How cold, how tame, how
lifeless, how imperfect, how inconsecutive, did everything appear! This
is the curse of reverie. But they who revel in its pleasures must bear
its pains, and are content. Yet it wears out the brain, and unfits us
for social life. They who indulge in it most are the slaves of solitude.
They wander in a wilderness, and people it with their voices. They sit
by the side of running waters, with an eye more glassy than the stream.
The sight of a human being scares them more than a wild beast does a
traveller; the conduct of life, when thrust upon their notice, seems
only a tissue of adventures without point; and, compared with the
creatures of their imagination, human nature seems to send forth only
abortions.
'I must up,' said the young Duke; 'and this creature on whom I have
lived for the last eight hours, who has, in herself, been to me the
universe, this constant companion, this cherished friend, whose voice
was passion and whose look was love, will meet me with all the formality
of a young lady, all the coldness of a person who has never even thought
of me since she saw me last.
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