Nothing distresses me more than to see men torment each other; particularly when in the flower of their age, in the very season of pleasure, they waste their few short days of sunshine in quarrels and disputes, and only perceive their error when it is too late to repair it.

To such intense sympathy as this, all that had been sung ere now by German poets had to give place.  Nature, which hitherto had played no role at all in fiction, not even among the English, was Werther’s truest and most intimate friend.

Werther is sensitive and sentimental, though in a single-hearted way, with a sentimentality that reminds us more and more, as the story proceeds, of the gloomy tone of Ossian and Young.  He is a thoroughly original character, who feels that he is right so to be; and although he falls a prey to his melancholy, yet there is much more force and thought in his outpourings than in all the moonshine tirades that preceded him.  It is the work of a true poet, in the best days of a brilliant youth.

Werther, like Rousseau, was happiest in solitude.  Solitude, in the ‘place like paradise,’ was precious balm to his feeling heart, which he considers ‘like a sick child’; and the ’warm heavenly imagination of the heart’ illuminates Nature round him—­his ‘favourite valley,’ the ‘sweet spring morning,’ Nature’s ‘unspeakable beauty.’  He was absorbed in artistic feeling, though he could not draw; ’I could not draw them, not a stroke, and have never been a greater artist than at that moment.’  His power lay in imbuing his whole subject with feeling; he felt the heart of Nature beating, and its echo in his own breast.

When the lovely valley teems with vapour around me, and the meridian sun strikes the upper surface of the impenetrable foliage of my trees, and but a few stray gleams steal into the inner sanctuary, then I throw myself down in the tall grass by the trickling stream; and as I lie close to the earth, a thousand unknown plants discover themselves to me.  When I hear the buzz of the little world among the stalks, and grow familiar with the countless indescribable forms of the insects and flies, then I feel the presence of the Almighty who formed us in His own image, and the breath of that universal love which bears and sustains us, as it floats around us in an eternity of bliss; and then, my friend, when darkness overspreads my eyes, and heaven and earth seem to dwell in my soul and absorb its power, like the idea of a beloved mistress, then I often long and think:  O that you could describe these conceptions, that you could impress upon paper all that lives so full and warm within you, that it might be the mirror of your soul, as your soul is the mirror of the infinite God!

    O! my friend! but it is too much for my strength.  I sink under
    the weight of the grandeur of these visions.