eternal Creator, and every atom to which He has given existence finds favour in His sight.  Ah! how often at that time has the flight of a bird soaring above my head inspired me with the desire of being transported to the shores of the immeasurable waters, there to quaff the pleasure of life from the foaming goblet of the infinite, and to partake, if but for a moment, even with the confined powers of my soul, the beatitude of the Creator, who accomplishes all things in himself and through himself....  It is as if a curtain had been drawn from before my eyes....  My heart is wasted by the thought of that destructive power which lies concealed in every part of universal nature—­Nature has formed nothing that does not consume itself and every object near it; so that, surrounded by earth, and air, and all the active powers, I wander on my way with aching heart, and the universe is to me a fearful monster, for ever devouring its own offspring....  If in such moments I find no sympathy ...  I either wander through the country, climb some precipitous cliff, or force a path through the trackless thicket, where I am lacerated and torn by thorns and briars, and thence I find relief.

Then, as he was going away, he felt how sympathetic the place had been to him: 

    I was walking up and down the very avenue which was so dear to
    me—­a secret sympathy had frequently drawn me thither....

the moon rose from behind a hill, increasing his melancholy, and Charlotte put his feeling into words, saying (like Klopstock): 

    September 10.—­Whenever I walk by moonlight, it brings to my
    remembrance all my beloved and departed friends, and I am filled
    with thoughts of death and futurity.

Even in his misery he realises the [Greek:  charisgoon] of Euripides, Petrarch’s dolendi voluptas—­the Wonne der Wehmuth.

On September 4th he wrote: 

    It is even so!  As Nature puts on her autumn tints, it becomes
    autumn with me and around me.  My leaves are sere and yellow, and
    the neighbouring trees are divested of their foliage.

It was due to this autumn feeling that he could say: 

Ossian has superseded Homer in my heart.  To what a world does the illustrious bard carry me!  To wander over pathless wilds, surrounded by impetuous whirlwinds, where, by the feeble light of the moon, we see the spirits of our ancestors; to hear from the mountain tops, ’mid the roar of torrents, their plaintive sounds issuing from deep caverns....  And this heart is now dead; no sentiment can revive it.  My eyes are dry, and my senses, no more refreshed by the influence of soft tears, wither and consume my brain.  I suffer much, for I have lost the only charm of life, that active sacred power which created worlds around me, and it is no more.  When I look from my window at the distant hills and behold the morning sun breaking through the mists and illuminating