This, let his apologists argue as they will, is a perfectly fair description of the moral of M. Goëthe's book. But whether it be or not, is unimportant, because this at least is the general opinion. The physician who should administer poison instead of medicine, may not think himself guilty of murder; but the patient, who encounters death where he expected a cure, is equally a sufferer. I am, however, unwilling to believe that this redoubted book can have " caused a great many instances of selfdestruction, or the subversion of much conjugal happiness, notwithstanding the

F

supposed design of the author. It is not likely to make a very deep impression on the sensibilities of hackneycoachmen, foot-soldiers, ploughmen, or porters; and it is to be hoped, that most persons, removed only one degree higher in the scale of social beings, are incapable of reading without laughing at it. For myself, I have in vain endeavoured to preserve my gravity during the perusal; and I remember that a particular friend of mine, even when a boy, had his risible faculties violently excited by an image presented to him in a passage of the tenth letter, where Werter says to

his correspondent, whilst I am eating some bread and milk, I will write to you." Whereby it was apparent to my irreverent young acquaintance, that this ingenious and unfortunate gentleman must have been also somewhat of a conjurer, and adequate to doing with two hands what would require at least three on the part of any body else!

The admirers of Werter boast chiefly of the simplicity which pervades the work; and, in proof of this, cite many passages in which solemn mention is made of apples, milk, coffee, they, bread, and butter, and the whole of the 54th

letter; which is so delicately worded, as

to leave it doubtful whether it is ad

dressed by Werter to his friend or his tailor. I should rather incline to suppose the latter; but the public will judge for itself; and as the billet is not long, I transcribe it:

September 6.

I have left off, with the greatest

reluctance, the blue frock, which I wore the first time I danced with Charlotte,

though it was perfectly shabby; but I

have procured one exactly like it, and

with a buff waistcoat and breeches. I do

'not, however, like it so much as the

original, yet I hope it will in time be' come equally dear to me.'

Of our hero's philosophy and selfcommand, the conclusion of the fourth letter affords a luminous instance: My

heart,' he says, is like a sick child;

and, like a sick child, I let it have its

way: but this between ourselves; for I

know the world would blame me for

suffering my passions to get such an ascendancy over my reason.'

For his gallantry and condescension, see letter five.

'The last time I was at the fountain,

I found a young woman upon the