William Godwin, Memoirs of the Author of A Vindication of the Rights of Woman

Godwin's Memoirs: Some definitions and more supplementary materials

First, some definitions of terms that are key to Godwin's presentation of the Memoirs:

Sensibility:

The Cult of Sensibility
by Megan Earles

Sensibility refers to the late 18th century social conventions of the genteel society that relied heavily on the exaggerated expression of emotions. Highly gendered, the mannerisms of sensibility came from the supposed delicacy of women that was related to the female nervous system. This drove the feminine propensity for showing sensitivity through crying, blushing, and fainting in reaction to situations. Feminine weakness was highly sexualized, but approved of because it was thought to improve the manners of men, and at the same time it “rationalized subordination [of women]” (Barker-Benfield 102). A man of sensibility was also benevolent and had sympathetic reactions. However, if he were too effeminate, he would relinquish his sexuality that was imbedded in dominance and power.

The practice of sensibility was debated upon in literature. Hannah More supported its implications of subordination while Mary Wollstonecraft refuted the positive impact of making women the ‘prey’ of men. Jane Austen’s Sense and Sensibility challenged placing “excessive faith in the self’s inner ability to reach moral decisions intuitively” (Duckworth 29). Marianne Dashworth finds herself in a miserable marriage after relying on the impulse and the internal inclinations of sensibility, whereas her sister Elinor upholds true moral conception, or sense. In this illustration of sensibility and sense through her characters, Austen recognizes the fault in depending on the social etiquette of sensibility, but also notes the “necessity of feeling” in sense “if rationality is not to become cold and inhuman” (Duckworth 34)
http://www.unc.edu/courses/2006spring/engl/021/006/REFERENCES/CultofSensibility.html

Or Patricia Meyer Spacks on "The poetry of sensibility" in The Cambridge Companion to Eighteenth Century Poetry:
http://books.google.com/books?id=hXtYGrriw0oC&pg=PA249&lpg=PA249&dq=eighteenth+century+sensibility&source=bl&ots=6X1Jwf_lu-&sig=hrjexdB5H4nU90aV90AySsDY-k8&hl=en&sa=X&ei=SeFWUoKXC8TgyQHDvIC4Dg&ved=0CEAQ6AEwBDgU#v=onepage&q=eighteenth%20century%20sensibility&f=false

The sublime:

Edmund Burke's On the Sublime

George P. Landow, Professor of English and the History of Art , Brown University 

[Victorian Web Home —> Religion —> Philosophy —> The Sublime]

dmund Burke, whose Philosophical Enquiry into the Origin of our Ideas of the Sublime and Beautiful was published in 1757, believed, however, that "terror is in all cases whatsoever . . . the ruling principle of the sublime" and, in keeping with his conception of a violently emotional sublime, his idea of astonishment, the effect which almost all theorists mentioned, was more violent than that of his predecessors: "The passion caused by the great and sublime in nature . . . is Astonishment; and astonishment is that state of the soul, in which all its motions are suspended, with some degree of horror. In this case the mind is so entirely filled with its object, that it cannot entertain any other." [Burke, On the Sublime, ed. J. T. Bolton. 58]

In addition to the emphasis which he places on terror, Burke is important because he explained the opposition of beauty and sublimity by a physiological theory. He made the opposition of pleasure and pain the source of the two aesthetic categories, deriving beauty from pleasure and sublimity from pain. According to Burke, the pleasure of beauty has a relaxing effect on the fibers of the body, whereas sublimity, in contrast, tightens these fibers. Thus, by using the authority of his ingenious theory, he could oppose the beautiful and sublime: "The ideas of the sublime and the beautiful stand on foundations so different, that it is hard, I had almost said impossible, to think of reconciling them in the same subject, without considerably lessening the effect of the one or the other upon the passions'' [113-114]. Burke's use of this physiological theory of beauty and sublimity makes him the first English writer to offer a purely aesthetic explanation of these effects; that is, Burke was the first to explain beauty and sublimity purely in terms of the process of perception and its effect upon the perceiver. Turner was probably the first to embody these views in painting. 
[Based upon Landow, The Aesthetic and Crirtical Theories of John Ruskin (Princeton UP, 1971).]
http://www.victorianweb.org/philosophy/sublime/burke.html

The Sorrow of Young Werter (first part of first bk), Trans. Boyd.

PREFACE

I have carefully collected whatever I have been able to learn of the story of poor Werther, and here present it to you, knowing that you will thank me for it. To his spirit and character you cannot refuse your admiration and love: to his fate you will not deny your tears. 
And thou, good soul, who sufferest the same distress as he endured once, draw comfort from his sorrows; and let this little book be thy friend, if, owing to fortune or through thine own fault, thou canst not find a dearer companion. 

BOOK I

MAY 4.

