READER.--You were to be _pitied_.
I was. I rose one morning with the sun--it scorched my face, but shone
not. Nature was in her spring-time to all others, though winter to me. I
wandered beside the banks of the rapid Rhine, I saw nothing but the thick
slime that clogged them, and wondered how I could have thought them
beautiful; the pebbles seemed crushed upon the beach, the stream but added
to their lifelessness by heaping on them its dull green slime; the lark,
indeed, was singing--Juliet was right--its notes were nothing but "harsh
discords and unpleasing sharps"--a rainbow threw its varied arch across
the heavens--sadness had robbed it of its charm--it seemed a visionary
cheat--a beautiful delusion.
READER.--I feel with you.
I thank you. I went next day.
READER.--What then?
The glorious sun shed life and joy around--the clear water rushed bounding
on in glad delight to the sweet music of the scented wind--the pebbly
beach welcomed its chaste cool kiss, and smiled in freshness as it rolled
again back to its pristine bed. The buds on which I stepped, elastic with
high hope, sprung from the ground my foot had pressed them to--the lark--
READER.--You can say nothing new about that.
You are right. I'll pass it, and come at once to an end. My boots stood
upright, conscious of their glare; a new spring rushed into my bottles;
Flora's sweets were witnessed in my dress; a mite, a tiny mite, might have
made progress round my room, nor found a substance larger than itself to
stop its way.
Pages:
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35