SAD WELCOME HOME.

’Groton, April 25, 1833.—­I came hither, summoned by the intelligence, that our poor—­had met with a terrible accident.  I found the dear child,—­who had left me so full of joy and eagerness, that I thought with a sigh, not of envy, how happy he, at least, would be here,—­burning with fever.  He had expected me impatiently, and was very faint lest it should not be “Margaret” who had driven up.  I confess I greeted our new home with a flood of bitter tears.  He behaves with great patience, sweetness, and care for the comfort of others.  This has been a severe trial for mother, fatigued, too, as she was, and full of care; but her conduct is angelic.  I try to find consolation in all kinds of arguments, and to distract my thoughts till the precise amount of injury is surely known.  I am not idle a moment.  When not-with—­, in whose room I sit, sewing, and waiting upon him, or reading aloud a great part of the day, I solace my soul with Goethe, and follow his guidance into realms of the “Wahren, Guten, and Schoenen."’

OCCUPATIONS.

’May, 1833.—­As to German, I have done less than I hoped, so much had the time been necessarily broken up.  I have with me the works of Goethe which I have not yet read, and am now engaged upon “Kunst and Alterthum,” and “Campagne in Frankreich.”  I still prefer Goethe to any one, and, as I proceed, find more and more to learn, and am made to feel that my general notion of his mind is most imperfect, and needs testing and sifting.

’I brought your beloved Jean Paul with me, too.  I cannot yet judge well, but think we shall not be intimate.  His infinitely variegated, and certainly most exquisitely colored, web fatigues attention.  I prefer, too, wit to humor, and daring imagination to the richest fancy.  Besides, his philosophy and religion seem to be of the sighing sort, and, having some tendency that way myself, I want opposing force in a favorite author.  Perhaps I have spoken unadvisedly; if so, I shall recant on further knowledge.’

And thus recant she did, when familiar acquaintance with the genial and sagacious humorist had won for him her reverent love.

RICHTER.

      ’Poet of Nature!  Gentlest of the wise,
        Most airy of the fanciful, most keen
      Of satirists!—­thy thoughts, like butterflies,
        Still near the sweetest scented flowers have been
      With Titian’s colors thou canst sunset paint,
        With Raphael’s dignity, celestial love;
      With Hogarth’s pencil, each deceit and feint
        Of meanness and hypocrisy reprove;