How happy I am that I am gone! My dear friend, what a thing is the heart of man! To leave you, from whom I have been inseparable, whom I love so dearly, and yet to feel happy! I know you will forgive me. Have not other attachments been specially appointed by fate to torment a head like mine? Poor Leonora! and yet I was not to blame. Was it my fault, that, whilst the peculiar charms of her sister afforded me an agreeable entertainment, a passion for me was engendered in her feeble heart? And yet am I wholly blameless? Did I not encourage her emotions? Did I not feel charmed at those truly genuine expressions of nature, which, though but little mirthful in reality, so often amused us? Did I not—but oh! what is man, that he dares so to accuse himself? My dear friend I promise you I will improve; I will no longer, as has ever been my habit, continue to ruminate on every petty vexation which fortune may dispense; I will enjoy the present, and the past shall be for me the past. No doubt you are right, my best of friends, there would be far less suffering amongst mankind, if men—and God knows why they are so fashioned—did not employ their imaginations so assiduously in recalling the memory of past sorrow, instead of bearing their present lot with equanimity. Be kind enough to inform my mother that I shall attend to her business to the best of my ability, and shall give her the earliest information about it. I have seen my aunt, and find that she is very far from being the disagreeable person our friends allege her to be. She is a lively, cheerful woman, with the best of hearts. I explained to her my mother's wrongs with regard to that part of her portion which has been withheld from her. She told me the motives and reasons of her own conduct, and the terms on which she is willing to give up the whole, and to do more than we have asked. In short, I cannot write further upon this subject at present; only assure my mother that all will go on well. And I have again observed, my dear friend, in this trifling affair, that misunderstandings and neglect occasion more mischief in the world than even malice and wickedness. At all events, the two latter are of less frequent occurrence. 
In other respects I am very well off here. Solitude in this terrestrial paradise is a genial balm to my mind, and the young spring cheers with its bounteous promises my oftentimes misgiving heart. Every tree, every bush, is full of flowers; and one might wish himself transformed into a butterfly, to float about in this ocean of perfume, and find his whole existence in it. 
The town itself is disagreeable; but then, all around, you find an inexpressible beauty of nature. This induced the late Count M to lay out a garden on one of the sloping hills which here intersect each other with the most charming variety, and form the most lovely valleys. The garden is simple; and it is easy to perceive, even upon your first entrance, that the plan was not designed by a scientific gardener, but by a man who wished to give himself up here to the enjoyment of his own sensitive heart. Many a tear have I already shed to the memory of its departed master in a summer-house which is now reduced to ruins, but was his favourite resort, and now is mine. I shall soon be master of the place. The gardener has become attached to me within the last few days, and he will lose nothing thereby. 
MAY 10. 
A wonderful serenity has taken possession of my entire soul, like these sweet mornings of spring which I enjoy with my whole heart. I am alone, and feel the charm of existence in this spot, which was created for the bliss of souls like mine. I am so happy, my dear friend, so absorbed in the exquisite sense of mere tranquil existence, that I neglect my talents. I should be incapable of drawing a single stroke at the present moment; and yet I feel that I never was a greater artist than now. When, while 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, I throw myself down among the tall grass by the trickling stream; and, as I lie close to the earth, a thousand unknown plants are noticed by 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 form of a beloved mistress, then I often think with longing, Oh, would I could describe these conceptions, could impress upon paper all that is living so full and warm within me, that it might be the mirror of my soul, as my 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 splendour of these visions! 
MAY 12. 
I know not whether some deceitful spirits haunt this spot, or whether it be the warm, celestial fancy in my own heart which makes everything around me seem like paradise. In front of the house is a fountain,—a fountain to which I am bound by a charm like Melusina and her sisters. Descending a gentle slope, you come to an arch, where, some twenty steps lower down, water of the clearest crystal gushes from the marble rock. The narrow wall which encloses it above, the tall trees which encircle the spot, and the coolness of the place itself,—everything imparts a pleasant but sublime impression. Not a day passes on which I do not spend an hour there. The young maidens come from the town to fetch water,—innocent and necessary employment, and formerly the occupation of the daughters of kings. As I take my rest there, the idea of the old patriarchal life is awakened around me. I see them, our old ancestors, how they formed their friendships and contracted alliances at the fountain-side; and I feel how fountains and streams were guarded by beneficent spirits. He who is a stranger to these sensations has never really enjoyed cool repose at the side of a fountain after the fatigue of a weary summer day. 
MAY 13. 
You ask if you shall send me books. My dear friend, I beseech you, for the love of God, relieve me from such a yoke! I need no more to be guided, agitated, heated. My heart ferments sufficiently of itself. I want strains to lull me, and I find them to perfection in my Homer. Often do I strive to allay the burning fever of my blood; and you have never witnessed anything so unsteady, so uncertain, as my heart. But need I confess this to you, my dear friend, who have so often endured the anguish of witnessing my sudden transitions from sorrow to immoderate joy, and from sweet melancholy to violent passions? I treat my poor heart like a sick child, and gratify its every fancy. Do not mention this again: there are people who would censure me for it. 
MAY 15. 
The common people of the place know me already, and love me, particularly the children. When at first I associated with them, and inquired in a friendly tone about their various trifles, some fancied that I wished to ridicule them, and turned from me in exceeding ill-humour. I did not allow that circumstance to grieve me: I only felt most keenly what I have often before observed. Persons who can claim a certain rank keep themselves coldly aloof from the common people, as though they feared to lose their importance by the contact; whilst wanton idlers, and such as are prone to bad joking, affect to descend to their level, only to make the poor people feel their impertinence all the more keenly. 
I know very well that we are not all equal, nor can be so; but it is my opinion that he who avoids the common people, in order not to lose their respect, is as much to blame as a coward who hides himself from his enemy because he fears defeat. 
The other day I went to the fountain, and found a young servant-girl, who had set her pitcher on the lowest step, and looked around to see if one of her companions was approaching to place it on her head. I ran down, and looked at her. "Shall I help you, pretty lass?" said I. She blushed deeply. "Oh, sir!" she exclaimed. "No ceremony!" I replied. She adjusted her head-gear, and I helped her. She thanked me, and ascended the steps. 
MAY 17. 
I have made all sorts of acquaintances, but have as yet found no society. I know not what attraction I possess for the people, so many of them like me, and attach themselves to me; and then I feel sorry when the road we pursue together goes only a short distance. If you inquire what the people are like here, I must answer, "The same as everywhere." The human race is but a monotonous affair. Most of them labour the greater part of their time for mere subsistence; and the scanty portion of freedom which remains to them so troubles them that they use every exertion to get rid of it. Oh, the destiny of man! 
But they are a right good sort of people. If I occasionally forget myself, and take part in the innocent pleasures which are not yet forbidden to the peasantry, and enjoy myself, for instance, with genuine freedom and sincerity, round a well-covered table, or arrange an excursion or a dance opportunely, and so forth, all this produces a good effect upon my disposition; only I must forget that there lie dormant within me so many other qualities which moulder uselessly, and which I am obliged to keep carefully concealed. Ah! this thought affects my spirits fearfully. And yet to be misunderstood is the fate of the like of us. 
Alas, that the friend of my youth is gone! Alas, that I ever knew her! I might say to myself, "You are a dreamer to seek what is not to be found here below." But she has been mine. I have possessed that heart, that noble soul, in whose presence I seemed to be more than I really was, because I was all that I could be. Good heavens! did then a single power of my soul remain unexercised? In her presence could I not display, to its full extent, that mysterious feeling with which my heart embraces nature? Was not our intercourse a perpetual web of the finest emotions, of the keenest wit, the varieties of which, even in their very eccentricity, bore the stamp of genius? Alas! the few years by which she was my senior brought her to the grave before me. Never can I forget her firm mind or her heavenly patience. 
A few days ago I met a certain young V—, a frank, open fellow, with a most pleasing countenance. He has just left the university, does not deem himself overwise, but believes he knows more than other people. He has worked hard, as I can perceive from many circumstances, and, in short, possesses a large stock of information. When he heard that I am drawing a good deal, and that I know Greek (two wonderful things for this part of the country), he came to see me, and displayed his whole store of learning, from Batteaux to Wood, from De Piles to Winkelmann: he assured me he had read through the first part of Sultzer's theory, and also possessed a manuscript of Heyne's work on the study of the antique. I allowed it all to pass. 
I have become acquainted, also, with a very worthy person, the district judge, a frank and open-hearted man. I am told it is a most delightful thing to see him in the midst of his children, of whom he has nine. His eldest daughter especially is highly spoken of. He has invited me to go and see him, and I intend to do so on the first opportunity. He lives at one of the royal hunting-lodges, which can be reached from here in an hour and a half by walking, and which he obtained leave to inhabit after the loss of his wife, as it is so painful to him to reside in town and at the court. 
There have also come in my way a few other originals of a questionable sort, who are in all respects undesirable, and most intolerable in their demonstration of friendship. Good-bye. This letter will please you: it is quite historical. 
MAY 22. 
That the life of man is but a dream, many a man has surmised heretofore; and I, too, am everywhere pursued by this feeling. When I consider the narrow limits within which our active and inquiring faculties are confined; when I see how all our energies are wasted in providing for mere necessities, which again have no further end than to prolong a wretched existence; and then that all our satisfaction concerning certain subjects of investigation ends in nothing better than a passive resignation, whilst we amuse ourselves painting our prison-walls with bright figures and brilliant landscapes,—when I consider all this, Wilhelm, I am silent. I examine my own being, and find there a world, but a world rather of imagination and dim desires, than of distinctness and living power. Then everything swims before my senses, and I smile and dream while pursuing my way through the world. 
All learned professors and doctors are agreed that children do not comprehend the cause of their desires; but that the grown-up should wander about this earth like children, without knowing whence they come, or whither they go, influenced as little by fixed motives, but guided like them by biscuits, sugar-plums, and the rod,—this is what nobody is willing to acknowledge; and yet I think it is palpable. 
I know what you will say in reply; for I am ready to admit that they are happiest, who, like children, amuse themselves with their playthings, dress and undress their dolls, and attentively watch the cupboard, where mamma has locked up her sweet things, and, when at last they get a delicious morsel, eat it greedily, and exclaim, "More!" These are certainly happy beings; but others also are objects of envy, who dignify their paltry employments, and sometimes even their passions, with pompous titles, representing them to mankind as gigantic achievements performed for their welfare and glory. But the man who humbly acknowledges the vanity of all this, who observes with what pleasure the thriving citizen converts his little garden into a paradise, and how patiently even the poor man pursues his weary way under his burden, and how all wish equally to behold the light of the sun a little longer,—yes, such a man is at peace, and creates his own world within himself; and he is also happy, because he is a man. And then, however limited his sphere, he still preserves in his bosom the sweet feeling of liberty, and knows that he can quit his prison whenever he likes. 
MAY 26. 
You know of old my ways of settling anywhere, of selecting a little cottage in some cosy spot, and of putting up in it with every inconvenience. Here, too, I have discovered such a snug, comfortable place, which possesses peculiar charms for me. 
About a league from the town is a place called Walheim. (The reader need not take the trouble to look for the place thus designated. We have found it necessary to change the names given in the original.) It is delightfully situated on the side of a hill; and, by proceeding along one of the footpaths which lead out of the village, you can have a view of the whole valley. A good old woman lives there, who keeps a small inn. She sells wine, beer, and coffee, and is cheerful and pleasant notwithstanding her age. The chief charm of this spot consists in two linden-trees, spreading their enormous branches over the little green before the church, which is entirely surrounded by peasants' cottages, barns, and homesteads. I have seldom seen a place so retired and peaceable; and there often have my table and chair brought out from the little inn, and drink my coffee there, and read my Homer. Accident brought me to the spot one fine afternoon, and I found it perfectly deserted. Everybody was in the fields except a little boy about four years of age, who was sitting on the ground, and held between his knees a child about six months old: he pressed it to his bosom with both arms, which thus formed a sort of arm-chair; and, notwithstanding the liveliness which sparkled in its black eyes, it remained perfectly still. The sight charmed me. I sat down upon a plough opposite, and sketched with great delight this little picture of brotherly tenderness. I added the neighbouring hedge, the barn-door, and some broken cart-wheels, just as they happened to lie; and I found in about an hour that I had made a very correct and interesting drawing, without putting in the slightest thing of my own. This confirmed me in my resolution of adhering, for the future, entirely to nature. She alone is inexhaustible, and capable of forming the greatest masters. Much may be alleged in favour of rules, as much may be likewise advanced in favour of the laws of society: an artist formed upon them will never produce anything absolutely bad or disgusting; as a man who observes the laws, and obeys decorum, can never be an absolutely intolerable neighbour, nor a decided villain: but yet, say what you will of rules, they destroy the genuine feeling of nature, as well as its true expression. Do not tell me "that this is too hard, that they only restrain and prune superfluous branches, etc." My good friend, I will illustrate this by an analogy. These things resemble love. A warmhearted youth becomes strongly attached to a maiden: he spends every hour of the day in her company, wears out his health, and lavishes his fortune, to afford continual proof that he is wholly devoted to her. Then comes a man of the world, a man of place and respectability, and addresses him thus: "My good young friend, love is natural; but you must love within bounds. Divide your time: devote a portion to business, and give the hours of recreation to your mistress. Calculate your fortune; and out of the superfluity you may make her a present, only not too often,—on her birthday, and such occasions." Pursuing this advice, he may become a useful member of society, and I should advise every prince to give him an appointment; but it is all up with his love, and with his genius if he be an artist. O my friend! why is it that the torrent of genius so seldom bursts forth, so seldom rolls in full-flowing stream, overwhelming your astounded soul? Because, on either side of this stream, cold and respectable persons have taken up their abodes, and, forsooth, their summer-houses and tulip-beds would suffer from the torrent; wherefore they dig trenches, and raise embankments betimes, in order to avert the impending danger. 
MAY 27. 
I find I have fallen into raptures, declamation, and similes, and have forgotten, in consequence, to tell you what became of the children. Absorbed in my artistic contemplations, which I briefly described in my letter of yesterday, I continued sitting on the plough for two hours. Toward evening a young woman, with a basket on her arm, came running toward the children, who had not moved all that time. She exclaimed from a distance, "You are a good boy, Philip!" She gave me greeting: I returned it, rose, and approached her. I inquired if she were the mother of those pretty children. "Yes," she said; and, giving the eldest a piece of bread, she took the little one in her arms and kissed it with a mother's tenderness. "I left my child in Philip's care," she said, "whilst I went into the town with my eldest boy to buy some wheaten bread, some sugar, and an earthen pot." I saw the various articles in the basket, from which the cover had fallen. "I shall make some broth to-night for my little Hans (which was the name of the youngest): that wild fellow, the big one, broke my pot yesterday, whilst he was scrambling with Philip for what remained of the contents." I inquired for the eldest; and she had scarcely time to tell me that he was driving a couple of geese home from the meadow, when he ran up, and handed Philip an osier-twig. I talked a little longer with the woman, and found that she was the daughter of the schoolmaster, and that her husband was gone on a journey into Switzerland for some money a relation had left him. "They wanted to cheat him," she said, "and would not answer his letters; so he is gone there himself. I hope he has met with no accident, as I have heard nothing of him since his departure." I left the woman, with regret, giving each of the children a kreutzer, with an additional one for the youngest, to buy some wheaten bread for his broth when she went to town next; and so we parted. I assure you, my dear friend, when my thoughts are all in tumult, the sight of such a creature as this tranquillises my disturbed mind. She moves in a happy thoughtlessness within the confined circle of her existence; she supplies her wants from day to day; and, when she sees the leaves fall, they raise no other idea in her mind than that winter is approaching. Since that time I have gone out there frequently. The children have become quite familiar with me; and each gets a lump of sugar when I drink my coffee, and they share my milk and bread and butter in the evening. They always receive their kreutzer on Sundays, for the good woman has orders to give it to them when I do not go there after evening service. They are quite at home with me, tell me everything; and I am particularly amused with observing their tempers, and the simplicity of their behaviour, when some of the other village children are assembled with them. 
It has given me a deal of trouble to satisfy the anxiety of the mother, lest (as she says) "they should inconvenience the gentleman." 
MAY 30. 
What I have lately said of painting is equally true with respect to poetry. It is only necessary for us to know what is really excellent, and venture to give it expression; and that is saying much in few words. To-day I have had a scene, which, if literally related, would, make the most beautiful idyl in the world. But why should I talk of poetry and scenes and idyls? Can we never take pleasure in nature without having recourse to art? 
If you expect anything grand or magnificent from this introduction, you will be sadly mistaken. It relates merely to a peasant-lad, who has excited in me the warmest interest. As usual, I shall tell my story badly; and you, as usual, will think me extravagant. It is Walheim once more—always Walheim—which produces these wonderful phenomena. 
A party had assembled outside the house under the linden-trees, to drink coffee. The company did not exactly please me; and, under one pretext or another, I lingered behind. 
A peasant came from an adjoining house, and set to work arranging some part of the same plough which I had lately sketched. His appearance pleased me; and I spoke to him, inquired about his circumstances, made his acquaintance, and, as is my wont with persons of that class, was soon admitted into his confidence. He said he was in the service of a young widow, who set great store by him. He spoke so much of his mistress, and praised her so extravagantly, that I could soon see he was desperately in love with her. "She is no longer young," he said: "and she was treated so badly by her former husband that she does not mean to marry again." From his account it was so evident what incomparable charms she possessed for him, and how ardently he wished she would select him to extinguish the recollection of her first husband's misconduct, that I should have to repeat his own words in order to describe the depth of the poor fellow's attachment, truth, and devotion. It would, in fact, require the gifts of a great poet to convey the expression of his features, the harmony of his voice, and the heavenly fire of his eye. No words can portray the tenderness of his every movement and of every feature: no effort of mine could do justice to the scene. His alarm lest I should misconceive his position with regard to his mistress, or question the propriety of her conduct, touched me particularly. The charming manner with which he described her form and person, which, without possessing the graces of youth, won and attached him to her, is inexpressible, and must be left to the imagination. I have never in my life witnessed or fancied or conceived the possibility of such intense devotion, such ardent affections, united with so much purity. Do not blame me if I say that the recollection of this innocence and truth is deeply impressed upon my very soul; that this picture of fidelity and tenderness haunts me everywhere; and that my own heart, as though enkindled by the flame, glows and burns within me.
I mean now to try and see her as soon as I can: or perhaps, on second thoughts, I had better not; it is better I should behold her through the eyes of her lover. To my sight, perhaps, she would not appear as she now stands before me; and why should I destroy so sweet a picture? 
JUNE 16. 
