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;