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LETTER LXXVI.
December 17.
I KNOW not how it is, my dear friend, my imagination is full of
terror! Is not my love for her the purest and the most sacred? Is
it not the love of a brother for his sister? Did ever my heart
form a wish that was criminal? -- I will make no vows. -- And now
a dream -- Oh! they were much in the right who attributed
contending passions to powers that are foreign to us! -- This
very night -- I tremble as I write it -- this very night I held
her in my arms, I pressed her to my bosom, devoured her trembling
lips with kisses. The most melting softness was in her eyes, in
mine equal extasy. When I now at this moment recall these
transports with delight, am I guilty of a crime? Oh! Charlotte!
Charlotte! 'tis all over; -- my senses are disordered, and for
these seven days I have {179} not been myself; -- my eyes are
full of tears; -- all places are alike to me; in none am I at
peace; -- I desire nothing, I ask nothing. -- Ah! 'twere better
far that I should depart!