"Why do I not write to you?" You lay claim to learning, and ask such a question. You should have guessed that I am well—that is to say—in a word, I have made an acquaintance who has won my heart: I have—I know not. 
To give you a regular account of the manner in which I have become acquainted with the most amiable of women would be a difficult task. I am a happy and contented mortal, but a poor historian. 
An angel! Nonsense! Everybody so describes his mistress; and yet I find it impossible to tell you how perfect she is, or why she is so perfect: suffice it to say she has captivated all my senses. 
So much simplicity with so much understanding—so mild, and yet so resolute—a mind so placid, and a life so active. 
But all this is ugly balderdash, which expresses not a single character nor feature. Some other time—but no, not some other time, now, this very instant, will I tell you all about it. Now or never. Well, between ourselves, since I commenced my letter, I have been three times on the point of throwing down my pen, of ordering my horse, and riding out. And yet I vowed this morning that I would not ride to-day, and yet every moment I am rushing to the window to see how high the sun is. 
I could not restrain myself—go to her I must. I have just returned, Wilhelm; and whilst I am taking supper I will write to you. What a delight it was for my soul to see her in the midst of her dear, beautiful children,—eight brothers and sisters! 
But, if I proceed thus, you will be no wiser at the end of my letter than you were at the beginning. Attend, then, and I will compel myself to give you the details. 
I mentioned to you the other day that I had become acquainted with S—, the district judge, and that he had invited me to go and visit him in his retirement, or rather in his little kingdom. But I neglected going, and perhaps should never have gone, if chance had not discovered to me the treasure which lay concealed in that retired spot. Some of our young people had proposed giving a ball in the country, at which I consented to be present. I offered my hand for the evening to a pretty and agreeable, but rather commonplace, sort of girl from the immediate neighbourhood; and it was agreed that I should engage a carriage, and call upon Charlotte, with my partner and her aunt, to convey them to the ball. My companion informed me, as we drove along through the park to the hunting-lodge, that I should make the acquaintance of a very charming young lady. "Take care," added the aunt, "that you do not lose your heart." "Why?" said I. "Because she is already engaged to a very worthy man," she replied, "who is gone to settle his affairs upon the death of his father, and will succeed to a very considerable inheritance." This information possessed no interest for me. When we arrived at the gate, the sun was setting behind the tops of the mountains. The atmosphere was heavy; and the ladies expressed their fears of an approaching storm, as masses of low black clouds were gathering in the horizon. I relieved their anxieties by pretending to be weather-wise, although I myself had some apprehensions lest our pleasure should be interrupted. 
I alighted; and a maid came to the door, and requested us to wait a moment for her mistress. I walked across the court to a well-built house, and, ascending the flight of steps in front, opened the door, and saw before me the most charming spectacle I had ever witnessed. Six children, from eleven to two years old, were running about the hall, and surrounding a lady of middle height, with a lovely figure, dressed in a robe of simple white, trimmed with pink ribbons. She was holding a rye loaf in her hand, and was cutting slices for the little ones all around, in proportion to their age and appetite. She performed her task in a graceful and affectionate manner; each claimant awaiting his turn with outstretched hands, and boisterously shouting his thanks. Some of them ran away at once, to enjoy their evening meal; whilst others, of a gentler disposition, retired to the courtyard to see the strangers, and to survey the carriage in which their Charlotte was to drive away. "Pray forgive me for giving you the trouble to come for me, and for keeping the ladies waiting: but dressing, and arranging some household duties before I leave, had made me forget my children's supper; and they do not like to take it from any one but me." I uttered some indifferent compliment: but my whole soul was absorbed by her air, her voice, her manner; and I had scarcely recovered myself when she ran into her room to fetch her gloves and fan. The young ones threw inquiring glances at me from a distance; whilst I approached the youngest, a most delicious little creature. He drew back; and Charlotte, entering at the very moment, said, "Louis, shake hands with your cousin." The little fellow obeyed willingly; and I could not resist giving him a hearty kiss, notwithstanding his rather dirty face. "Cousin," said I to Charlotte, as I handed her down, "do you think I deserve the happiness of being related to you?" She replied, with a ready smile, "Oh! I have such a number of cousins, that I should be sorry if you were the most undeserving of them." In taking leave, she desired her next sister, Sophy, a girl about eleven years old, to take great care of the children, and to say good-bye to papa for her when he came home from his ride. She enjoined to the little ones to obey their sister Sophy as they would herself, upon which some promised that they would; but a little fair-haired girl, about six years old, looked discontented, and said, "But Sophy is not you, Charlotte; and we like you best." The two eldest boys had clambered up the carriage; and, at my request, she permitted them to accompany us a little way through the forest, upon their promising to sit very still, and hold fast. 
We were hardly seated, and the ladies had scarcely exchanged compliments, making the usual remarks upon each other's dress, and upon the company they expected to meet, when Charlotte stopped the carriage, and made her brothers get down. They insisted upon kissing her hands once more; which the eldest did with all the tenderness of a youth of fifteen, but the other in a lighter and more careless manner. She desired them again to give her love to the children, and we drove off. 
The aunt inquired of Charlotte whether she had finished the book she had last sent her. "No," said Charlotte; "I did not like it: you can have it again. And the one before was not much better." I was surprised, upon asking the title, to hear that it was ____. (We feel obliged to suppress the passage in the letter, to prevent any one from feeling aggrieved; although no author need pay much attention to the opinion of a mere girl, or that of an unsteady young man.) 
I found penetration and character in everything she said: every expression seemed to brighten her features with new charms,—with new rays of genius,—which unfolded by degrees, as she felt herself understood. 
"When I was younger," she observed, "I loved nothing so much as romances. Nothing could equal my delight when, on some holiday, I could settle down quietly in a corner, and enter with my whole heart and soul into the joys or sorrows of some fictitious Leonora. I do not deny that they even possess some charms for me yet. But I read so seldom, that I prefer books suited exactly to my taste. And I like those authors best whose scenes describe my own situation in life,—and the friends who are about me, whose stories touch me with interest, from resembling my own homely existence,—which, without being absolutely paradise, is, on the whole, a source of indescribable happiness." 
I endeavoured to conceal the emotion which these words occasioned, but it was of slight avail; for, when she had expressed so truly her opinion of "The Vicar of Wakefield," and of other works, the names of which I omit (Though the names are omitted, yet the authors mentioned deserve Charlotte's approbation, and will feel it in their hearts when they read this passage. It concerns no other person.), I could no longer contain myself, but gave full utterance to what I thought of it: and it was not until Charlotte had addressed herself to the two other ladies, that I remembered their presence, and observed them sitting mute with astonishment. The aunt looked at me several times with an air of raillery, which, however, I did not at all mind. 
We talked of the pleasures of dancing. "If it is a fault to love it," said Charlotte, "I am ready to confess that I prize it above all other amusements. If anything disturbs me, I go to the piano, play an air to which I have danced, and all goes right again directly." 
You, who know me, can fancy how steadfastly I gazed upon her rich dark eyes during these remarks, how my very soul gloated over her warm lips and fresh, glowing cheeks, how I became quite lost in the delightful meaning of her words, so much so, that I scarcely heard the actual expressions. In short, I alighted from the carriage like a person in a dream, and was so lost to the dim world around me, that I scarcely heard the music which resounded from the illuminated ballroom. 
The two Messrs. Andran and a certain N. N. (I cannot trouble myself with the names), who were the aunt's and Charlotte's partners, received us at the carriage-door, and took possession of their ladies, whilst I followed with mine. 
We commenced with a minuet. I led out one lady after another, and precisely those who were the most disagreeable could not bring themselves to leave off. Charlotte and her partner began an English country dance, and you must imagine my delight when it was their turn to dance the figure with us. You should see Charlotte dance. She dances with her whole heart and soul: her figure is all harmony, elegance, and grace, as if she were conscious of nothing else, and had no other thought or feeling; and, doubtless, for the moment, every other sensation is extinct. 
She was engaged for the second country dance, but promised me the third, and assured me, with the most agreeable freedom, that she was very fond of waltzing. "It is the custom here," she said, "for the previous partners to waltz together; but my partner is an indifferent waltzer, and will feel delighted if I save him the trouble. Your partner is not allowed to waltz, and, indeed, is equally incapable: but I observed during the country dance that you waltz well; so, if you will waltz with me, I beg you would propose it to my partner, and I will propose it to yours." We agreed, and it was arranged that our partners should mutually entertain each other. 
We set off, and, at first, delighted ourselves with the usual graceful motions of the arms. With what grace, with what ease, she moved! When the waltz commenced, and the dancers whirled around each other in the giddy maze, there was some confusion, owing to the incapacity of some of the dancers. We judiciously remained still, allowing the others to weary themselves; and, when the awkward dancers had withdrawn, we joined in, and kept it up famously together with one other couple,—Andran and his partner. Never did I dance more lightly. I felt myself more than mortal, holding this loveliest of creatures in my arms, flying, with her as rapidly as the wind, till I lost sight of every other object; and O Wilhelm, I vowed at that moment, that a maiden whom I loved, or for whom I felt the slightest attachment, never, never should waltz with any one else but with me, if I went to perdition for it!—you will understand this. 
We took a few turns in the room to recover our breath. Charlotte sat down, and felt refreshed by partaking of some oranges which I had had secured,—the only ones that had been left; but at every slice which, from politeness, she offered to her neighbours, I felt as though a dagger went through my heart. 
We were the second couple in the third country dance. As we were going down (and Heaven knows with what ecstasy I gazed at her arms and eyes, beaming with the sweetest feeling of pure and genuine enjoyment), we passed a lady whom I had noticed for her charming expression of countenance; although she was no longer young. She looked at Charlotte with a smile, then, holding up her finger in a threatening attitude, repeated twice in a very significant tone of voice the name of "Albert." 
"Who is Albert," said I to Charlotte, "if it is not impertinent to ask?" She was about to answer, when we were obliged to separate, in order to execute a figure in the dance; and, as we crossed over again in front of each other, I perceived she looked somewhat pensive. "Why need I conceal it from you?" she said, as she gave me her hand for the promenade. "Albert is a worthy man, to whom I am engaged." Now, there was nothing new to me in this (for the girls had told me of it on the way); but it was so far new that I had not thought of it in connection with her whom, in so short a time, I had learned to prize so highly. Enough, I became confused, got out in the figure, and occasioned general confusion; so that it required all Charlotte's presence of mind to set me right by pulling and pushing me into my proper place. 
The dance was not yet finished when the lightning which had for some time been seen in the horizon, and which I had asserted to proceed entirely from heat, grew more violent; and the thunder was heard above the music. When any distress or terror surprises us in the midst of our amusements, it naturally makes a deeper impression than at other times, either because the contrast makes us more keenly susceptible, or rather perhaps because our senses are then more open to impressions, and the shock is consequently stronger. To this cause I must ascribe the fright and shrieks of the ladies. One sagaciously sat down in a corner with her back to the window, and held her fingers to her ears; a second knelt down before her, and hid her face in her lap; a third threw herself between them, and embraced her sister with a thousand tears; some insisted on going home; others, unconscious of their actions, wanted sufficient presence of mind to repress the impertinence of their young partners, who sought to direct to themselves those sighs which the lips of our agitated beauties intended for heaven. Some of the gentlemen had gone down-stairs to smoke a quiet cigar, and the rest of the company gladly embraced a happy suggestion of the hostess to retire into another room which was provided with shutters and curtains. We had hardly got there, when Charlotte placed the chairs in a circle; and, when the company had sat down in compliance with her request, she forthwith proposed a round game. 
I noticed some of the company prepare their mouths and draw themselves up at the prospect of some agreeable forfeit. "Let us play at counting," said Charlotte. "Now, pay attention: I shall go round the circle from right to left; and each person is to count, one after the other, the number that comes to him, and must count fast; whoever stops or mistakes is to have a box on the ear, and so on, till we have counted a thousand." It was delightful to see the fun. She went round the circle with upraised arm. "One," said the first; "two," the second; "three," the third; and so on, till Charlotte went faster and faster. One made a mistake, instantly a box on the ear; and, amid the laughter that ensued, came another box; and so on, faster and faster. I myself came in for two. I fancied they were harder than the rest, and felt quite delighted. A general laughter and confusion put an end to the game long before we had counted as far as a thousand. The party broke up into little separate knots: the storm had ceased, and I followed Charlotte into the ballroom. On the way she said, "The game banished their fears of the storm." I could make no reply. "I myself," she continued, "was as much frightened as any of them; but by affecting courage, to keep up the spirits of the others, I forgot my apprehensions." We went to the window. It was still thundering at a distance: a soft rain was pouring down over the country, and filled the air around us with delicious odours. Charlotte leaned forward on her arm; her eyes wandered over the scene; she raised them to the sky, and then turned them upon me; they were moistened with tears; she placed her hand on mine and said, "Klopstock!" at once I remembered the magnificent ode which was in her thoughts: I felt oppressed with the weight of my sensations, and sank under them. It was more than I could bear. I bent over her hand, kissed it in a stream of delicious tears, and again looked up to her eyes. Divine Klopstock! why didst thou not see thy apotheosis in those eyes? And thy name so often profaned, would that I never heard it repeated! 
JUNE 19. 
I no longer remember where I stopped in my narrative: I only know it was two in the morning when I went to bed; and if you had been with me, that I might have talked instead of writing to you, I should, in all probability, have kept you up till daylight. 
I think I have not yet related what happened as we rode home from the ball, nor have I time to tell you now. It was a most magnificent sunrise: the whole country was refreshed, and the rain fell drop by drop from the trees in the forest. Our companions were asleep. Charlotte asked me if I did not wish to sleep also, and begged of me not to make any ceremony on her account. Looking steadfastly at her, I answered, "As long as I see those eyes open, there is no fear of my falling asleep." We both continued awake till we reached her door. The maid opened it softly, and assured her, in answer to her inquiries, that her father and the children were well, and still sleeping. I left her asking permission to visit her in the course of the day. She consented, and I went, and, since that time, sun, moon, and stars may pursue their course: I know not whether it is day or night; the whole world is nothing to me. 
JUNE 21. 
My days are as happy as those reserved by God for his elect; and, whatever be my fate hereafter, I can never say that I have not tasted joy,—the purest joy of life. You know Walheim. I am now completely settled there. In that spot I am only half a league from Charlotte; and there I enjoy myself, and taste all the pleasure which can fall to the lot of man. 
Little did I imagine, when I selected Walheim for my pedestrian excursions, that all heaven lay so near it. How often in my wanderings from the hillside or from the meadows across the river, have I beheld this hunting-lodge, which now contains within it all the joy of my heart! 
I have often, my dear Wilhelm, reflected on the eagerness men feel to wander and make new discoveries, and upon that secret impulse which afterward inclines them to return to their narrow circle, conform to the laws of custom, and embarrass themselves no longer with what passes around them. 
It is so strange how, when I came here first, and gazed upon that lovely valley from the hillside, I felt charmed with the entire scene surrounding me. The little wood opposite—how delightful to sit under its shade! How fine the view from that point of rock! Then, that delightful chain of hills, and the exquisite valleys at their feet! Could I but wander and lose myself amongst them! I went, and returned without finding what I wished. Distance, my friend, is like futurity. A dim vastness is spread before our souls: the perceptions of our mind are as obscure as those of our vision; and we desire earnestly to surrender up our whole being, that it may be filled with the complete and perfect bliss of one glorious emotion. But alas! when we have attained our object, when the distant there becomes the present here, all is changed: we are as poor and circumscribed as ever, and our souls still languish for unattainable happiness. 
So does the restless traveller pant for his native soil, and find in his own cottage, in the arms of his wife, in the affections of his children, and in the labour necessary for their support, that happiness which he had sought in vain through the wide world. 
When, in the morning at sunrise, I go out to Walheim, and with my own hands gather in the garden the pease which are to serve for my dinner, when I sit down to shell them, and read my Homer during the intervals, and then, selecting a saucepan from the kitchen, fetch my own butter, put my mess on the fire, cover it up, and sit down to stir it as occasion requires, I figure to myself the illustrious suitors of Penelope, killing, dressing, and preparing their own oxen and swine. Nothing fills me with a more pure and genuine sense of happiness than those traits of patriarchal life which, thank Heaven! I can imitate without affectation. Happy is it, indeed, for me that my heart is capable of feeling the same simple and innocent pleasure as the peasant whose table is covered with food of his own rearing, and who not only enjoys his meal, but remembers with delight the happy days and sunny mornings when he planted it, the soft evenings when he watered it, and the pleasure he experienced in watching its daily growth. 
JUNE 29. 
The day before yesterday, the physician came from the town to pay a visit to the judge. He found me on the floor playing with Charlotte's children. Some of them were scrambling over me, and others romped with me; and, as I caught and tickled them, they made a great noise. The doctor is a formal sort of personage: he adjusts the plaits of his ruffles, and continually settles his frill whilst he is talking to you; and he thought my conduct beneath the dignity of a sensible man. I could perceive this by his countenance. But I did not suffer myself to be disturbed. I allowed him to continue his wise conversation, whilst I rebuilt the children's card houses for them as fast as they threw them down. He went about the town afterward, complaining that the judge's children were spoiled enough before, but that now Werther was completely ruining them. 
Yes, my dear Wilhelm, nothing on this earth affects my heart so much as children. When I look on at their doings; when I mark in the little creatures the seeds of all those virtues and qualities which they will one day find so indispensable; when I behold in the obstinate all the future firmness and constancy of a noble character; in the capricious, that levity and gaiety of temper which will carry them lightly over the dangers and troubles of life, their whole nature simple and unpolluted,—then I call to mind the golden words of the Great Teacher of mankind, "Unless ye become like one of these!" And now, my friend, these children, who are our equals, whom we ought to consider as our models, we treat them as though they were our subjects. They are allowed no will of their own. And have we, then, none ourselves? Whence comes our exclusive right? Is it because we are older and more experienced? Great God! from the height of thy heaven thou beholdest great children and little children, and no others; and thy Son has long since declared which afford thee greatest pleasure. But they believe in him, and hear him not,—that, too, is an old story; and they train their children after their own image, etc. 
Adieu, Wilhelm: I will not further bewilder myself with this subject. 
JULY 1. 
