g and sentimentality. In a letter
to Hippel, dated 10th Jan., 1796, he even says, "I cannot possibly demand
that she [the lady he loved] should love me to the same unmeasured extent
of passionate devotion that has turned my head--and this torments me....
I can never leave her; she might weep for me for twenty-four hours and
then forget me--I should _never forget her_." There was yet another cause
or series of causes which co-operated with those mentioned above to
increase the distracted and agitated condition of his heart. It has been
already stated more than once that he was a diligent student of music and
painting. These formed his recreation from the severe and dry study of
law-books; but to these two arts he now added the fascination of
literary composition, and wrote two novels, which he entitled _Cornaro_
and _Der Geheimnissvolle_. The former was rejected by a publisher, who
had at first held out some hopes of being able to accept it, on the
ground that its author was unknown. Besides this, the productions of
his brush failed to sell. Hence fresh sources of disappointment and
vexation.

Through all this, however, even in his darkest moods and most desperate
moments, he was upheld by the feelings and sentiments associated with
his friendship for his unshaken friend Hippel. To him he poured out all
his troubles in a series of letters,[5] which gave a most graphic
account of his mental condition at this period. He led a very retired
life, hardly seeing anybody; he calls himself an anchorite, and states
he was living apart from all the world, seeking to find food for
contemplation and reflection in his own self. He also fostered, perhaps
unconscious to himself, high poetic aspirations, and also those
extravagant dreams of friendship which were so fashionable in the days
of "Posa" and "Werther" and Wieland; "his heart was never more
susceptible to what is good," and "his bosom never swelled with nobler
thoughts," he says in one of his letters. Then he goes on to describe
the "flat, stale, and unprofitable" surroundings in the midst of which
he was confined. "Round about me here it is icy cold, as in Nova
Zembla, whilst I am burning and being consumed by the fiery breath
within me," he says in another place. The violence of his inner
conflict, of his heart-torture and unhappiness, finds vent in a wild
burst in the letter before quoted of 10th Jan., 1796 (and also in
others). He says:--

"Many a time I think it's all