“He is lonesome in the winter night; for him the earth has no flowers, and dark burn the lights of heaven.  Why wanders he, the lonesome one; why waits he; why flies he not, the shadow, to the land of shades?  Ah, he still hopes, he is a mendicant who begs for joy, who yet waits in the eleventh hour, that a merciful hand may give him an alms.

“One only little blossom of earth will he gather, bear it upon his heart, in order henceforth not so lonesomely, not so entirely lonesome, to wander down to rest.”

It was my own condition which I described.  I deplored myself.

Early deprived of my parents, without brothers and sisters, friends, and relations, I stood in the world yet so solitary and forlorn, that but for an inward confidence in heaven, and a naturally happy temper, I should often enough have wished to leave this contemptuous world; till now, however, I had almost constantly hoped from the future, and this more from an instinctive feeling that this might be the best, than to subdue by philosophy every too vivid wish for an agreeable present time, because it was altogether so opposed to possibility.  For some time, however, alas! it had been otherwise with me; I felt, and especially this evening, more than ever an inexpressible desire to have somebody to love,—­to have some one about me who would cleave to me—­who would be a friend to me;—­in short, to have (for me the highest felicity on earth) a wife—­a beloved, devoted wife!  Oh, she would comfort me, she would cheer me! her affection, even in the poorest hut, would make of me a king.  That the love-fire of my heart would not insure the faithful being at my side from being frozen was soon made clearly sensible to me by an involuntary shudder.  More dejected than ever, I rose up and walked a few times about my room (that is to say, two steps right forward, and then turn back again).  The sense of my condition followed me like the shadow on the wall, and for the first time in my life I felt myself cast down, and threw a gloomy look on my dark future.  I had no patron, therefore could not reckon upon promotion for a long time; consequently, also, not upon my own bread—­on a friend—­a wife, I mean.

“But what in all the world,” said I yet once more seriously to myself, “what helps beating one’s brains?” Yet once more I tried to get rid of all anxious thoughts.  “If, however, a Christian soul could only come to me this evening!  Let it be whoever it would—­ friend or foe—­it would be better than this solitude.  Yes, even if an inhabitant of the world of spirits opened the door, he would be welcome to me!  What was that?  Three blows on the door!  I will not, however, believe it—­again three!” I went and opened; there was nobody there; only the wind went howling up and down the stairs.  I hastily shut the door again, thrust my hands into my pockets, and went up and down for a while, humming aloud.  Some moments afterwards I fancied I heard a sigh—­I was silent, and listened,—­ again there was very evidently a sigh—­and yet once again, so deep and so mournful, that I exclaimed with secret terror, “Who is there?” No answer.