The consolation Charlotte can bring to an invalid I experience from my own heart, which suffers more from her absence than many a poor creature lingering on a bed of sickness. She is gone to spend a few days in the town with a very worthy woman, who is given over by the physicians, and wishes to have Charlotte near her in her last moments. I accompanied her last week on a visit to the Vicar of S—, a small village in the mountains, about a league hence. We arrived about four o'clock: Charlotte had taken her little sister with her. When we entered the vicarage court, we found the good old man sitting on a bench before the door, under the shade of two large walnut-trees. At the sight of Charlotte he seemed to gain new life, rose, forgot his stick, and ventured to walk toward her. She ran to him, and made him sit down again; then, placing herself by his side, she gave him a number of messages from her father, and then caught up his youngest child, a dirty, ugly little thing, the joy of his old age, and kissed it. I wish you could have witnessed her attention to this old man,—how she raised her voice on account of his deafness; how she told him of healthy young people, who had been carried off when it was least expected; praised the virtues of Carlsbad, and commended his determination to spend the ensuing summer there; and assured him that he looked better and stronger than he did when she saw him last. I, in the meantime, paid attention to his good lady. The old man seemed quite in spirits; and as I could not help admiring the beauty of the walnut-trees, which formed such an agreeable shade over our heads, he began, though with some little difficulty, to tell us their history. "As to the oldest," said he, "we do not know who planted it,—some say one clergyman, and some another: but the younger one, there behind us, is exactly the age of my wife, fifty years old next October; her father planted it in the morning, and in the evening she came into the world. My wife's father was my predecessor here, and I cannot tell you how fond he was of that tree; and it is fully as dear to me. Under the shade of that very tree, upon a log of wood, my wife was seated knitting, when I, a poor student, came into this court for the first time, just seven and twenty years ago." Charlotte inquired for his daughter. He said she was gone with Herr Schmidt to the meadows, and was with the haymakers. The old man then resumed his story, and told us how his predecessor had taken a fancy to him, as had his daughter likewise; and how he had become first his curate, and subsequently his successor. He had scarcely finished his story when his daughter returned through the garden, accompanied by the above-mentioned Herr Schmidt. She welcomed Charlotte affectionately, and I confess I was much taken with her appearance. She was a lively-looking, good-humoured brunette, quite competent to amuse one for a short time in the country. Her lover (for such Herr Schmidt evidently appeared to be) was a polite, reserved personage, and would not join our conversation, notwithstanding all Charlotte's endeavours to draw him out. I was much annoyed at observing, by his countenance, that his silence did not arise from want of talent, but from caprice and ill-humour. This subsequently became very evident, when we set out to take a walk, and Frederica joining Charlotte, with whom I was talking, the worthy gentleman's face, which was naturally rather sombre, became so dark and angry that Charlotte was obliged to touch my arm, and remind me that I was talking too much to Frederica. 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. This thought dwelt upon my mind; and in the evening, when we returned to the vicar's, and were sitting round the table with our bread end milk, the conversation turned on the joys and sorrows of the world, I could not resist the temptation to inveigh bitterly against ill-humour. "We are apt," said I, "to complain, but—with very little cause, that our happy days are few, and our evil days many. If our hearts were always disposed to receive the benefits Heaven sends us, we should acquire strength to support evil when it comes." "But," observed the vicar's wife, "we cannot always command our tempers, so much depends upon the constitution: when the body suffers, the mind is ill at ease." "I acknowledge that," I continued; "but we must consider such a disposition in the light of a disease, and inquire whether there is no remedy for it." 
"I should be glad to hear one," said Charlotte: "at least, I think very much depends upon ourselves; I know it is so with me. When anything annoys me, and disturbs my temper, I hasten into the garden, hum a couple of country dances, and it is all right with me directly." "That is what I meant," I replied; "ill-humour resembles indolence: it is natural to us; but if once we have courage to exert ourselves, we find our work run fresh from our hands, and we experience in the activity from which we shrank a real enjoyment." Frederica listened very attentively: and the young man objected, that we were not masters of ourselves, and still less so of our feelings. "The question is about a disagreeable feeling," I added, "from which every one would willingly escape, but none know their own power without trial. Invalids are glad to consult physicians, and submit to the most scrupulous regimen, the most nauseous medicines, in order to recover their health." I observed that the good old man inclined his head, and exerted himself to hear our discourse; so I raised my voice, and addressed myself directly to him. "We preach against a great many crimes," I observed, "but I never remember a sermon delivered against ill-humour." "That may do very well for your town clergymen," said he: "country people are never ill-humoured; though, indeed, it might be useful, occasionally, to my wife for instance, and the judge." We all laughed, as did he likewise very cordially, till he fell into a fit of coughing, which interrupted our conversation for a time. Herr Schmidt resumed the subject. "You call ill humour a crime," he remarked, "but I think you use too strong a term." "Not at all," I replied, "if that deserves the name which is so pernicious to ourselves and our neighbours. Is it not enough that we want the power to make one another happy, must we deprive each other of the pleasure which we can all make for ourselves? Show me the man who has the courage to hide his ill-humour, who bears the whole burden himself, without disturbing the peace of those around him. No: ill-humour arises from an inward consciousness of our own want of merit, from a discontent which ever accompanies that envy which foolish vanity engenders. We see people happy, whom we have not made so, and cannot endure the sight." Charlotte looked at me with a smile; she observed the emotion with which I spoke: and a tear in the eyes of Frederica stimulated me to proceed. "Woe unto those," I said, "who use their power over a human heart to destroy the simple pleasures it would naturally enjoy! All the favours, all the attentions, in the world cannot compensate for the loss of that happiness which a cruel tyranny has destroyed." My heart was full as I spoke. A recollection of many things which had happened pressed upon my mind, and filled my eyes with tears. "We should daily repeat to ourselves," I exclaimed, "that we should not interfere with our friends, unless to leave them in possession of their own joys, and increase their happiness by sharing it with them! But when their souls are tormented by a violent passion, or their hearts rent with grief, is it in your power to afford them the slightest consolation? 
"And when the last fatal malady seizes the being whose untimely grave you have prepared, when she lies languid and exhausted before you, her dim eyes raised to heaven, and the damp of death upon her pallid brow, there you stand at her bedside like a condemned criminal, with the bitter feeling that your whole fortune could not save her; and the agonising thought wrings you, that all your efforts are powerless to impart even a moment's strength to the departing soul, or quicken her with a transitory consolation." 
At these words the remembrance of a similar scene at which I had been once present fell with full force upon my heart. I buried my face in my handkerchief, and hastened from the room, and was only recalled to my recollection by Charlotte's voice, who reminded me that it was time to return home. With what tenderness she chid me on the way for the too eager interest I took in everything! She declared it would do me injury, and that I ought to spare myself. Yes, my angel! I will do so for your sake. 
JULY 6. 
She is still with her dying friend, and is still the same bright, beautiful creature whose presence softens pain, and sheds happiness around whichever way she turns. She went out yesterday with her little sisters: I knew it, and went to meet them; and we walked together. In about an hour and a half we returned to the town. We stopped at the spring I am so fond of, and which is now a thousand times dearer to me than ever. Charlotte seated herself upon the low wall, and we gathered about her. I looked around, and recalled the time when my heart was unoccupied and free. "Dear fountain!" I said, "since that time I have no more come to enjoy cool repose by thy fresh stream: I have passed thee with careless steps, and scarcely bestowed a glance upon thee." I looked down, and observed Charlotte's little sister, Jane, coming up the steps with a glass of water. I turned toward Charlotte, and I felt her influence over me. Jane at the moment approached with the glass. Her sister, Marianne, wished to take it from her. "No!" cried the child, with the sweetest expression of face, "Charlotte must drink first." 
The affection and simplicity with which this was uttered so charmed me, that I sought to express my feelings by catching up the child and kissing her heartily. She was frightened, and began to cry. "You should not do that," said Charlotte: I felt perplexed. "Come, Jane," she continued, taking her hand, and leading her down the steps again, "it is no matter: wash yourself quickly in the fresh water." I stood and watched them; and when I saw the little dear rubbing her cheeks with her wet hands, in full belief that all the impurities contracted from my ugly beard would be washed off by the miraculous water, and how, though Charlotte said it would do, she continued still to wash with all her might, as though she thought too much were better than too little, I assure you, Wilhelm, I never attended a baptism with greater reverence; and, when Charlotte came up from the well, I could have prostrated myself as before the prophet of an Eastern nation. 
In the evening I would not resist telling the story to a person who, I thought, possessed some natural feeling, because he was a man of understanding. But what a mistake I made. He maintained it was very wrong of Charlotte, that we should not deceive children, that such things occasioned countless mistakes and superstitions, from which we were bound to protect the young. It occurred to me then, that this very man had been baptised only a week before; so I said nothing further, but maintained the justice of my own convictions. We should deal with children as God deals with us, we are happiest under the influence of innocent delusions. 
JULY 8. 
What a child is man that he should be so solicitous about a look! What a child is man! We had been to Walheim: the ladies went in a carriage; but during our walk I thought I saw in Charlotte's dark eyes—I am a fool—but forgive me! you should see them,—those eyes.—However, to be brief (for my own eyes are weighed down with sleep), you must know, when the ladies stepped into their carriage again, young W. Seldstadt, Andran, and I were standing about the door. They are a merry set of fellows, and they were all laughing and joking together. I watched Charlotte's eyes. They wandered from one to the other; but they did not light on me, on me, who stood there motionless, and who saw nothing but her! My heart bade her a thousand times adieu, but she noticed me not. The carriage drove off; and my eyes filled with tears. I looked after her: suddenly I saw Charlotte's bonnet leaning out of the window, and she turned to look back, was it at me? My dear friend, I know not; and in this uncertainty I find consolation. Perhaps she turned to look at me. Perhaps! Good-night—what a child I am! 
JULY 10. 
You should see how foolish I look in company when her name is mentioned, particularly when I am asked plainly how I like her. How I like her! I detest the phrase. What sort of creature must he be who merely liked Charlotte, whose whole heart and senses were not entirely absorbed by her. Like her! Some one asked me lately how I liked Ossian. 
JULY 11. 
Madame M—is very ill. I pray for her recovery, because Charlotte shares my sufferings. I see her occasionally at my friend's house, and to-day she has told me the strangest circumstance. Old M—is a covetous, miserly fellow, who has long worried and annoyed the poor lady sadly; but she has borne her afflictions patiently. A few days ago, when the physician informed us that her recovery was hopeless, she sent for her husband (Charlotte was present), and addressed him thus: "I have something to confess, which, after my decease, may occasion trouble and confusion. I have hitherto conducted your household as frugally and economically as possible, but you must pardon me for having defrauded you for thirty years. At the commencement of our married life, you allowed a small sum for the wants of the kitchen, and the other household expenses. When our establishment increased and our property grew larger, I could not persuade you to increase the weekly allowance in proportion: in short, you know, that, when our wants were greatest, you required me to supply everything with seven florins a week. I took the money from you without an observation, but made up the weekly deficiency from the money-chest; as nobody would suspect your wife of robbing the household bank. But I have wasted nothing, and should have been content to meet my eternal Judge without this confession, if she, upon whom the management of your establishment will devolve after my decease, would be free from embarrassment upon your insisting that the allowance made to me, your former wife, was sufficient." 
I talked with Charlotte of the inconceivable manner in which men allow themselves to be blinded; how any one could avoid suspecting some deception, when seven florins only were allowed to defray expenses twice as great. But I have myself known people who believed, without any visible astonishment, that their house possessed the prophet's never-failing cruse of oil. 
JULY 13. 
No, I am not deceived. In her dark eyes I read a genuine interest in me and in my fortunes. Yes, I feel it; and I may believe my own heart which tells me—dare I say it?—dare I pronounce the divine words?—that she loves me! 
That she loves me! How the idea exalts me in my own eyes! And, as you can understand my feelings, I may say to you, how I honour myself since she loves me! 
Is this presumption, or is it a consciousness of the truth? I do not know a man able to supplant me in the heart of Charlotte; and yet when she speaks of her betrothed with so much warmth and affection, I feel like the soldier who has been stripped of his honours and titles, and deprived of his sword. 
JULY 16. 
How my heart beats when by accident I touch her finger, or my feet meet hers under the table! I draw back as if from a furnace; but a secret force impels me forward again, and my senses become disordered. Her innocent, unconscious heart never knows what agony these little familiarities inflict upon me. Sometimes when we are talking she lays her hand upon mine, and in the eagerness of conversation comes closer to me, and her balmy breath reaches my lips,—when I feel as if lightning had struck me, and that I could sink into the earth. And yet, Wilhelm, with all this heavenly confidence,—if I know myself, and should ever dare—you understand me. No, no! my heart is not so corrupt, it is weak, weak enough but is not that a degree of corruption? 
She is to me a sacred being. All passion is still in her presence: I cannot express my sensations when I am near her. I feel as if my soul beat in every nerve of my body. There is a melody which she plays on the piano with angelic skill,—so simple is it, and yet so spiritual! It is her favourite air; and, when she plays the first note, all pain, care, and sorrow disappear from me in a moment. 
I believe every word that is said of the magic of ancient music. How her simple song enchants me! Sometimes, when I am ready to commit suicide, she sings that air; and instantly the gloom and madness which hung over me are dispersed, and I breathe freely again. 
JULY 18. 
Wilhelm, what is the world to our hearts without love? What is a magic-lantern without light? You have but to kindle the flame within, and the brightest figures shine on the white wall; and, if love only show us fleeting shadows, we are yet happy, when, like mere children, we behold them, and are transported with the splendid phantoms. I have not been able to see Charlotte to-day. I was prevented by company from which I could not disengage myself. What was to be done? I sent my servant to her house, that I might at least see somebody to-day who had been near her. Oh, the impatience with which I waited for his return! the joy with which I welcomed him! I should certainly have caught him in my arms, and kissed him, if I had not been ashamed. 
It is said that the Bonona stone, when placed in the sun, attracts the rays, and for a time appears luminous in the dark. So was it with me and this servant. The idea that Charlotte's eyes had dwelt on his countenance, his cheek, his very apparel, endeared them all inestimably to me, so that at the moment I would not have parted from him for a thousand crowns. His presence made me so happy! Beware of laughing at me, Wilhelm. Can that be a delusion which makes us happy? 
JULY 19. 
"I shall see her today!" I exclaim with delight, when I rise in the morning, and look out with gladness of heart at the bright, beautiful sun. "I shall see her today!" And then I have no further wish to form: all, all is included in that one thought. 
JULY 20. 
I cannot assent to your proposal that I should accompany the ambassador to ———. I do not love subordination; and we all know that he is a rough, disagreeable person to be connected with. You say my mother wishes me to be employed. I could not help laughing at that. Am I not sufficiently employed? And is it not in reality the same, whether I shell peas or count lentils? The world runs on from one folly to another; and the man who, solely from regard to the opinion of others, and without any wish or necessity of his own, toils after gold, honour, or any other phantom, is no better than a fool. 
JULY 24. 
You insist so much on my not neglecting my drawing, that it would be as well for me to say nothing as to confess how little I have lately done. 
I never felt happier, I never understood nature better, even down to the veriest stem or smallest blade of grass; and yet I am unable to express myself: my powers of execution are so weak, everything seems to swim and float before me, so that I cannot make a clear, bold outline. But I fancy I should succeed better if I had some clay or wax to model. I shall try, if this state of mind continues much longer, and will take to modelling, if I only knead dough. 
I have commenced Charlotte's portrait three times, and have as often disgraced myself. This is the more annoying, as I was formerly very happy in taking likenesses. I have since sketched her profile, and must content myself with that. 
JULY 25. 
Yes, dear Charlotte! I will order and arrange everything. Only give me more commissions, the more the better. One thing, however, I must request: use no more writing-sand with the dear notes you send me. Today I raised your letter hastily to my lips, and it set my teeth on edge. 
JULY 26. 
I have often determined not to see her so frequently. But who could keep such a resolution? Every day I am exposed to the temptation, and promise faithfully that to-morrow I will really stay away: but, when tomorrow comes, I find some irresistible reason for seeing her; and, before I can account for it, I am with her again. Either she has said on the previous evening "You will be sure to call to-morrow,"—and who could stay away then?—or she gives me some commission, and I find it essential to take her the answer in person; or the day is fine, and I walk to Walheim; and, when I am there, it is only half a league farther to her. I am within the charmed atmosphere, and soon find myself at her side. My grandmother used to tell us a story of a mountain of loadstone. When any vessels came near it, they were instantly deprived of their ironwork: the nails flew to the mountain, and the unhappy crew perished amidst the disjointed planks. 
JULY 30. 
Albert is arrived, and I must take my departure. Were he the best and noblest of men, and I in every respect his inferior, I could not endure to see him in possession of such a perfect being. Possession!—enough, Wilhelm: her betrothed is here,—a fine, worthy fellow, whom one cannot help liking. Fortunately I was not present at their meeting. It would have broken my heart! And he is so considerate: he has not given Charlotte one kiss in my presence. Heaven reward him for it! I must love him for the respect with which he treats her. He shows a regard for me, but for this I suspect I am more indebted to Charlotte than to his own fancy for me. Women have a delicate tact in such matters, and it should be so. They cannot always succeed in keeping two rivals on terms with each other; but, when they do, they are the only gainers. 
I cannot help esteeming Albert. The coolness of his temper contrasts strongly with the impetuosity of mine, which I cannot conceal. He has a great deal of feeling, and is fully sensible of the treasure he possesses in Charlotte. He is free from ill-humour, which you know is the fault I detest most. 
He regards me as a man of sense; and my attachment to Charlotte, and the interest I take in all that concerns her, augment his triumph and his love. I shall not inquire whether he may not at times tease her with some little jealousies; as I know, that, were I in his place, I should not be entirely free from such sensations. 
But, be that as it may, my pleasure with Charlotte is over. Call it folly or infatuation, what signifies a name? The thing speaks for itself. Before Albert came, I knew all that I know now. I knew I could make no pretensions to her, nor did I offer any, that is, as far as it was possible, in the presence of so much loveliness, not to pant for its enjoyment. And now, behold me like a silly fellow, staring with astonishment when another comes in, and deprives me of my love. 
I bite my lips, and feel infinite scorn for those who tell me to be resigned, because there is no help for it. Let me escape from the yoke of such silly subterfuges! I ramble through the woods; and when I return to Charlotte, and find Albert sitting by her side in the summer-house in the garden, I am unable to bear it, behave like a fool, and commit a thousand extravagances. "For Heaven's sake," said Charlotte today, "let us have no more scenes like those of last night! You terrify me when you are so violent." Between ourselves, I am always away now when he visits her: and I feel delighted when I find her alone. 
AUGUST 8. 
Believe me, dear Wilhelm, I did not allude to you when I spoke so severely of those who advise resignation to inevitable fate. I did not think it possible for you to indulge such a sentiment. But in fact you are right. I only suggest one objection. In this world one is seldom reduced to make a selection between two alternatives. There are as many varieties of conduct and opinion as there are turns of feature between an aquiline nose and a flat one. 
You will, therefore, permit me to concede your entire argument, and yet contrive means to escape your dilemma. 
Your position is this, I hear you say: "Either you have hopes of obtaining Charlotte, or you have none. Well, in the first case, pursue your course, and press on to the fulfilment of your wishes. In the second, be a man, and shake off a miserable passion, which will enervate and destroy you." My dear friend, this is well and easily said. 
But would you require a wretched being, whose life is slowly wasting under a lingering disease, to despatch himself at once by the stroke of a dagger? Does not the very disorder which consumes his strength deprive him of the courage to effect his deliverance? 
You may answer me, if you please, with a similar analogy, "Who would not prefer the amputation of an arm to the periling of life by doubt and procrastination!" But I know not if I am right, and let us leave these comparisons. 
Enough! There are moments, Wilhelm, when I could rise up and shake it all off, and when, if I only knew where to go, I could fly from this place. 

