he shall come, who beheld me
in beauty: his eye shall seek me in the field around, but he shall
not find me."

The whole force of these words fell upon the unfortunate Werther.
Full of despair, he threw himself at Charlotte's feet, seized her
hands, and pressed them to his eyes and to his forehead. An
apprehension of his fatal project now struck her for the first
time. Her senses were bewildered: she held his hands, pressed
them to her bosom; and, leaning toward him with emotions of the
tenderest pity, her warm cheek touched his. They lost sight of
everything. The world disappeared from their eyes. He clasped
her in his arms, strained her to his bosom, and covered her trembling
lips with passionate kisses. "Werther!" she cried with a faint
voice, turning herself away; "Werther!" and, with a feeble hand,
she pushed him from her. At length, with the firm voice of virtue,
she exclaimed, "Werther!" He resisted not, but, tearing himself
from her arms, fell on his knees before her. Charlotte rose, and,
with disordered grief, in mingled tones of love and resentment,
she exclaimed, "It is the last time, Werther! You shall never see
me any more!" Then, casting one last, tender look upon her
unfortunate lover, she rushed into the adjoining room, and locked
the door. Werther held out his arms, but did not dare to detain
her. He continued on the ground, with his head resting on the
sofa, for half an hour, till he heard a noise which brought him
to his senses. The servant entered. He then walked up and down
the room; and, when he was again left alone, he went to Charlotte's
door, and, in a low voice, said, "Charlotte, Charlotte! but one
word more, one last adieu!" She returned no answer. He stopped,
and listened and entreated; but all was silent. At length he tore
himself from the place, crying, "Adieu, Charlotte, adieu for ever!"

Werther ran to the gate of the town. The guards, who knew him,
let him pass in silence. The night was dark and stormy, -- it
rained and snowed. He reached his own door about eleven. His
servant, although seeing him enter the house without his hat, did
not venture to say anything; and; as he undressed his master, he
found that his clothes were wet. His hat was afterward found on
the point of a rock overhanging the valley; and it is inconceivable
how he could have climbed to the summit on such a dark, tempestuous
night without losing his life.

He retired to bed, and slept to a late hour. The next morning his
servant, upon being called to bring his coffee, found him writing.
He was adding, to Charlotte, what we here annex.

"For the last, last time I open these eyes. Alas! they will behold
the sun no more. It is covered by a thick, impenetrable cloud.
Yes, Nature! put on mourning: your child, your friend, your lover,
draws near his end! This thought, Charlotte, is without parallel;
and yet it seems like a mysterious dream when I repeat -- this is
my last day! The last! Charlotte, no word can adequately express
this thought. The last! To-day I stand erect in all my strength
to-morrow, cold and stark, I shall lie extended upon the ground.
To die! what is death? We do but dream in our discourse upon it.
I have seen many human beings die; but, so straitened is our feeble
nature, we have no clear conception of the beginning or the end
of our existence. At this moment I am my own -- or rather I am
thine, thine, my adored! and the next we are parted, severed --
perhaps for ever! No, Charlotte, no! How can I, how can you,
be annihilated? We exist. What is annihilation? A mere word,
an unmeaning sound that fixes no impression on the mind. Dead,
Charlotte! laid in the cold earth, in the dark and narrow grave!
I had a friend once who was everything to me in early youth.
She died. I followed her hearse; I stood by her grave when the
coffin was lowered; and when I heard the creaking of the cords
as they were loosened and drawn up, when the first shovelful
of earth was thrown in, and the coffin returned a hollow sound,
which grew fainter and fainter till all was completely covered
over, I threw myself on the ground; my heart was smitten, grieved,
shattered, rent -- but I neither knew what had happened, nor what
was to happen to me. Death! the grave! I understand not the words.
-- Forgive, oh, forgive me! Yesterday -- ah, that day should have
been the last of my life! Thou angel! for the first time in my
existence, I felt rapture glow within my inmost soul. She loves,
she loves me! Still burns upon my lips the sacred fire they
received from thine. New torrents of delight overwhelm my soul.
Forgive me, oh, forgive!

"I knew that I was dear to you; I saw it in your first entrancing
look, knew it by the first pressure of your hand; but when I was
absent from you, when I saw Albert at your side, my doubts and
fears returned.

"Do you remember the flowers you sent me, when, at that crowded
assembly, you could neither speak nor extend your hand to me?
Half the night I was on my knees before those flowers, and I
regarded them as the pledges of your love; but those impressions
grew fainter, and were at length effaced.

"Everything passes away; but a whole eternity could not extinguish
the living flame which was yesterday kindled by your lips, and
which now burns within me. She loves me! These arms have encircled
her waist, these lips have trembled upon hers. She is mine! Yes,
Charlotte, you are mine for ever!

