. Suddenly he burst into tears. "I am very, very wretched," he
sighed, with a voice suffocated by weeping, and sank upon a chair,
sobbing aloud, and covering his face with his hands.

Goethe approached him, and laid his hand gently upon his shoulder. "Why
are you so miserable? Is there any human being who can help you?" he
kindly inquired.

"Yes," sobbed Moritz; "there are those who could, but they will not, and
I am lost. I stand upon the brink of a precipice, with Insanity staring
at me, grinning and showing her teeth. I know it, but cannot retreat. I
wear the mask of madness to conceal my careworn face. Your divine eyes
could not be deceived. You have not mistaken the caricature for the true
face. You have penetrated beneath the gay tatters, and have seen the
misery which sought to hide itself there."

"I saw it, and I bewailed it, as a friend pities a friend whom he would
willingly aid if he only knew how to do it."

"No one can help me," sighed Moritz, shaking his head mournfully. "I am
lost, irremediably lost!"

"No one is lost who will save himself. He who is wrecked by a storm and
tossed upon the raging sea, ought to be upon the watch for a plank by
which he can save himself. He must keep his eyes open, and not let his
arms hang idly; for if he allows himself to be swallowed up he becomes
a self-murderer, who, like Erostratus, destroyed the holy temple, and
gained eternal fame through eternal shame."

"What are you saying?" cried Moritz, "you, the author of 'Werther,' of
that immortal work which has drunk the tears of the whole world, and has
become the Holy Testament for unhappy souls!"

"Rather say for lovers," replied Goethe, "and add also those troubled
spirits who think themselves poetical when they whine and howl; who cry
over misfortune if Fate denies them the toy which their vanity, their
ambition, or their amorousness, had chosen. Do not burden me with what
I am not guilty of; do not say that wine is a poison, because it is
not good for the sick. It is intended for well people; it animates and
inspires them to fresh vigor. Now please to consider yourself well, and
not ill."

"I am ill, indeed I am ill," sighed Moritz. "Oh! continue to regard me
with those eyes, which shine like stars into my benighted soul. I feel
like one who has long wandered through the desert, his feet burnt with
the sand, his hair scorched with the sun, and, exhausted with hunger and
thirst, feels death approaching. Sudden