Mary Shelley, Mathilda

First published in 1959 because its content was unacceptable in Shelley's time, this was in fact Shelley's second novel. Her father, William Godwin, refused to return the ms she had sent him because he was disgusted by the incest subject.

Here are a couple of supplemental materials:

http://www.online-literature.com/shelley_mary/mathilda/14/

The Fields of Fancy

THE FIELDS OF FANCY[88]

It was in Rome--the Queen of the World that I suffered a misfortune

that reduced me to misery & despair[89]--The bright sun & deep azure

sky were oppressive but nought was so hateful as the voice of Man--I

loved to walk by the shores of the Tiber which were solitary & if the

sirocco blew to see the swift clouds pass over St. Peters and the many

domes of Rome or if the sun shone I turned my eyes from the sky whose

light was too dazzling & gay to be reflected in my tearful eyes I

turned them to the river whose swift course was as the speedy

departure of happiness and whose turbid colour was gloomy as grief--

Whether I slept I know not or whether it was in one of those many

hours which I spent seated on the ground my mind a chaos of despair &

my eyes for ever wet by tears but I was here visited by a lovely

spirit whom I have ever worshiped & who tried to repay my adoration by

diverting my mind from the hideous memories that racked it. At first

indeed this wanton spirit played a false part & appearing with sable

wings & gloomy countenance seemed to take a pleasure in exagerating

all my miseries--and as small hopes arose to snatch them from me &

give me in their place gigantic fears which under her fairy hand

appeared close, impending & unavoidable--sometimes she would cruelly

leave me while I was thus on the verge of madness and without

consoling me leave me nought but heavy leaden sleep--but at other

times she would wilily link less unpleasing thoughts to these most

dreadful ones & before I was aware place hopes before me--futile but

consoling[90]--

One day this lovely spirit--whose name as she told me was Fantasia

came to me in one of her consolotary moods--her wings which seemed

coloured by her tone of mind were not gay but beautiful like that of

the partridge & her lovely eyes although they ever burned with an

unquenshable fire were shaded & softened by her heavy lids & the black

long fringe of her eye lashes--She thus addressed me--You mourn for

the loss of those you love. They are gone for ever & great as my power

is I cannot recall them to you--if indeed I wave my wand over you you

will fancy that you feel their gentle spirits in the soft air that

steals over your cheeks & the distant sound of winds & waters may

image to you their voices which will bid you rejoice for that they

live--This will not take away your grief but you will shed sweeter

tears than those which full of anguish & hopelessness now start from

your eyes--This I can do & also can I take you to see many of my

provinces my fairy lands which you have not yet visited and whose

beauty will while away the heavy time--I have many lovely spots under

my command which poets of old have visited and have seen those sights

the relation of which has been as a revelation to the world--many

spots I have still in keeping of lovely fields or horrid rocks peopled

by the beautiful or the tremendous which I keep in reserve for my

future worshippers--to one of those whose grim terrors frightened

sleep from the eye I formerly led you[91] but you now need more

pleasing images & although I will not promise you to shew you any new

scenes yet if I lead you to one often visited by my followers you will

at least see new combinations that will sooth if they do not delight

you--Follow me--

Alas! I replied--when have you found me slow to obey your voice--some

times indeed I have called you & you have not come--but when before

have I not followed your slightest sign and have left what was either

of joy or sorrow in our world to dwell with you in yours till you have

dismissed me ever unwilling to depart--But now the weight of grief

that oppresses me takes from me that lightness which is necessary to

follow your quick & winged motions alas in the midst of my course one

thought would make me droop to the ground while you would outspeed me

to your Kingdom of Glory & leave me here darkling

Ungrateful! replied the Spirit Do I not tell you that I will sustain &

console you My wings shall aid your heavy steps & I will command my

winds to disperse the mist that over casts you--I will lead you to a

place where you will not hear laughter that disturbs you or see the

sun that dazzles you--We will choose some of the most sombre walks of

the Elysian fields--

The Elysian fields--I exclaimed with a quick scream--shall I then see?

I gasped & could not ask that which I longed to know--the friendly

spirit replied more gravely--I have told you that you will not see

those whom you mourn--But I must away--follow me or I must leave you

weeping deserted by the spirit that now checks your tears--

Go--I replied I cannot follow--I can only sit here & grieve--& long to

see those who are gone for ever for to nought but what has relation to

them can I listen--

The spirit left me to groan & weep to wish the sun quenched in eternal

darkness--to accuse the air the waters all--all the universe of my

utter & irremediable misery--Fantasia came again and ever when she

came tempted me to follow her but as to follow her was to leave for a

while the thought of those loved ones whose memories were my all

although they were my torment I dared not go--Stay with me I cried &

help me to clothe my bitter thoughts in lovelier colours give me hope

although fallacious & images of what has been although it never will

be again--diversion I cannot take cruel fairy do you leave me alas all

my joy fades at thy departure but I may not follow thee--

One day after one of these combats when the spirit had left me I

wandered on along the banks of the river to try to disperse the

excessive misery that I felt untill overcome by fatigue--my eyes

weighed down by tears--I lay down under the shade of trees & fell

asleep--I slept long and when I awoke I knew not where I was--I did

not see the river or the distant city--but I lay beside a lovely

fountain shadowed over by willows & surrounded by blooming myrtles--at

a short distance the air seemed pierced by the spiry pines & cypresses

and the ground was covered by short moss & sweet smelling heath--the

sky was blue but not dazzling like that of Rome and on every side I

saw long allies--clusters of trees with intervening lawns & gently

stealing rivers--Where am I? [I] exclaimed--& looking around me I

beheld Fantasia--She smiled & as she smiled all the enchanting scene

appeared lovelier--rainbows played in the fountain & the heath flowers

at our feet appeared as if just refreshed by dew--I have seized you,

said she--as you slept and will for some little time retain you as my

prisoner--I will introduce you to some of the inhabitants of these

peaceful Gardens--It shall not be to any whose exuberant happiness

will form an u[n]pleasing contrast with your heavy grief but it shall

be to those whose chief care here is to acquired knowledged [_sic_] &

virtue--or to those who having just escaped from care & pain have not

yet recovered full sense of enjoyment--This part of these Elysian

Gardens is devoted to those who as before in your world wished to

become wise & virtuous by study & action here endeavour after the

same ends by contemplation--They are still unknowing of their final

destination but they have a clear knowledge of what on earth is only

supposed by some which is that their happiness now & hereafter depends

upon their intellectual improvement--Nor do they only study the forms

of this universe but search deeply in their own minds and love to meet

& converse on all those high subjects of which the philosophers of

Athens loved to treat--With deep feelings but with no outward

circumstances to excite their passions you will perhaps imagine that

their life is uniform & dull--but these sages are of that disposition

fitted to find wisdom in every thing & in every lovely colour or form

ideas that excite their love--Besides many years are consumed before

they arrive here--When a soul longing for knowledge & pining at its

narrow conceptions escapes from your earth many spirits wait to

receive it and to open its eyes to the mysteries of the universe--many

centuries are often consumed in these travels and they at last retire

here to digest their knowledge & to become still wiser by thought and

imagination working upon memory [92]--When the fitting period is

accomplished they leave this garden to inhabit another world fitted

for the reception of beings almost infinitely wise--but what this

world is neither can you conceive or I teach you--some of the spirits

whom you will see here are yet unknowing in the secrets of

nature--They are those whom care & sorrow have consumed on earth &

whose hearts although active in virtue have been shut through

suffering from knowledge--These spend sometime here to recover their

equanimity & to get a thirst of knowledge from converse with their

wiser companions--They now securely hope to see again those whom they

love & know that it is ignorance alone that detains them from them. As

for those who in your world knew not the loveliness of benevolence &

justice they are placed apart some claimed by the evil spirit & in

vain sought for by the good but She whose delight is to reform the

wicked takes all she can & delivers them to her ministers not to be

punished but to be exercised & instructed untill acquiring a love of

virtue they are fitted for these gardens where they will acquire a

love of knowledge

As Fantasia talked I saw various groupes of figures as they walked

among the allies of the gardens or were seated on the grassy plots

either in contemplation or conversation several advanced together

towards the fountain where I sat--As they approached I observed the

principal figure to be that of a woman about 40 years of age her eyes

burned with a deep fire and every line of her face expressed

enthusiasm & wisdom--Poetry seemed seated on her lips which were

beautifully formed & every motion of her limbs although not youthful

was inexpressibly graceful--her black hair was bound in tresses round

her head and her brows were encompassed by a fillet--her dress was

that of a simple tunic bound at the waist by a broad girdle and a

mantle which fell over her left arm she was encompassed by several

youths of both sexes who appeared to hang on her words & to catch the

inspiration as it flowed from her with looks either of eager wonder or

stedfast attention with eyes all bent towards her eloquent countenance

which beamed with the mind within--I am going said Fantasia but I

leave my spirit with you without which this scene wd fade away--I

leave you in good company--that female whose eyes like the loveliest

planet in the heavens draw all to gaze on her is the Prophetess

Diotima the instructress of Socrates[93]--The company about her are

those just escaped from the world there they were unthinking or

misconducted in the pursuit of knowledge. She leads them to truth &

wisdom untill the time comes when they shall be fitted for the journey

through the universe which all must one day undertake--farewell--

And now, gentlest reader--I must beg your indulgence--I am a being too

weak to record the words of Diotima her matchless wisdom & heavenly

eloquence[.] What I shall repeat will be as the faint shadow of a tree

by moonlight--some what of the form will be preserved but there will

be no life in it--Plato alone of Mortals could record the thoughts of

Diotima hopeless therefore I shall not dwell so much on her words as

on those of her pupils which being more earthly can better than hers

be related by living lips[.]