"And what do they mean by saying Albert is your husband? He may
be so for this world; and in this world it is a sin to love you,
to wish to tear you from his embrace. Yes, it is a crime; and I
suffer the punishment, but I have enjoyed the full delight of
my sin. I have inhaled a balm that has revived my soul. From
this hour you are mine; yes, Charlotte, you are mine! I go
before you. I go to my Father and to your Father. I will pour
out my sorrows before him, and he will give me comfort till you
arrive. Then will I fly to meet you. I will claim you, and
remain your eternal embrace, in the presence of the Almighty.

"I do not dream, I do not rave. Drawing nearer to the grave my
perceptions become clearer. We shall exist; we shall see each
other again; we shall behold your mother; I shall behold her, and
expose to her my inmost heart. Your mother -- your image!"

About eleven o'clock Werther asked his servant if Albert had
returned. He answered, "Yes;" for he had seen him pass on horseback:
upon which Werther sent him the following note, unsealed:

"Be so good as to lend me your pistols for a journey. Adieu."

Charlotte had slept little during the past night. All her
apprehensions were realised in a way that she could neither
foresee nor avoid. Her blood was boiling in her veins, and a
thousand painful sensations rent her pure heart. Was it the
ardour of Werther's passionate embraces that she felt within her
bosom? Was it anger at his daring? Was it the sad comparison
of her present condition with former days of innocence, tranquillity,
and self-confidence? How could she approach her husband, and
confess a scene which she had no reason to conceal, and which she
yet felt, nevertheless, unwilling to avow? They had preserved so
long a silence toward each other and should she be the first to
break it by so unexpected a discovery? She feared that the mere
statement of Werther's visit would trouble him, and his distress
would be heightened by her perfect candour. She wished that he
could see her in her true light, and judge her without prejudice;
but was she anxious that he should read her inmost soul? On the
other hand, could she deceive a being to whom all her thoughts
had ever been exposed as clearly as crystal, and from whom no
sentiment had ever been concealed? These reflections made her
anxious and thoughtful. Her mind still dwelt on Werther, who was
now lost to her, but whom she could not bring herself to resign,
and for whom she knew nothing was left but despair if she should
be lost to him for ever.

A recollection of that mysterious estrangement which had lately
subsisted between herself and Albert, and which she could never
thoroughly understand, was now beyond measure painful to her.
Even the prudent and the good have before now hesitated to explain
their mutual differences, and have dwelt in silence upon their
imaginary grievances, until circumstances have become so entangled,
that in that critical juncture, when a calm explanation would
have saved all parties, an understanding was impossible. And
thus if domestic confidence had been earlier established between
them, if love and kind forbearance had mutually animated and
expanded their hearts, it might not, perhaps, even yet have been
too late to save our friend.

But we must not forget one remarkable circumstance. We may
observe from the character of Werther's correspondence, that
he had never affected to conceal his anxious desire to quit
this world. He had often discussed the subject with Albert;
and, between the latter and Charlotte, it had not unfrequently
formed a topic of conversation. Albert was so opposed to the very
idea of such an action, that, with a degree of irritation unusual
in him, he had more than once given Werther to understand that he
doubted the seriousness of his threats, and not only turned them
into ridicule, but caused Charlotte to share his feelings of
incredulity. Her heart was thus tranquillised when she felt
disposed to view the melancholy subject in a serious point of
view, though she never communicated to her husband the
apprehensions she sometimes experienced.

Albert, upon his return, was received by Charlotte with
ill-concealed embarrassment. He was himself out of humour; his
business was unfinished; and he had just discovered that the
neighbouring official with whom he had to deal, was an obstinate
and narrow-minded personage. Many things had occurred to irritate
him.

He inquired whether anything had happened during his absence, and
Charlotte hastily answered that Werther had been there on the
evening previously. He then inquired for his letters, and was
answered that several packages had been left in his study. He
thereon retired, leaving Charlotte alone.

The presence of the being she loved and honoured produced a new
impression on her heart. The recollection of his generosity,
kindness, and affection had calmed her agitation: a secret impulse
prompted her to follow him; she took her work and went to his
study, as was often her custom. He was busily employed opening
and reading his letters. It seemed as if the contents of some
were disagreeable. She asked some questions: he gave short answers,
and sat down to write.

Several hours passed in this manner, and Charlotte's feelings
became more and more melancholy. She felt the extreme difficulty
of explaining to her husband, under any circumstances, the weight
that lay upon her heart; and her depression became every moment
greater, in proportion as she endeavoured to hide her grief, and
to conceal her tears.

