e lilies glorious as Solomon,
Who toil not, neither do they spin.

Soon, too soon, I entered the giddy whirl; forgetting my studious hours,
and the companionship of Adrian. Passionate desire of sympathy, and ardent
pursuit for a wished-for object still characterized me. The sight of beauty
entranced me, and attractive manners in man or woman won my entire
confidence. I called it rapture, when a smile made my heart beat; and I
felt the life's blood tingle in my frame, when I approached the idol which
for awhile I worshipped. The mere flow of animal spirits was Paradise, and
at night's close I only desired a renewal of the intoxicating delusion. The
dazzling light of ornamented rooms; lovely forms arrayed in splendid
dresses; the motions of a dance, the voluptuous tones of exquisite music,
cradled my senses in one delightful dream.

And is not this in its kind happiness? I appeal to moralists and sages. I
ask if in the calm of their measured reveries, if in the deep meditations
which fill their hours, they feel the extasy of a youthful tyro in the
school of pleasure? Can the calm beams of their heaven-seeking eyes equal
the flashes of mingling passion which blind his, or does the influence of
cold philosophy steep their soul in a joy equal to his, engaged

In this dear work of youthful revelry.

But in truth, neither the lonely meditations of the hermit, nor the
tumultuous raptures of the reveller, are capable of satisfying man's heart.
From the one we gather unquiet speculation, from the other satiety. The
mind flags beneath the weight of thought, and droops in the heartless
intercourse of those whose sole aim is amusement. There is no fruition in
their vacant kindness, and sharp rocks lurk beneath the smiling ripples of
these shallow waters.

Thus I felt, when disappointment, weariness, and solitude drove me back
upon my heart, to gather thence the joy of which it had become barren. My
flagging spirits asked for something to speak to the affections; and not
finding it, I drooped. Thus, notwithstanding the thoughtless delight that
waited on its commencement, the impression I have of my life at Vienna is
melancholy. Goethe has said, that in youth we cannot be happy unless we
love. I did not love; but I was devoured by a restless wish to be something
to others. I became the victim of ingratitude and cold coquetry--then I
desponded, and imagined that my discontent gave me a right to hate the
world. I receded to soli