Diotima approached the fountain & seated herself on a mossy mound near

it and her disciples placed themselves on the grass near her--Without

noticing me who sat close under her she continued her discourse

addressing as it happened one or other of her listeners--but before I

attempt to repeat her words I will describe the chief of these whom

she appeared to wish principally to impress--One was a woman of about

23 years of age in the full enjoyment of the most exquisite beauty her

golden hair floated in ringlets on her shoulders--her hazle eyes were

shaded by heavy lids and her mouth the lips apart seemed to breathe

sensibility[94]--But she appeared thoughtful & unhappy--her cheek was

pale she seemed as if accustomed to suffer and as if the lessons she

now heard were the only words of wisdom to which she had ever

listened--The youth beside her had a far different aspect--his form

was emaciated nearly to a shadow--his features were handsome but thin

& worn--& his eyes glistened as if animating the visage of decay--his

forehead was expansive but there was a doubt & perplexity in his looks

that seemed to say that although he had sought wisdom he had got

entangled in some mysterious mazes from which he in vain endeavoured

to extricate himself--As Diotima spoke his colour went & came with

quick changes & the flexible muscles of his countenance shewed every

impression that his mind received--he seemed one who in life had

studied hard but whose feeble frame sunk beneath the weight of the

mere exertion of life--the spark of intelligence burned with uncommon

strength within him but that of life seemed ever on the eve of

fading[95]--At present I shall not describe any other of this groupe

but with deep attention try to recall in my memory some of the words

of Diotima--they were words of fire but their path is faintly marked

on my recollection--[96]

It requires a just hand, said she continuing her discourse, to weigh &

divide the good from evil--On the earth they are inextricably

entangled and if you would cast away what there appears an evil a

multitude of beneficial causes or effects cling to it & mock your

labour--When I was on earth and have walked in a solitary country

during the silence of night & have beheld the multitude of stars, the

soft radiance of the moon reflected on the sea, which was studded by

lovely islands--When I have felt the soft breeze steal across my cheek

& as the words of love it has soothed & cherished me--then my mind

seemed almost to quit the body that confined it to the earth & with a

quick mental sense to mingle with the scene that I hardly saw--I

felt--Then I have exclaimed, oh world how beautiful thou art!--Oh

brightest universe behold thy worshiper!--spirit of beauty & of

sympathy which pervades all things, & now lifts my soul as with wings,

how have you animated the light & the breezes!--Deep & inexplicable

spirit give me words to express my adoration; my mind is hurried away

but with language I cannot tell how I feel thy loveliness! Silence or

the song of the nightingale the momentary apparition of some bird that

flies quietly past--all seems animated with thee & more than all the

deep sky studded with worlds!"--If the winds roared & tore the sea and

the dreadful lightnings seemed falling around me--still love was

mingled with the sacred terror I felt; the majesty of loveliness was

deeply impressed on me--So also I have felt when I have seen a lovely

countenance--or heard solemn music or the eloquence of divine wisdom

flowing from the lips of one of its worshippers--a lovely animal or

even the graceful undulations of trees & inanimate objects have

excited in me the same deep feeling of love & beauty; a feeling which

while it made me alive & eager to seek the cause & animator of the

scene, yet satisfied me by its very depth as if I had already found

the solution to my enquires [_sic_] & as if in feeling myself a part

of the great whole I had found the truth & secret of the universe--But

when retired in my cell I have studied & contemplated the various

motions and actions in the world the weight of evil has confounded

me--If I thought of the creation I saw an eternal chain of evil linked

one to the other--from the great whale who in the sea swallows &

destroys multitudes & the smaller fish that live on him also & torment

him to madness--to the cat whose pleasure it is to torment her prey I

saw the whole creation filled with pain--each creature seems to exist

through the misery of another & death & havoc is the watchword of the

animated world--And Man also--even in Athens the most civilized spot

on the earth what a multitude of mean passions--envy, malice--a

restless desire to depreciate all that was great and good did I

see--And in the dominions of the great being I saw man [reduced?][97]

far below the animals of the field preying on one anothers [_sic_]

hearts; happy in the downfall of others--themselves holding on with

bent necks and cruel eyes to a wretch more a slave if possible than

they to his miserable passions--And if I said these are the

consequences of civilization & turned to the savage world I saw only

ignorance unrepaid by any noble feeling--a mere animal, love of life

joined to a low love of power & a fiendish love of destruction--I saw

a creature drawn on by his senses & his selfish passions but untouched

by aught noble or even Human--

And then when I sought for consolation in the various faculties man is

possessed of & which I felt burning within me--I found that spirit of

union with love & beauty which formed my happiness & pride degraded

into superstition & turned from its natural growth which could bring

forth only good fruit:--cruelty--& intolerance & hard tyranny was

grafted on its trunk & from it sprung fruit suitable to such

grafts--If I mingled with my fellow creatures was the voice I heard

that of love & virtue or that of selfishness & vice, still misery was

ever joined to it & the tears of mankind formed a vast sea ever blown

on by its sighs & seldom illuminated by its smiles--Such taking only

one side of the picture & shutting wisdom from the view is a just

portraiture of the creation as seen on earth

But when I compared the good & evil of the world & wished to divide

them into two seperate principles I found them inextricably intwined

together & I was again cast into perplexity & doubt--I might have

considered the earth as an imperfect formation where having bad

materials to work on the Creator could only palliate the evil effects

of his combinations but I saw a wanton malignity in many parts &

particularly in the mind of man that baffled me a delight in mischief

a love of evil for evils sake--a siding of the multitude--a dastardly

applause which in their hearts the crowd gave to triumphant

wick[ed]ness over lowly virtue that filled me with painful sensations.

Meditation, painful & continual thought only encreased my doubts--I

dared not commit the blasphemy of ascribing the slightest evil to a

beneficent God--To whom then should I ascribe the creation? To two

principles? Which was the upermost? They were certainly independant

for neither could the good spirit allow the existence of evil or the

evil one the existence of good--Tired of these doubts to which I could

form no probable solution--Sick of forming theories which I destroyed

as quickly as I built them I was one evening on the top of Hymettus

beholding the lovely prospect as the sun set in the glowing sea--I

looked towards Athens & in my heart I exclaimed--oh busy hive of men!

What heroism & what meaness exists within thy walls! And alas! both to

the good & to the wicked what incalculable misery--Freemen ye call

yourselves yet every free man has ten slaves to build up his

freedom--and these slaves are men as they are yet d[e]graded by their

station to all that is mean & loathsome--Yet in how many hearts now

beating in that city do high thoughts live & magnanimity that should

methinks redeem the whole human race--What though the good man is

unhappy has he not that in his heart to satisfy him? And will a

contented conscience compensate for fallen hopes--a slandered name

torn affections & all the miseries of civilized life?--

Oh Sun how beautiful thou art! And how glorious is the golden ocean

that receives thee! My heart is at peace--I feel no sorrow--a holy

love stills my senses--I feel as if my mind also partook of the

inexpressible loveliness of surrounding nature--What shall I do? Shall

I disturb this calm by mingling in the world?--shall I with an aching

heart seek the spectacle of misery to discover its cause or shall I

hopless leave the search of knowledge & devote myself to the pleasures

they say this world affords?--Oh! no--I will become wise! I will study

my own heart--and there discovering as I may the spring of the virtues

I possess I will teach others how to look for them in their own

souls--I will find whence arrises this unquenshable love of beauty I

possess that seems the ruling star of my life--I will learn how I may

direct it aright and by what loving I may become more like that beauty

which I adore And when I have traced the steps of the godlike feeling

which ennobles me & makes me that which I esteem myself to be then I

will teach others & if I gain but one proselyte--if I can teach but

one other mind what is the beauty which they ought to love--and what

is the sympathy to which they ought to aspire what is the true end of

their being--which must be the true end of that of all men then shall

I be satisfied & think I have done enough--

Farewell doubts--painful meditation of evil--& the great, ever

inexplicable cause of all that we see--I am content to be ignorant of

all this happy that not resting my mind on any unstable theories I

have come to the conclusion that of the great secret of the universe I

_can know nothing_--There is a veil before it--my eyes are not

piercing enough to see through it my arms not long enough to reach it

to withdraw it--I will study the end of my being--oh thou universal

love inspire me--oh thou beauty which I see glowing around me lift me

to a fit understanding of thee! Such was the conclusion of my long

wanderings I sought the end of my being & I found it to be knowledge

of itself--Nor think this a confined study--Not only did it lead me to

search the mazes of the human soul--but I found that there existed

nought on earth which contained not a part of that universal beauty

with which it [was] my aim & object to become acquainted--the motions

of the stars of heaven the study of all that philosophers have

unfolded of wondrous in nature became as it where [_sic_] the steps by

which my soul rose to the full contemplation & enjoyment of the

beautiful--Oh ye who have just escaped from the world ye know not

what fountains of love will be opened in your hearts or what exquisite

delight your minds will receive when the secrets of the world will be

unfolded to you and ye shall become acquainted with the beauty of the

universe--Your souls now growing eager for the acquirement of

knowledge will then rest in its possession disengaged from every

particle of evil and knowing all things ye will as it were be mingled

in the universe & ye will become a part of that celestial beauty that

you admire--[98]

Diotima ceased and a profound silence ensued--the youth with his

cheeks flushed and his eyes burning with the fire communicated from

hers still fixed them on her face which was lifted to heaven as in

inspiration--The lovely female bent hers to the ground & after a deep

sigh was the first to break the silence--

Oh divinest prophetess, said she--how new & to me how strange are your

lessons--If such be the end of our being how wayward a course did I

pursue on earth--Diotima you know not how torn affections & misery

incalculable misery--withers up the soul. How petty do the actions of

our earthly life appear when the whole universe is opened to our

gaze--yet there our passions are deep & irrisisbable [_sic_] and as we

are floating hopless yet clinging to hope down the impetuous stream

can we perceive the beauty of its banks which alas my soul was too

turbid to reflect--If knowledge is the end of our being why are

passions & feelings implanted in us that hurries [_sic_] us from

wisdom to selfconcentrated misery & narrow selfish feeling? Is it as a

trial? On earth I thought that I had well fulfilled my trial & my last

moments became peaceful with the reflection that I deserved no

blame--but you take from me that feeling--My passions were there my

all to me and the hopeless misery that possessed me shut all love &

all images of beauty from my soul--Nature was to me as the blackest

night & if rays of loveliness ever strayed into my darkness it was

only to draw bitter tears of hopeless anguish from my eyes--Oh on

earth what consolation is there to misery?

Your heart I fear, replied Diotima, was broken by your sufferings--but

if you had struggled--if when you found all hope of earthly happiness

wither within you while desire of it scorched your soul--if you had

near you a friend to have raised you to the contemplation of beauty &

the search of knowledge you would have found perhaps not new hopes

spring within you but a new life distinct from that of passion by

which you had before existed[99]--relate to me what this misery was

that thus engroses you--tell me what were the vicissitudes of feeling

that you endured on earth--after death our actions & worldly interest

fade as nothing before us but the traces of our feelings exist & the

memories of those are what furnish us here with eternal subject of

meditation.

A blush spread over the cheek of the lovely girl--Alas, replied she

what a tale must I relate what dark & phre[n]zied passions must I

unfold--When you Diotima lived on earth your soul seemed to mingle in

love only with its own essence & to be unknowing of the various

tortures which that heart endures who if it has not sympathized with

has been witness of the dreadful struggles of a soul enchained by dark

deep passions which were its hell & yet from which it could not

escape--Are there in the peaceful language used by the inhabitants of

these regions--words burning enough to paint the tortures of the human

heart--Can you understand them? or can you in any way sympathize with

them--alas though dead I do and my tears flow as when I lived when my

memory recalls the dreadful images of the past--

--As the lovely girl spoke my own eyes filled with bitter drops--the

spirit of Fantasia seemed to fade from within me and when after

placing my hand before my swimming eyes I withdrew it again I found

myself under the trees on the banks of the Tiber--The sun was just

setting & tinging with crimson the clouds that floated over St.

Peters--all was still no human voice was heard--the very air was quiet

I rose--& bewildered with the grief that I felt within me the

recollection of what I had heard--I hastened to the city that I might

see human beings not that I might forget my wandering recollections

but that I might impress on my mind what was reality & what was either

dream--or at least not of this earth--The Corso of Rome was filled

with carriages and as I walked up the Trinita dei' Montes I became

disgusted with the crowd that I saw about me & the vacancy & want of

beauty not to say deformity of the many beings who meaninglessly

buzzed about me--I hastened to my room which overlooked the whole city

which as night came on became tranquil--Silent lovely Rome I now gaze

on thee--thy domes are illuminated by the moon--and the ghosts of

lovely memories float with the night breeze among thy ruins--

contemplating thy loveliness which half soothes my miserable heart I

record what I have seen--Tomorrow I will again woo Fantasia to lead me

to the same walks & invite her to visit me with her visions which I

before neglected--Oh let me learn this lesson while yet it may be

useful to me that to a mind hopeless & unhappy as mine--a moment of

forgetfullness a moment [in] which it can pass out of itself is worth

a life of painful recollection.

CHAP. 2

The next morning while sitting on the steps of the temple of

Aesculapius in the Borghese gardens Fantasia again visited me &

smilingly beckoned to me to follow her--My flight was at first heavy

but the breezes commanded by the spirit to convoy me grew stronger as

I advanced--a pleasing languour seized my senses & when I recovered I

found my self by the Elysian fountain near Diotima--The beautiful

female who[m] I had left on the point of narrating her earthly history

seemed to have waited for my return and as soon as I appeared she

spoke thus--[100]

NOTES TO _THE FIELDS OF FANCY_

[88] Here is printed the opening of _F of F--A_, which contains the

fanciful framework abandoned in _Mathilda_. It has some intrinsic

interest, as it shows that Mary as well as Shelley had been reading

Plato, and especially as it reveals the close connection of the

writing of _Mathilda_ with Mary's own grief and depression. The first

chapter is a fairly good rough draft. Punctuation, to be sure,

consists largely of dashes or is non-existent, and there are some

corrections. But there are not as many changes as there are in the

remainder of this MS or in _F of F--B_.

[89] It was in Rome that Mary's oldest child, William, died on June 7,

1819.

[90] Cf. two entries in Mary Shelley's journal. An unpublished entry

for October 27, 1822, reads: "Before when I wrote Mathilda, miserable

as I was, the inspiration was sufficient to quell my wretchedness

temporarily." Another entry, that for December 2, 1834, is quoted in

abbreviated and somewhat garbled form by R. Glynn Grylls in _Mary

Shelley_ (London: Oxford University Press, 1938), p. 194, and

reprinted by Professor Jones (_Journal_, p. 203). The full passage

follows: "Little harm has my imagination done to me & how much

good!--My poor heart pierced through & through has found balm from

it--it has been the aegis to my sensibility--Sometimes there have been

periods when Misery has pushed it aside--& those indeed were periods I

shudder to remember--but the fairy only stept aside, she watched her

time--& at the first opportunity her ... beaming face peeped in, & the

weight of deadly woe was lightened."