The arrival of Werther's servant occasioned her the greatest
embarrassment. He gave Albert a note, which the latter coldly
handed to his wife, saying, at the same time, "Give him the pistols.
I wish him a pleasant journey," he added, turning to the servant.
These words fell upon Charlotte like a thunderstroke: she rose
from her seat half-fainting, and unconscious of what she did. She
walked mechanically toward the wall, took down the pistols with a
trembling hand, slowly wiped the dust from them, and would have
delayed longer, had not Albert hastened her movements by an impatient
look. She then delivered the fatal weapons to the servant, without
being able to utter a word. As soon as he had departed, she folded
up her work, and retired at once to her room, her heart overcome
with the most fearful forebodings. She anticipated some dreadful
calamity. She was at one moment on the point of going to her
husband, throwing herself at his feet, and acquainting him with
all that had happened on the previous evening, that she might
acknowledge her fault, and explain her apprehensions; then she saw
that such a step would be useless, as she would certainly be unable
to induce Albert to visit Werther. Dinner was served; and a kind
friend whom she had persuaded to remain assisted to sustain the
conversation, which was carried on by a sort of compulsion, till
the events of the morning were forgotten.

When the servant brought the pistols to Werther, the latter received
them with transports of delight upon hearing that Charlotte had
given them to him with her own hand. He ate some bread, drank
some wine, sent his servant to dinner, and then sat down to write
as follows:

"They have been in your hands you wiped the dust from them. I
kiss them a thousand times -- you have touched them. Yes, Heaven
favours my design, and you, Charlotte, provide me with the fatal
instruments. It was my desire to receive my death from your hands,
and my wish is gratified. I have made inquiries of my servant.
You trembled when you gave him the pistols, but you bade me no
adieu. Wretched, wretched that I am -- not one farewell! How
could you shut your heart against me in that hour which makes you
mine for ever? Charlotte, ages cannot efface the impression -- I
feel you cannot hate the man who so passionately loves you!"

After dinner he called his servant, desired him to finish the
packing up, destroyed many papers, and then went out to pay some
trifling debts. He soon returned home, then went out again,
notwithstanding the rain, walked for some time in the count's
garden, and afterward proceeded farther into the country. Toward
evening he came back once more, and resumed his writing.

"Wilhelm, I have for the last time beheld the mountains, the forests,
and the sky. Farewell! And you, my dearest mother, forgive me!
Console her, Wilhelm. God bless you! I have settled all my
affairs! Farewell! We shall meet again, and be happier than ever."

"I have requited you badly, Albert; but you will forgive me. I
have disturbed the peace of your home. I have sowed distrust
between you. Farewell! I will end all this wretchedness. And
oh, that my death may render you happy! Albert, Albert! make that
angel happy, and the blessing of Heaven be upon you!"

He spent the rest of the evening in arranging his papers: he tore
and burned a great many; others he sealed up, and directed to
Wilhelm. They contained some detached thoughts and maxims, some
of which I have perused. At ten o'clock he ordered his fire to
be made up, and a bottle of wine to be brought to him. He then
dismissed his servant, whose room, as well as the apartments of
the rest of the family, was situated in another part of the house.
The servant lay down without undressing, that he might be the
sooner ready for his journey in the morning, his master having
informed him that the post-horses would be at the door before six
o'clock.

"Past eleven o'clock! All is silent around me, and my soul is
calm. I thank thee, O God, that thou bestowest strength and courage
upon me in these last moments! I approach the window, my dearest
of friends; and through the clouds, which are at this moment driven
rapidly along by the impetuous winds, I behold the stars which
illumine the eternal heavens. No, you will not fall, celestial
bodies: the hand of the Almighty supports both you and me! I have
looked for the last time upon the constellation of the Greater
Bear: it is my favourite star; for when I bade you farewell at
night, Charlotte, and turned my steps from your door, it always
shone upon me. With what rapture have I at times beheld it! How
often have I implored it with uplifted hands to witness my felicity!
and even still -- But what object is there, Charlotte, which fails
to summon up your image before me? Do you not surround me on all
sides? and have I not, like a child, treasured up every trifle
which you have consecrated by your touch?

"Your profile, which was so dear to me, I return to you; and I
pray you to preserve it. Thousands of kisses have I imprinted
upon it, and a thousand times has it gladdened my heart on departing
from and returning to my home.

"I have implored your father to protect my remains. At the corner
of the churchyard, looking toward the fields, there are two
lime-trees -- there I wish to lie. Your father can, and doubtless
will, do this much for his friend. Implore it of him. But perhaps
pious Christians will not choose that their bodies should be
buried near the corpse of a poor, unhappy wretch like me. Then
let me be laid in some remote valley, or near the highway, where
the priest and Levite may bless themselves as they pass by my
tomb, whilst the Samaritan will shed a tear for my fate.

"See, Charlotte, I do not shudder to take the cold and fatal cup,
from which I shall drink the draught of death. Your hand presents
it to me, and I do not tremble. All, all is now concluded: the
wishes and the hopes of my existence are fulfilled. With cold,
unflinching hand I knock at the brazen portals of Death. Oh, that
I had enjoyed the bliss of dying for you! how gladly would I have
sacrificed myself for you; Charlotte! And could I but restore
peace and joy to your bosom, with what resolution, with what joy,
would I not meet my fate! But it is the lot of only a chosen few
to shed their blood for their friends, and by their death to
augment, a thousand times, the happiness of those by whom they are
beloved.

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