What a misfortune, Wilhelm!  My active spirits have degenerated into contented indolence.  I cannot be idle, and yet I am unable to set to work.  I cannot think:  I have no longer any feeling for the beauties of nature, and books are distasteful to me.  Once we give ourselves up, we are totally lost.  Many a time and oft I wish I were a common labourer; that, awakening in the morning, I might have but one prospect, one pursuit, one hope, for the day which has dawned.  I often envy Albert when I see him buried in a heap of papers and parchments, and I fancy I should be happy were I in his place.  Often impressed with this feeling I have been on the point of writing to you and to the minister, for the appointment at the embassy, which you think I might obtain.  I believe I might procure it.  The minister has long shown a regard for me, and has frequently urged me to seek employment.  It is the business of an hour only.  Now and then the fable of the horse recurs to me.  Weary of liberty, he suffered himself to be saddled and bridled, and was ridden to death for his pains.  I know not what to determine upon.  For is not this anxiety for change the consequence of that restless spirit which would pursue me equally in every situation of life?

August 28.

If my ills would admit of any cure, they would certainly be cured here.  This is my birthday, and early in the morning I received a packet from Albert.  Upon opening it, I found one of the pink ribbons which Charlotte wore in her dress the first time I saw her, and which I had several times asked her to give me.  With it were two volumes in duodecimo of Wetstein’s “Homer,” a book I had often wished for, to save me the inconvenience of carrying the large Ernestine edition with me upon my walks.  You see how they anticipate my wishes, how well they understand all those little attentions of friendship, so superior to the costly presents of the great, which are humiliating.  I kissed the ribbon a thousand times, and in every breath inhaled the remembrance of those happy and irrevocable days which filled me with the keenest joy.  Such, Wilhelm, is our fate.  I do not murmur at it:  the flowers of life are but visionary.  How many pass away, and leave no trace behind —­ how few yield any fruit —­ and the fruit itself, how rarely does it ripen!  And yet there are flowers enough! and is it not strange, my friend, that we should suffer the little that does really ripen, to rot, decay, and perish unenjoyed?  Farewell!  This is a glorious summer.  I often climb into the trees in Charlotte’s orchard, and shake down the pears that hang on the highest branches.  She stands below, and catches them as they fall.

August 30.