[91] An obvious reference to _Frankenstein_.

[92] With the words of Fantasia (and those of Diotima), cf. the

association of wisdom and virtue in Plato's _Phaedo_, the myth of Er

in the _Republic_, and the doctrine of love and beauty in the

_Symposium_.

[93] See Plato's _Symposium_. According to Mary's note in her edition

of Shelley's _Essays, Letters from Abroad, etc_. (1840), Shelley

planned to use the name for the instructress of the Stranger in his

unfinished prose tale, _The Coliseum_, which was written before

_Mathilda_, in the winter of 1818-1819. Probably at this same time

Mary was writing an unfinished (and unpublished) tale about Valerius,

an ancient Roman brought back to life in modern Rome. Valerius, like

Shelley's Stranger, was instructed by a woman whom he met in the

Coliseum. Mary's story is indebted to Shelley's in other ways as well.

[94] Mathilda.

[95] I cannot find a prototype for this young man, though in some ways

he resembles Shelley.

[96] Following this paragraph is an incomplete one which is scored out

in the MS. The comment on the intricacy of modern life is interesting.

Mary wrote: "The world you have just quitted she said is one of doubt

& perplexity often of pain & misery--The modes of suffering seem to

me to be much multiplied there since I made one of the throng &

modern feelings seem to have acquired an intracacy then unknown but

now the veil is torn aside--the events that you felt deeply on earth

have passed away & you see them in their nakedness all but your

knowledge & affections have passed away as a dream you now wonder at

the effect trifles had on you and that the events of so passing a

scene should have interested you so deeply--You complain, my friends

of the"

[97] The word is blotted and virtually illegible.

[98] With Diotima's conclusion here cf. her words in the _Symposium_:

"When any one ascending from a correct system of Love, begins to

contemplate this supreme beauty, he already touches the consummation

of his labour. For such as discipline themselves upon this system, or

are conducted by another beginning to ascend through these transitory

objects which are beautiful, towards that which is beauty itself,

proceeding as on steps from the love of one form to that of two, and

from that of two, to that of all forms which are beautiful; and from

beautiful forms to beautiful habits and institutions, and from

institutions to beautiful doctrines; until, from the meditation of

many doctrines, they arrive at that which is nothing else than the

doctrine of the supreme beauty itself, in the knowledge and

contemplation of which at length they repose." (Shelley's translation)

Love, beauty, and self-knowledge are keywords not only in Plato but in

Shelley's thought and poetry, and he was much concerned with the

problem of the presence of good and evil. Some of these themes are

discussed by Woodville in _Mathilda_. The repetition may have been one

reason why Mary discarded the framework.

[99] Mathilda did have such a friend, but, as she admits, she profited

little from his teachings.

[100] In _F of F--B_ there is another, longer version (three and a

half pages) of this incident, scored out, recounting the author's

return to the Elysian gardens, Diotima's consolation of Mathilda, and

her request for Mathilda's story. After wandering through the alleys

and woods adjacent to the gardens, the author came upon Diotima seated

beside Mathilda. "It is true indeed she said our affections outlive

our earthly forms and I can well sympathize in your disappointment

that you do not find what you loved in the life now ended to welcome

you here[.] But one day you will all meet how soon entirely depends

upon yourself--It is by the acquirement of wisdom and the loss of the

selfishness that is now attached to the sole feeling that possesses

you that you will at last mingle in that universal world of which we

all now make a divided part." Diotima urges Mathilda to tell her

story, and she, hoping that by doing so she will break the bonds that

weigh heavily upon her, proceeds to "tell this history of strange

woe."

Literature Network » Mary Wollstonecraft Shelley » Mathilda » The Fields of Fancy

http://www.english.upenn.edu/~mgamer/Etexts/godwin.history.html

WILLIAM GODWIN
"OF HISTORY AND ROMANCE"

Note: Godwin wrote this piece, according to a note in the manuscript, "while the Enquirer [1797] was in the press, under the impression that the favour of the public might have demanded another volume."
The study of history may well be ranked among those pursuits which are most worthy to be chosen by a rational being.
The study of history divides itself into two principal branches; the study of mankind in a mass, of the progress the fluctuations, the interests and the vices of society; and the study of the individual.
The history of a nation might be written in the first of these senses, entirely in terms of abstraction, and without descending so much as to name one of those individuals to which the nation is composed.
It is curious, and it is important, to trace the progress of mankind from the savage to the civilised state; to observe the points of similitude between the savages of America and the savages of ancient Italy or Greece; to investigate the rise of property moveable to immoveable; and thus to ascertain the causes that operate universally upon masses of men under given circumstances, without being turned aside in their operation by the varying character of individuals.
The fundamental article in this branch of historical investigation, is the progress and varieties of civilisation. But there are many subordinate channels into which it has formed itself. We may study the history of eloquence or the history of philosophy. We may apply ourselves to the consideration and the arts of life, and the arts of refinement and pleasure. There lie before us the history of wealth and the history of commerce. We may study the progress of revenue and the arts of taxation. We may follow the varieties of climates, and trace their effects on the human body and the human mind. Nay, we may descend still lower; we may have our attention engrossed by the succession of archons [1] and the adjustment of olympiads [2]; or may apply ourselves entirely to the examination of medals and coins.
There are those who conceive that history, in one or all the kinds here enumerated, is the only species of history deserving a serious attention. They disdain the records of individuals. To interest our passions, or employ our thoughts about personal events, be they of patriots, of authors, of heroes or kinds, they regard as a symptom of effeminacy. Their mighty minds cannot descend to be busied about anything less than the condition of nations, and the collation and comparison of successive ages. Whatever would disturb by exciting our feelings the torpid tranquility of the soul, they have in unspeakable abhorrence.
It is to be feared that one of the causes that have dictated the panegyric which has so often been pronounced upon this series of history, is its dry and repulsive nature. Men who by persevering exertions have conquered this subject in defiance of innumerable obstacles, will almost always be able to ascribe to it a disproportionate value. Men who have not done this, often imagine they shall acquire at a cheap rate among the ignorant the reputation of profound, by praising, in the style of an adept, that which few men venture so much as to approach. Difficulty has a tendency to magnify to almost all eyes the excellence of that which only through difficulty can be attained.
The mind of man does not love abstractions. Its genuine and native taste, as it discovers itself in children and uneducated persons, rests entirely in individualities. It is only by perseverance and custom that we are brought to have a relish for philosophy, mathematical, natural or moral. There was a time when the man, now most eagerly attached to them, shrunk with terror from their thorny path.
But the abstractions of philosophy, when we are grown familiar with them, often present to our minds a simplicity and precision, that may well supply the place of entire individuality. The abstractions of history are more cumbrous and unwieldy. In their own nature perhaps they are capable of simplicity. But this species is yet in its infancy. He who would study the history of nations abstracted from individuals whose passions and peculiarities are interesting to our minds, will find it a dry and frigid science. It will supply him with no clear ideas. The mass, as fast as he endeavours to cement and unite it, crumbles from his grasp, like a lump of sand. Those who study revenue or almost any other of the complex subjects above enumerated are ordinarily found, with immense pains to have compiled a species of knowledge which is no sooner accumulated than it perishes, and rather to have confounded themselves with a labyrinth of particulars, than to have risen to the dignity of principles.
Let us proceed to the consideration of the second great branch of the study of society. In doing so we shall be insensibly led to assign to the first branch its proper rank.
The study of individual men can never fail to be an object of the highest importance. It is only by comparison that we come to know any thing of mind or ourselves. We go forth into the world; we see what man is; we enquire what he was; and when we return home to engage in the solemn act of self-investigation, our most useful employment is to produce the materials we have collected abroad, and, by a sort of magnetism, cause those particulars to start our to view in ourselves, which might otherwise have laid for ever undetected.
But the study of individual history has a higher use than merely as it conduces to the elucidation of science. It is the most fruitful source of activity and motive. If a man were condemned to perfect solitude, he would probably sink into the deepest and most invariable lethargy of soul. If he only associate, as most individuals are destined to do, with ordinary men, he will be in danger of becoming such as they are.  It is the contemplation of illustrious men, such as we find scattered through the long succession of ages, that kindles into flame the hidden fire within us. The excellence indeed of sages, of patriots and poets, as we find it exhibited at the end of their maturity, is too apt to overwhelm and discourage us with its lustre. But history takes away the cause of our depression. It enables us to view minutely and in detail what to the uninstructed eye was too powerful to be gazed at; and, by tracing the progress of the virtuous and the wise from its first dawn to its meridian lustre, shows us that they were composed of materials merely human. It was the sight of the trophies of Mithrades [3], that recurred to break the infant slumbers of his more illustrious successor. While we admire the poet and the hero, and sympathize with his generous ambition or his ardent expressions, we insensibly imbibe the same spirit, and burn with kindred fires.
But let us suppose that the genuine purpose of history, was to enable us to understand the machine of society, and to direct it to its best purposes. Even here individual history will perhaps be found in point of importance to take the lead of general. General history will furnish us with precedents in abundance, will show us how that which happened in one country has been repeated in another, and may perhaps even instruct us how that which has occurred in the annals of mankind, may under similar circumstances be produced again. But, if the energy of our minds should lead us to aspire to something more animated and noble than dull repetition, if we love the happiness of mankind enough to feel ourselves impelled to explore new and untrodden paths, we must then not rest contented with considering society in a mass, but must analyze the materials from which it is composed. It will be necessary for us to scrutinize the nature of man, before we can pronounce what it is of which social man is capable. Laying aside the generalities of historical abstraction, we must mark the operation of human passions; must observe the empire of motives whether grovelling or elevated; and must note the influence that one human being exercises over another, and the ascendancy of the daring and the wise over the vulgar multitude. It is thus, and thus only, that we shall be enabled to add, to the knowledge of the past, a sagacity that can penetrate into the depths of futurity. We shall not only understand those events as they arise which are no better than old incidents under new names, but shall judge truly of such conjunctures and combinations, their sources and effects, as, thought they have never yet occurred, are within the capacities of our nature. He that would prove the liberal and spirited benefactor of his species, must connect the two branches of history together, and regard the knowledge of the individual, as that which can alone give energy and utility to the records of our social existence.
From these considerations one inference may be deduced, which constitutes perhaps the most important rule that can be laid down respecting the study of history. This is, the wisdom of studying the detail, and not in abridgement. The prolixity of dullness is indeed contemptible. To read a history which, expanding itself through several volumes, treats only of a short period, is true economy. To read historical abridgements, in which each point of the subject is touched upon only, and immediately dismissed, is a wanton prodigality of time worthy only of folly or of madness.
The figures which present themselves in such a history, are like the groups that we sometimes see placed in the distance of a landscape, that are just sufficiently marked to distinguish the man from the brute, or the male from the female, but are totally unsusceptible of discrimination of form or expression of sentiment. The men I would study upon the canvas of history, are men worth the becoming intimately acquainted with.
It is in history, as it is in life. Superficial acquaintance is nothing. A scene incessantly floating, cannot instruct us; it can scarcely become a source of amusement to a cultivated mind. I would stop the flying figures, that I may mark them more clearly. There must be an exchange of real sentiments, or an investigation of subtle peculiarities, before improvement can be the result. There is a magnetical virtue in man, but there must be friction and heat, before the virtue will operate.
Pretenders indeed to universal science, who examine nothing, but imagine they understand everything, are ready from the slightest glance to decipher the whole character. Not so the genuine scholar. His curiosity is never satiated. He is ever upon the watch for further and still further particulars. Trembling for his own fallibility and frailty, he employs every precaution to guard himself against them.
There are characters in history that may almost be said to be worth an eternal study. They are epitomes of the [?] of its best and most exalted features, purified from their grossness. I am not contented to observe such a man upon the public stage, I would follow him into his closet.[4] I would see the friend and the father of a family, as well as the patriot. I would read his works and his letters, if any remain to us. I would observe the turn of his thoughts and the character of his phraseology. I would study his public orations. I would collate his behaviour in prosperity with his behaviour in adversity. I should be glad to know the course of his studies, and the arrangement of his time. I should rejoice to have, or to be enabled to make, if that were possible, a journal of his ordinary and minutest actions. I believe I should be better employed in studying one man, than in perusing the abridgement of Universal History in sixty volumes. I would rather be acquainted with a few trivial particulars of the actions and disposition of Virgil and Horace, than with the lives of many men, and the history of many nations.
This leads us to a second rule respecting the study of history. Those historians alone are worthy of attention and persevering study that treat the development of great genius, or the exhibition of bold and masculine virtues. Modern history indeed we ought to peruse, because all they we wish must be connected with all that we are, and because it is incumbent upon us to explore the means by which the latter may be made, as it were, to slide into the former. But modern history, for the most part, is not to be perused for its own sake.
The ancients were giants, but we, their degenerate successors, are pygmies. There was something in the nature of the Greek and Roman republics that expanded and fired the soul. He that sees not this, if he have had an adequate opportunity to see it, must be destitute of some of the first principles of discrimination. He that feels not the comparative magnitude of their views, must be himself the partaker of a slow-working and unelevated soul.
To convince us of this, we need do no more than look into the biographical collection of Plutarch.[5] Plutarch is neither lucid in his arrangement, eloquent in his manner, nor powerful in his conceptions. The effect he produces upon us, is the effect of his subject, and is scarcely in any respect aided by the skill of the writer.
From Plutarch let us turn to the collections in English, French and Italian, relative to the persons who in modern times have reflected most honour upon any of these nations. We sometimes no doubt admire, occasionally we sympathise. But the greatest personages there upon record, appear in the comparison encumbered with their rank. Their march is slow, weighed down as they are on every side with prejudices and precedents. They are disciplines to dull monotony. They are cast together in one characteristic mould. There is something in the nature of modern governments and institutions that seems to blight in the bud every grander and more ample development of the soul. When we attempt to display the agility or the grace, the capacity for which inheres in our nature, we resemble a vaulter or figurante that should undertake to dance in fetters.
The ancients on the other hand are men of a free and undaunted spirit. There is a conscious dignity in their mien that impresses us with awe. Whatever they undertake they undertake with a full and undivided soul. They proceed to their object with an unerring aim, and do not lose themselves in dark, inexplicable windings. He that shall study their history with an unbiassed spirit, will almost imagine that he is reading of a different species. He will not be blind to their mistakes, their abuses and their crimes, but he will confess that their minds are of a more decisive character, and their virtues more attractive and sublime.
We are sometimes told that the remoteness of the object in this case misleads us, and that we admire the ancients for this reason merely, because they are ancients. But this solution will not account for the phenomenon. Read on the one hand Thucydides and Livy,[6] and on the other Hume and Voltaire and Robertson.[7] When we admire the personages of the former, we simply enter into the feelings with which these authors recorded them. The latter neither experience such emotions nor excite them. The ancients were not ancients to their contemporaries,

Les anciens etaient contemporains de leurs historiens, et nous ont pourtant appris a les admires. Assurement si la posterite jamais admire les notres, elle ne l'ausa pas appris de nous.

