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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 solitude; I had recourse to my books, and my desire
again to enjoy the society of Adrian became a burning thirst.
Emulation, that in its excess almost assumed the venomous properties of
envy, gave a sting to these feelings. At this period the name and exploits
of one of my countrymen filled the world with admiration. Relations of what
he had done, conjectures concerning his future actions, were the
never-failing topics of the hour. I was not angry on my own account, but I
felt as if the praises which this idol received were leaves torn from
laurels destined for Adrian. But I must enter into some account of this
darling of fame--this favourite of the wonder-loving world.
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