OCTOBER 27.

I could tear open my bosom with vexation to think how little we
are capable of influencing the feelings of each other. No one can
communicate to me those sensations of love, joy, rapture, and delight
which I do not naturally possess; and, though my heart may glow with the
most lively affection, I cannot make the happiness of one in whom the
same warmth is not inherent.

OCTOBER 27: Evening.

I possess so much, but my love for her absorbs it all. I possess so
much, but without her I have nothing.

OCTOBER 30.

One hundred times have I been on the point of embracing her. Heavens!
what a torment it is to see so much loveliness passing and repassing
before us, and yet not dare to lay hold of it! And laying hold is the
most natural of human instincts. Do not children touch everything they
see? And I!

NOVEMBER 3.

Witness, Heaven, how often I lie down in my bed with a wish, and even a
hope, that I may never awaken again. And in the morning, when I open my
eyes, I behold the sun once more, and am wretched. If I were whimsical,
I might blame the weather, or an acquaintance, or some personal
disappointment, for my discontented mind; and then this insupportable
load of trouble would not rest entirely upon myself. But, alas! I feel
it too sadly. I am alone the cause of my own woe, am I not? Truly,
my own bosom contains the source of all my sorrow, as it previously
contained the source of all my pleasure. Am I not the same being who
once enjoyed an excess of happiness, who, at every step, saw paradise
open before him, and whose heart was ever expanded toward the whole
world? And this heart is now dead, no sentiment can revive it; my eyes
are dry; and my senses, no more refreshed by the influence of soft
tears, wither and consume my brain. I suffer much, for I have lost
the only charm of life: that active, sacred power which created worlds
around me,--it is no more. When I look from my window at the distant
hills, and behold the morning sun breaking through the mists, and
illuminating the country around, which is still wrapped in silence,
whilst the soft stream winds gently through the willows, which have shed
their leaves; when glorious nature displays all her beauties before me,
and her wondrous prospects are ineffectual to extract one tear of joy
from my withered heart, I feel that in such a moment I stand like a
reprobate before heaven, hardened, insensible, and unmoved. Oftentimes
do I then bend my kne