human
The shepherd in Virgil grew at last acquainted with Love, and found him to be a native of the rocks.
gpt
I wished for once to be as happy (_es so gut haben_) as other men. But it has gone ill with me!
human
And I was so loath to lose him, this son!
gpt
My wife is dead; and I have had this experience also. I rejoice that I have not many more such experiences left to make, and am quite cheerful.
human
If you had known her! But they say that to praise one's wife is self-praise. Well, then, I say no more of her! But if you had known her! _Quite cheerful!_ On the 10th of August he writes to Elise Reimarus,--he is writing to a woman now, an old friend of his and his wife, and will be less restrained:
gpt
I am left here all alone. I have not a single friend to whom I can wholly confide myself.... How often must I curse my ever wishing to be for once as happy as other men! How often have I wished myself back again in my old, isolated condition,--to be nothing, to wish nothing, to do nothing, but what the present moment brings with it!... Yet I am too proud to think myself unhappy. I just grind my teeth, and let the boat go as pleases wind and waves. Enough that I will not overset it myself. It is plain from this letter that suicide had been in his mind, and, with his antique way of thinking on many subjects, he would hardly have looked on it as a crime. But he was too brave a man to throw up the sponge to fate, and had work to do yet. Within a few days of his wife's death he wrote to Eschenburg:
human
I am right heartily ashamed if my letter betrayed the least despair. Despair is not nearly so much my failing as levity, which often expresses itself with a little bitterness and misanthropy. A stoic, not from insensibility or cowardice, as so many are, but from stoutness of heart, he blushes at a moment's abdication of self-command. And he will not roil the clear memory of his love with any tinge of the sentimentality so much the fashion, and to be had so cheap, in that generation. There is a moderation of sincerity peculiar to Lessing in the epithet of the following sentence:
gpt
How dearly must I pay for the single year I have lived with a _sensible_ wife! Werther had then been published four years. Lessing's grief has that pathos which he praised in sculpture,--he may writhe, but he must not scream. Nor is this a new thing with him. On the death of a younger brother, he wrote to his father, fourteen years before:
human
Why should those who grieve communicate their grief to each other purposely to increase it?... Many mourn in death what they loved not living. I will love in life what nature bids me love, and after death strive to bewail it as little as I can.
gpt
To crush _forever_ is rather a strong phrase, Herr Stahr, to apply to the spirit, if one must ever give heed to the sense as well as the sound of what one is writing. But eloquence has no bowels for its victims. We have no doubt the Duke of Brunswick meant well by Lessing, and the salary he paid him was as large as he would have got from the frugal Frederick. But one whose trade it was to be a Duke could hardly have had much sympathy with his librarian after he had once found out what he really was. For even if he was not, as Herr Stahr affirms, a republican, and we doubt very much if he was, yet he was not a man who could play with ideas in the light French fashion. At the ardent touch of his sincerity, they took fire, and grew dangerous to what is called the social fabric. The logic of wit, with its momentary flash, is a very different thing from that consequent logic of thought, pushing forward its deliberate sap day and night with a fixed object, which belonged to Lessing. The men who attack abuses are not so much to be dreaded by the reigning house of Superstition as those who, as Dante says, syllogize hateful truths. As for