1 I can hardly describe to you the effect of these books.
2 You have left me no power to consider whether I am just to you or not.
3 I cannot describe to you my sensations on the near prospect of my undertaking.
4 I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling William.
5 I have declared my resolution to you, and I am no coward to bend beneath words.
6 I confess to you, my friend, that I love you and that in my airy dreams of futurity you have been my constant friend and companion.
7 Do not suppose, however, that I wish to dictate happiness to you or that a delay on your part would cause me any serious uneasiness.
8 Remember that I have power; you believe yourself miserable, but I can make you so wretched that the light of day will be hateful to you.
9 The picture I present to you is peaceful and human, and you must feel that you could deny it only in the wantonness of power and cruelty.
10 I cannot describe to you the agony that these reflections inflicted upon me; I tried to dispel them, but sorrow only increased with knowledge.
11 It was evening when I arrived, and I retired to a hiding-place among the fields that surround it to meditate in what manner I should apply to you.
12 It is impossible to communicate to you a conception of the trembling sensation, half pleasurable and half fearful, with which I am preparing to depart.
13 Before I depart I will give them to you; they will prove the truth of my tale; but at present, as the sun is already far declined, I shall only have time to repeat the substance of them to you.
14 These were wild and miserable thoughts, but I cannot describe to you how the eternal twinkling of the stars weighed upon me and how I listened to every blast of wind as if it were a dull ugly siroc on its way to consume me.
15 But you are distant from me, and it is possible that you may dread and yet be pleased with this explanation; and in a probability of this being the case, I dare not any longer postpone writing what, during your absence, I have often wished to express to you but have never had the courage to begin.
16 I do not know that the relation of my disasters will be useful to you; yet, when I reflect that you are pursuing the same course, exposing yourself to the same dangers which have rendered me what I am, I imagine that you may deduce an apt moral from my tale, one that may direct you if you succeed in your undertaking and console you in case of failure.
17 You have travelled; you have spent several years of your life at Ingolstadt; and I confess to you, my friend, that when I saw you last autumn so unhappy, flying to solitude from the society of every creature, I could not help supposing that you might regret our connection and believe yourself bound in honour to fulfil the wishes of your parents, although they opposed themselves to your inclinations.
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