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 completely deranged, a time he never ceases to regret, when he was in the madhouse, and unconscious of everything.”  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 wretchedness 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 enthusiasm, ye crowd of pompous declaimers?  Enthusiasm!  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;