himself with work already done: he also, in his anxiety to be doing,
almost forgot that he the inward depression easily changes to
displeasure against every one, and the household of the melancholic
suffers thereby intolerably; for the displeasure turns against them,--no
one does anything properly, nothing is in its place. How very different
is Gellert's melancholy! Not a soul suffers from it but himself, against
himself alone his gloomy thoughts turn, and towards every other creature
he is always kind, amiable, and obliging: he bites his lips; but when
he speaks to any one, he is wholly good, forbearing, and self-forgetful.

Whilst they were talking together, Gellert was sitting in his room, and
had lighted a pipe to dispel the agitation which he would experience in
opening his letters; and while smoking, he could read them much more
comfortably. He reproached himself for smoking, which was said to be
injurious to his health, but he could not quite give up the "horrible
practice," as he called it.

He first examined the addresses and seals of the letters which had
arrived, then quietly opened and read them. A fitful smile passed over
his features; there were letters from well-known friends, full of love
and admiration, but from strangers also, who, in all kinds of
heart-distress, took counsel of him. He read the letters full of
friendly applause, first hastily, that he might have the right of
reading them again, and that he might not know all at once; and when he
had read a friend's letter for the second time, he sprang from his seat
and cried, "Thank God! thank God! that I am so fortunate as to have such
friends!" To his inwardly diffident nature these helps were a real
requirement; they served to cheer him, and only those who did not know
him called his joy at the reception of praise--conceit; it was, on the
contrary, the truest modesty. How often did he sit there, and all that