His frequent fits of melancholy may also perhaps be traced in part to
these early habits. Though probably unacquainted with Burton, he held
that "there is in melancholy sentiments something extremely attractive
and even invigorating to the imagination." Attempts were frequently
made by his friends to teach him more sociable habits. Thus, at
Leipsic, "Dr. Carus's family are anxious to introduce me to
innumerable families--'it would be good for my prospects,' they
think, and so do I, and yet I don't get there, and in fact seldom go
out at all. Indeed, I am often very leathery, dry, disagreeable, and
laugh much inwardly." That his apparent coldness and indifference to
his neighbors and friends were due chiefly to his absorption in his
world of ideas, and his consequent want of sympathy with the
artificial usages of society, becomes apparent from this confession,
written to Clara in 1838:

"I should like to confide to you many other things regarding my
character--how people often wonder that I meet the warmest expressions
of love with coldness and reserve, and often offend and humiliate
precisely those who are most sincerely devoted to me. Often have I
queried and reproached myself for this, for inwardly I acknowledge
even the most trifling favor, understand every wink, every subtle
trait in the heart of another, and yet I so often blunder in what I
say and do."

In these melancholy moods nature was his refuge and consolation.
He objected to Leipsic because there were no delights of
nature--"everything artificially transformed; no valley, no mountain,
where I might revel in my thoughts; no place where I can be alone,
except in the bolted room, with the eternal noise and turmoil below."
Although he had but a few intimate friends, he was liked by all the