NOV. 30.

   I shall never be myself again! Wherever I go, I am faced with an apparition which upsets me. Even
   to-day—alas, for our destiny! alas, for human nature!
     About dinner-time I went to walk by the river-side, for I had no appetite. Everything around
   seemed gloomy; a cold and damp easterly wind blew from the mountains, and black, heavy
   clouds spread over the plain. I observed at a distance a man in a tattered coat; he was
   wandering among the rocks, and seemed to be looking for plants. When I approached, he
   turned round at the noise; and I saw that he had an interesting countenance, in which a settled
   melancholy, strongly marked by benevolence, formed the principal feature. His long black hair
   was divided, and flowed over his shoulders. As his garb betokened a person of the lower
   order, I thought he would not take it ill if I inquired about his business; and I therefore asked
   what he was seeking. He replied, with a deep sigh, that he was looking for flowers, and could
   find none. “But it is not the season,” I observed, with a smile. “Oh, there are so many flowers!”
   he answered, as he came nearer to me. “In my garden there are roses and honey-suckles of
   two sorts: one sort was given to me by my father; they grow as plentifully as weeds. I have
   been looking for them these two days, and cannot find them. There are flowers out there,
   yellow, blue, and red; and that centaury has a very pretty blossom: but I can find none of
   them.” I observed his peculiarity, and therefore asked him, with an air of indifference, what he
   intended to do with his flowers. A strange smile overspread his countenance. Holding his finger
   to his mouth, he expressed a hope that I would not betray him; and he then informed me that he
   had promised to gather a nosegay for his mistress. “That is right,” said I. “Oh!” he replied, “she
   possesses many other things as well; she is very rich.” “And yet,” I continued, “she likes your
   nosegays.” “Oh, she has jewels and crowns!” he exclaimed. I asked who she was. “If the
   states-general would but pay me,” he added, “I should be quite another man. Alas! there was a
   time when I was so happy; but that is past, and I am now—” He raised his swimming eyes to
   heaven. “And you were happy once?” I observed. “Ah would I were so still!” was his reply. “I
   was then as gay and contented as a man can be.” An old woman, who was coming towards us,
   now called out: “Henry, Henry! where are you? We have been looking for you everywhere.
   Come to dinner.” “Is he your son?” I inquired, as I went towards her. “Yes,” she said; “he is
   my poor, unfortunate son. The Lord has sent me a heavy affliction.” I asked whether he had
   been long in this state. She answered: “He has been as calm as he is at present for about six
   months. I thank Heaven that he has so far recovered. He was for one whole year quite raving,
   and chained down in a madhouse. Now he injures no one, but talks of nothing else than kings
   and queens. He used to be a very good, quiet youth, and helped to maintain me; he wrote a
   very fine hand. But all at once he became melancholy, was seized with a violent fever, grew
   distracted, and is now as you see. If I were only to tell you, sir—” I interrupted her by asking
   what period it was in which he boasted of having been so happy. “Poor boy!” she exclaimed,
   with a smile of compassion, “he means the time when he was out of his mind,—a time he
   never ceases to regret,—when he was in the madhouse, and did not know himself.” I was
   thunderstruck. I placed a piece of money in her hand, and hastened away.
     “You were happy!” I exclaimed, as I returned quickly to the town, “‘as gay and contented as
   a man can be!’” God of heaven! and is this the destiny of man? Is he only happy before he has
   acquired his reason or after he has lost it? Unfortunate being! And yet I envy your fate; I envy
   the delusion to which you are a victim. You go forth with joy to gather flowers for your
   princess in winter, and grieve when you can find none, and cannot understand why they do not
   grow. But I wander forth without joy, without hope, without design; and I return as I came.
   You fancy what a man you would be if the states-general paid you. Happy mortal, who can
   ascribe your lack of happiness to an earthly cause! You do not know, you do not feel, that in your
   own distracted heart and disordered brain dwells the source of that unhappiness which all the
   potentates on earth cannot relieve.
     Let that man die unconsoled who can deride the invalid for undertaking a journey to distant,
   healthful springs,—where he often finds only a heavier disease and a more painful death,—or
   who can exult over the despairing mind of a sinner who, to obtain peace of conscience and an
   alleviation of misery, makes a pilgrimage to the Holy Sepulchre. Each laborious step which galls
   his wounded feet in rough and untrodden paths pours a drop of balm into his troubled soul, and
   the journey of many a weary day brings a nightly relief to his anguished heart.
     Will you dare call this delusion, ye crowd of pompous declaimers? Delusion? O God!
   thou seest my tears. Thou hast allotted us our portion of misery; must we also have brethren to
   persecute us, to deprive us of our consolation, of our trust in thee and in thy love and mercy?
   For our trust in the virtue of the healing root or in the strength of the vine,—what is it else than a
   belief in thee, from whom all that surrounds us derives its healing and restoring powers. Father,
   whom I know not,—who wert once wont to fill my soul, but who now hidest thy face from
   me,—call me back to thee; be silent no longer! Thy silence shall not delay a soul which thirsts
   after thee. What man, what father, could be angry with a son for returning to him suddenly, for
   falling on his neck, and exclaiming, “I am here again, my father! Forgive me if I have anticipated
   my journey, and returned before the appointed time! The world is everywhere the same,—a
   scene of labour and pain, of pleasure and reward; but what does it all avail? I am happy only
   where thou art, and in thy presence am I content to suffer or enjoy.” And wouldst thou,
   Heavenly Father, banish such a child from thy presence?