Rousseau: Nouvelle Heloise, Lettre XII[The ancients were contemporary with their historians, but they have taught us to admire them. Assuredly, if posterity should admire our own men, it will do so not because of us]

No: the difference is intrinsic, and the emotions will be generated as long as history endures.
What sort of an object is the history of England? Till the extinction of the wars of York and Lancaster, it is one scene of barbarism and cruelty. Superstition rides triumphant upon the subject neck of princes and of people, intestine war of noble with noble, or of one pretender to the crown against another, is almost incessant. The gallant champion is no sooner ousted, than he is led without form to the scaffold, or massacred in cold blood upon the field. In all these mighty struggles, scarcely a trace is to be found of a sense of the rights of men. They are combinations among the oppressors against him that would usurp their tyranny, or they are the result of an infatuated predilection for one despotic monster in preference to another. The period of the Tudors is a period of base and universal slavery. The reign of Elizabeth is splendid, but its far-famed worthies are in reality supple and servile courtiers, treacherous, undermining and unprincipled. The period of the Stuarts is the only portion of our history interesting to the heart of man. Yet its noblest virtues are obscured by the vile jargon of fanaticism and hypocrisy. From the moment that the grant contest excited under the Stuarts was quieted by the Revolution,[8] our history assumes its most insipid and insufferable form. It is the history of negotiations and tricks, it is the history of revenues and debts, it is the history of corruption and political profligacy, but it is not the history of genuine independent man.
Some persons, endowed with too much discernment and taste not to perceive the extreme disparity that subsists between the character of ancient and modern times, have observed that ancient history carries no other impression to their minds than that of exaggeration and fable.
It is not necessary here to enter into a detail of the evidence upon which our belief of ancient history is founded. Let us take it for granted that it is a fable. Are all fables unworthy of regard? Ancient history, says Rousseau, is a tissue of such fables, as have a moral perfectly adapted to the human heart. I ask not, as a principal point, whether it be true or false? My first enquiry is, "Can I derive instruction from it? Is it a genuine praxis upon the nature of man? Is it pregnant with the most generous motives and examples? If so, I had rather be profoundly versed in this fable, than in all the genuine histories that ever existed."
It must be admitted indeed that all history bears too near a resemblance to fable. Nothing is more uncertain, more contradictory, more unsatisfactory than the evidence of facts. If this be the case in courts of justice, where truth is sometimes sifted with tenacious perseverance, how much more will it hold true of the historian? He can administer no oath, he cannot issue his precept, and summon his witnesses from distant provinces, he cannot arraign his personages and compel them to put in their answer. He must take what they choose to tell, the broken fragments, and the scattered ruins of evidence.
That history which comes nearest to truth, is the mere chronicle of facts, places and dates. But this is in reality no history. He that knows only what day the Bastille was taken and on what spot Louis XVI perished, knows nothing. He professes the mere skeleton of history. The muscles, the articulations, every thing in which the life emphatically resides, is absent.
Read Sallust.[9] To every action he assigns a motive. Rarely an uncertainty diversifies his page. He describes his characters with preciseness and decision. He seems to enter into the hearts of his personages, and unfolds their secret thought. Considered as fable, nothing can be more perfect. But neither is this history.
There is but one further mode of writing history, and this is the mode principally prevalent in modern times. In this mode, the narrative is sunk in the critic. The main body of the composition consists of a logical deduction and calculation of probabilities. This species of writing may be of use as a whetstone upon which to sharpen our faculty of discrimination, but it answers none of the legitimate purposes of history.
From these considerations it follows that the noblest and most excellent species of history, may be decided to be a composition in which, with a scanty substratum of facts and dates, the writer interweaves a number of happy, ingenious and instructive inventions, blending them into one continuous and indiscernible mass. It sufficiently corresponds with the denomination, under which Abbe Prevost [10] acquired considerable applause, of historical romance. Abbe Prevost differs from Sallust, inasmuch as he made freer use of what may be styled, the licentia historica.
If then history be little better than romance under a graver name, it may not be foreign to the subject here treated, to enquire into the credit due to that species of literature, which bears the express stamp of invention, and calls itself romance or novel.
This sort of writing has been exposed to more obloquy and censure than any other.
The principal cause of this obloquy is sufficiently humorous and singular.
Novels, as an object of trade among booksellers, are of a peculiar cast. There are few by which immense sums of money can be expected to be gained. There is scarcely one by which some money is not gained. A class of readers, consisting of women and boys, and which is considerably numerous, requires a continual supply of books of this sort. The circulating libraries therefore must be furnished; while, in consequence of the discredit which has fallen upon romance, such works are rarely found to obtain a place in the collection of the gentleman or the scholar. An ingenious bookseller of the metropolis, speculating upon this circumstance, was accustomed to paste an advertisement in his window, to attract the eye of the curious passenger, and to fire his ambition, by informing him of a "want of novels for the ensuing season".
The critic and the moralist, in their estimate of romances, have borrowed the principle that regulates the speculations of trade. They have weighed novels by the great and taken into their view the whole scum and surcharge of the press. But surely this is not the way in which literature would teach us to consider the subject.
When we speak of poetry, we do not fear to commend this species of composition, regardless of the miserable trash that from month to month finds its way from the press under the appellation of poetry. The like may be said of history, or of books of philosophy, natural and intellectual. There is no species of literature that would stand this ordeal.
If I would estimate truly any head of composition, nothing can be more unreasonable, than for me to take into account every pretender to literature that has started in it. In poetry I do not consider those persons who merely know how to count their syllables and tag a rhyme; still less those who print their effusion in the form of verse without being adequate to either of these. I recollect those authors only who are endowed with some of the essentials of poetry, with its imagery, its enthusiasm, or its empire over the soul of man. Just so in the cause before us, I should consider only those persons who had really written romance, not those who had vainly attempted it.
Romance, then, strictly considered, may be pronounced to be one of the species of history. The difference between romance and what ordinarily bears the denomination history, is this. The historian is confined to individual incident and individual man, and must hang upon that his invention or conjecture as he can. The writer collects his materials from all sources, experience, report, and the records of human affairs; then generalises them; and finally selects, from their elements and the various combinations they afford, those instances which he is best qualified to portray, and which he judges most calculated to impress the hear and improve the faculties of his reader. In this point of view we should be apt to pronounce that romance was a bolder species of composition than history.
It has been affirmed by the critics that the species of composition which Abbe Prevost and others have attempted, and according to which, upon a slight substratum of fact, all the license of romantic invention is to be engrafted, is contrary to the principles of a just taste. History is by this means debauched and corrupted. Real characters are wantonly misrepresented. The reader, who has been interested by a romance of this sort, scarcely knows how to dismiss it from his mind when he comes to consider the genuine annals of the period of which it relates. The reality and the fiction, like two substances of disagreeing natures, will never adequately blend with each other. The invention of the writer is much too wanton not to discolour and confound the facts with which he is concerned; while on the other hand, his imagination is fettered and checked at every turn by facts that will not wholly accommodate themselves to the colour of his piece, or the moral he would adduce from it."
These observations, which have been directed against the production of historical romance, will be found not wholly inapplicable to those which assume the graver and more authentic name of history. The reader will be miserably deluded if, while he reads history, he suffers himself to imagine that he is reading facts. Profound scholars are so well aware of this, that, when they would study the history of any country, they pass over the historians that have adorned and decorated the facts, and proceed at once to the naked and scattered materials, out of which the historian constructed his work. This they do, that they may investigate the story for themselves; or, more accurately speaking, that each man, instead of resting in the inventions of another, may invest his history for himself, and possess his creed as he possesses his property, single and incommunicable.
Philosophers, we are told, have been accustomed by old prescription to blunder in the dark; but there is perhaps no darkness, if we consider the case maturely, so complete as that of the historian. It is a trite observation, to say that the true history of a public transaction is never known till many years after the event. The places, the dates, those things which immediately meet the eye of the spectator, are indeed as well known as they are ever likely to be. But the comments of the actors come out afterwards; to what are we the wiser? Whitlock and Clarendon,[11] who lived upon the spot, differ as much in their view of the transactions, as Hume and the whig historians have since done. Yet all are probably honest. If you be a superficial thinker, you will take up with one or another of their representations, as best suits your prejudices. But, if you are a profound one, you will see so many incongruities and absurdities in all, as deeply to impress you with the scepticism of history.
The man of taste and discrimination, who has properly weighed these causes, will be apt to exclaim, "Dismiss me from the falsehood and impossibility of history, and deliver me over to the reality of romance."
The conjectures of the historian must be built upon a knowledge of the characters of his personages. But we never know any man's character. My most intimate and sagacious friend continually misapprehends my motives. He is in most cases a little worse judge of them than myself and I am perpetually mistaken. The materials are abundant for the history of Alexander, Caesar, Cicero and Queen Elizabeth. Yet how widely do the best informed persons differ respecting them? Perhaps by all their character is misrepresented. The conjectures therefore respecting their motives in each particular transaction must be eternally fallacious. The writer of romance stands in this respect upon higher ground. He must be permitted, we should naturally suppose, to understand the character which is the creature of his own fancy.
The writer of romance is to be considered as the writer of real history; while he who was formerly called the historian, must be contented to step down into the place of his rival, with this disadvantage, that he is a romance writer, without the arduous, the enthusiastic and the sublime licence of imagination, that belong to that species of composition. True history consists in a delineation of consistent, human character, in a display of the manner in which such a character acts under successive circumstances, in showing how character increases and assimilates new substances to its own, and how it decays, together with the catastrophe into which by its own gravity it naturally declines.
There is however, after all, a deduction to be made from this eulogium of the romance writer. To write romance is a task too great for the powers of man, and under which he must be expected to totter. No man can hold the rod so even, but that it will tremble and vary from its course. To sketch a few bold outlines of character is no desperate undertaking; but to tell precisely how such a person would act in a given situation, requires a sagacity scarcely less than divine. We never conceive a situation, or those minute shades in a character that would modify its conduct. Naturalists tell us that a single grain of sand more or less on the surface of the earth, would have altered its motion, and, in the process of ages, have diversified its events. We have no reason to suppose in this respect, that what is true in matter, it false in morals.
Here then the historian in some degree, though imperfectly, seems to recover his advantage upon the writer of romance. He indeed does not understand the character he exhibits, but the events are taken out of his hands and determined by the system of the universe, and therefore, as far as his information extends, must be true. The romance writer, on the other hand, is continually straining at a foresight to which his faculties are incompetent, and continually fails. This is ludicrously illustrated in those few romances which attempt to exhibit the fictitious history of nations. That principle only which holds the planets in their course, is competent to produce that majestic series of events which characterises flux, and successive multitudes.
The result of the whole, is that the sciences and the arts of man are alike imperfect, and almost infantine. He that will not examine the collections and the efforts of man, till absurdity and folly are extirpated among them, must be contented to remain in ignorance, and wait for the state, where he expects that faith will give place to sight, and conjecture be swallowed up in knowledge.

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NOTES

[1] Archon: The Gnostic religion held that the cosmos were created by a hierarchy of archons, or angelic powers subordinate to the Deity. The archons were also the nine chief magistrates of ancient Athens. [Back to text]
[2] Olympiad: The period of four years measured between one Olympic Games and the next, by which the ancient Greeks computed time, taking 776 BC as the first year of the first olympiad. (OED) [Back to text]
[3] Mithrades V, murdered in 123 BC and succeeded by his eleven-year-old son Mithrades VI, later known as Mithrades "the Great" for his military conquests. [Back to text]
[4] Joanna Baillie makes a very similar statement in the "Introductory Discourse" of her Series of Plays...on the Passions (1798): ""Let us understand, from observation or report, that any person harbours in his breast, concealed from the world's eye, some powerful rankling passion of what kind soever it may be, we will observe every word, every motion, every look, even the distant gait of such a man, with a constancy and attention bestowed upon no other. Nay, should we meet him unexpectedly on our way, a feeling will pass across our minds as though we found ourselves in the neighborhood of some secret and fearful thing. If invisible, would we not follow him into his lonely haunts, into his closet, into the midnight silence of his chamber?" (11) [Back to text]
[5] Plutarch (46-120 AD): Biographer and philosopher, most famously author of Parallel Lives. [Back to text]
[6] Thucydides (460-395 BC): Greek historian, most famously author of History of the Peloponnesian War. Livy (59 BC - AD 17): Roman historian noted for his history of Rome. [Back to text]
[7] David Hume (1711-76): Scottish philosopher and historian, noted for A Treatise on Human Nature and his History of England, as well as other books and essays. Voltaire (1694-1778): French philosopher of the Enlightenment, author of Lettres Philosophiques and Candide. William Robertson: Scottish historian, friend of Hume, Adam Smith, and prominent member of Edinburgh group of thinkers usually gathered under the term "the Scottish Enlightenment." [Back to text]
[8] The so-called "Glorious" or "Bloodless" Revolution of 1688, which set up a balance of power between the Crown and Parliament, effectively setting up an oligarchy. [Back to text]
[9] Sallust (86-34 BC): Roman historian and statesman, author of histories of the Catiline conspiracy and the Jugurtha War. [Back to text]
[10] Abbe Prevost (1697-1763): French novelist most famous for writing historical romances. [Back to text]
[11] Bulstrode Whitelocke (1605-75): author of Memorials of the English Affairs from the Beginning of the Reign of Charles I to the Happy Restoration of Charles II (1682). Clarendon (Edward Hyde, 1609-74): 1st Earl of Clarendon, chief advisor to Charles II and author of True Historical Narrative of the Rebellion and Civil Wars of England (1702-4). [Back to text]