grasp, as if I would seize a javelin, and hurl it, I know not at whom or what; and then I fancy an arrow is shot at me which pierces me to the heart: I strike my hand upon my breast, and feel an inexpressible sweetness; and then after this I soon revert to my natural state. Whence comes this strange phenomenon? what is the meaning of it? and why does it invariably recur under the same figures, in the same bodily movement, and with the same sensation?
I am repeatedly told that the people who have met me on my journey are little satisfied with me. I can readily believe it, for neither has any one of them contributed to my satisfaction. I cannot tell how it comes to pass that society oppresses me, that the forms of politeness are disagreeable to me, that what people talk about does not interest me, that all they show to me is either quite indifferent, or else produces an impression quite opposite to what they expect. When I am shown a drawing or painting of any beautiful spot, immediately a feeling of disquiet arises within me which is utterly inexpressible. My toes within my shoes begin to bend, as if they would clutch the ground: a cramp-like motion runs through my fingers. I bite my lips, and hasten to leave the company I am in, and throw myself down, in the presence of the majesty of nature, on the first seat, however inconvenient. I try to take in the scene before me with my eye, to seize all its beauties; and on the spot I love to cover a whole sheet with scratches which represent nothing exactly, but which, nevertheless, possess an infinite value in my eyes, as serving to remind me of the happy moment whose bliss even this bungling exercise could not mar. What means, then, this strange effort to pass from art to nature, and then back again from nature to art? If it gives promise of an artist, why is steadiness wanting to me? If it calls me to
