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 toward 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
toward 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 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, tha