Herder could be charmingly prepossessing and brilliant, but he could just as easily turn an ill-humoured side forward.  He resolved to stay in Strasburg because of a complaint in one of his eyes of the most irritating nature, which required a tedious and uncertain operation, the tear-bag being closed below.  Therefore he separated from the prince and removed into lodgings of his own for the purpose of the operation.  He confided to me that he intended to compete for a prize offered at Berlin for the best treatise on the origin of language.  His work, written in a very neat hand, was nearly completed.  During the troublesome and painful cure he lost none of his vivacity, but he became less and less amiable.  He could not write a note to ask for anything without scoffing rudely and bitterly, generally in sardonic verse.

Herder contributed much to my culture, yet he destroyed my enjoyment of much that I had loved before, and especially blamed me in the strongest manner for the pleasure I took in Ovid’s “Metamorphoses.”  I most carefully concealed from him my interest in certain subjects which had rooted themselves within me, and were little by little moulding themselves into poetic form.  These were “Goetz von Berlichingen” and “Faust.”  Of my poetical labours, I believe I laid before him “The Accomplices,” but I do not recollect that on this account I received from him either correction or encouragement.

At this epoch of my life took place a singular episode.  During a delightful tour in beautiful Alsace, round about the Vosges, I and two fellow-students halted for a time at the house of a Protestant clergyman, pastor in Sesenheim.  I had visited the family previously.  Herder here joined us, and during our readings in the evenings introduced to us an excellent work, “The Vicar of Wakefield.”  With the German translation, he undertook to make us acquainted by reading it aloud.

The pastor had two daughters and a son.  The family struck me as corresponding in the most extraordinary manner to that delineated by Goldsmith.  The elder daughter might be taken for Olivia in the story, and Frederica, the younger, for Sophia, while, as I looked at the boy, I could scarcely help exclaiming, “Moses, are you here, too?” A Protestant country clergyman is, perhaps, the most beautiful subject for a modern idyl; he appears, like Melchizedek, as priest and king in one person.

Between me and the charming Frederica a mutual affection sprang up.  Her beautiful nature attracted me irresistibly, and I was happy beyond all bounds at her side.  For her I composed many songs to well-known melodies.  They would have made a pretty book; a few of them still remain, and may easily be found among the others.  But we were destined soon to part.  Such a youthful affection, cherished at random, may be compared to a bombshell thrown at night, which rises with a soft, brilliant light, mingles for a moment with the stars, then, in descending, describes a similar path in the reverse direction, and at last brings destruction where it terminates its course.