skeptical head at the idea of this visit. To Mainz, however, the poet went a day or two afterward, and spent several days with the young princes, as their guest. This was his first contact with men of high rank. In the following May he hears with joy that Lotte is a mother, and that her boy is to be called Wolfgang after him; and on the 16th of June he writes to Lotte: "I will soon send you a friend who has much resemblance to me, and hope you will receive him well; he is named Werther, and is and was but that he must himself explain."

Whoever has followed the history thus far, moving on the secure ground of contemporary document, will see how vague and inaccurate is the account of the composition of " Werther" given by its author, in his retrospective narrative. It was not originated by growing despair at the loss of Charlotte. It was not originated by tormenting thoughts of self-destruction. It was not to free himself from suicide that he wrote this story of suicide. All these several threads were woven into its woof; but the rigour of dates forces us to the conviction that "Werther," although taken from his experience, was not written while that experience was being undergone. Indeed, the true philosophy of art would, a priori, lead us to the conviction that, although he cleared his " bosom of the perilous stuff" by moulding this perilous stuff into a work of art, he must have essentially outlived the storm before he painted it, -conquered his passion, and subdued the rebellious. thoughts, before he made them plastic to his purpose. The poet cannot see to write when his eyes are full of tears; cannot sing when his breast is swollen with sighs, and sobs choke utterance. He must rise superior to his grief before he can sublimate his grief in song. The artist is a master, not a slave; he wields his passion, he is not hurried along by it; he possesses, and is not possessed. Art enshrines the great sadness

of the world, but is itself not sad. The storm of passion weeps itself away, and the heavy clouds roll off in quiet masses, to make room for the sun, which, in shining through, touches them to beauty with its rays. While pain is in its newness, it is pain and nothing else; it is not Art, but Feeling. Goethe could not write "Werther" before he had outlived Wertherism. It may have been, as he says, a "general confession," and a confession which brought him certain relief; but we do not confess until we have repented, and we do repent until we have outlived the error.

Werther" was written rapidly. I completely isolated myself," he says; "nay, prohibited the visits of my friends, and put aside everything that did not immediately belong to the subject. Under such circumstances, and under so many preparations in secret, I wrote it in four weeks, without any scheme of the whole, or treatment of any part, being previously put on paper." It is of this seclusion Merck writes: grand succès que son drame a eu lui tourne un peu la tête. Il se détache de tous ses amis, et n'existe que dans les compositions qu'il prépare pour le public.'

Le

It is a matter of some interest to ascertain the exact truth respecting the date of the composition of "Werther." As before stated, his own account is manifestly inaccurate; and the only thing which renders it difficult to assign the date with tolerable precision, is his statement that it was written in four weeks without any scheme of the whole or treatment of any part having been previously put on paper. If we consent to believe that his memory in this case deceived him, the correspondence of the period furnishes hints from which we may conclude that in 1772, on the arrival of the news about Jerusalem's suicide, he made a general sketch, either in his mind or on paper; and that during the following year he worked at it from time to time. In June, 1773, he writes to Kestner: "And

thus I dream and ramble through life, writing plays and novels, and the like." In July he writes: "I am working my own situation into art for the consolation. of gods and men. I know what Lotte will say when she sees it, and I know what I shall answer her." The word in the original is Schauspiel - play, drama; Viehoff suggests that he does not mean drama, but a work which will bring his situation zur Schau before the public eye. In September of the same year, he writes: "You are always by me when I write. present, I am working at a novel, but it gets on slowly." In November Frau Jacobi writes to him, acknowledging the receipt of a novel, in manuscript no doubt, which delights her. In February, 1774, Merck writes of him: "Je prévois qu'un roman, qui paraîtra de lui à pâques, sera aussi bien reçu que son drame." As we have nowhere a hint of any other novel, besides "Werther," at this epoch, it is difficult to resist the evidence of these dates; and we must, therefore, conclude that the assertion in the Autobiography is wholly inexact.

In September, 1774, he wrote to Lotte, sending her a copy of "Werther:" "Lotte, how dear this little book is to me thou wilt feel in reading it, and this copy is as dear to me as if it were the only one in the world. Thou must have it, Lotte; I have kissed it a hundred times; have kept it locked up that no one might touch it. O Lotte! And I beg thee let no one except Meyers see it yet; it will be published at the Leipsic fair. I wish each to read it alone; thou alone, -Kestner alone, and each to write me a little word about it. Lotte, adieu, Lotte!"

Let us now take a glance at this work, which startled Europe, and which for a long while was all that Europe knew of Goethe.1

1 Scott, in prefacing his translation of "Götz," says: "It was written by the elegant author of the "Sorrows of Werther."

CHAPTER V.

WERTHER.

Aujourd'hui l'homme désire immensément, mais il veut faiblement in these words Guizot has written an epigraph for "Werther;" a book composed out of a double history, the history of its author's experience, and the history of one of his friends.

The story of Jerusalem, whom he met in the Wetzlar circle, furnished Goethe with the machinery by which to introduce his own experience. He took many of the details from Kestner's long letter, sent shortly after the catastrophe: the letter may therefore be here abridged, as an introduction to the novel. Jerusalem, melancholy, by temperament, was unhappy during the whole of his Wetzlar residence. He had been denied admittance into the high diplomatic society to which his position gave him claims; he had been in unpleasant relations with his ambassador, whose secretary he was; and he had fallen in love with the wife of his friend. Thus oppressed, he shunned company, was fond of long moonlight walks, and once lost himself in the wood, wandering about the whole night. But he was solitary, even in his grief, told none of his friends the causes of his melancholy, and solaced himself with novels the wretched novels of that day. To these he added all the tragedies he could get hold of; English writers, especially the gloomy writers; and various philosophical works. He wrote also essays, one on suicide, a subject which

greatly occupied him. Mendelssohn's "Phædon was his favourite work. When the rumour reached Wetzlar of Goué's suicide, he said that Goué was not a fit man for such a deed, but defended the act. A few days before his own unhappy end he was talking with Schleimitz about suicide, and said, "It would be a bad look out, however, if the shot were not to take effect!" The rest of the narrative must be told in Kestner's own words, the simple circumstantial style best fitting such a history.

"Last Tuesday he comes with a discontented look to Kielmansegge, who was ill. The latter asks how he is. Better than I like to be.' He also that day talked a good deal about love, which he had never done before; and then about the Frankfurter Zeitung, which had for some time pleased him more than usual. In the afternoon (Tuesday) he goes to Secretary H.'s. Until eight o'clock in the evening they play tarock together. Annchen Brandt was also there; Jerusalem accompanied her home. As they walk, Jerusalem often strikes his forehead, gloomily and repeatedly says: If one were but dead-if one were but in heaven!' Annchen joked him about it; he bargains for a place by her side in heaven, and at parting he says: It is agreed, then, that I shall have a place by you in heaven.'

"On Wednesday, as there were great doings at the 'Crown Prince,' and everybody invited everybody, he went there to dinner, though he generally dined at home, and he brought Secretary H. with him. He did not behave there otherwise than usual; if anything, he was more cheerful. After dinner, Secretary H. takes him home with him to see his wife. They take coffee; Jerusalem says to Mrs. H.: 'Dear Mrs. H., this is the last coffee I shall drink with you.' She

1 Goethe, it will be remembered, in Strasburg, made an analysis of this work, contrasting it with Plato's.