If my ills would admit of any cure, they would certainly be cured here.
This is my birthday, and early in the morning I received a packet from
Albert. Upon opening it, I found one of the pink ribbons which Charlotte
wore in her dress the first time I saw her, and which I had several
times asked her to give me. With it were two volumes in duodecimo
of Wetstein's "Homer," a book I had often wished for, to save me the
inconvenience of carrying the large Ernestine edition with me upon my
walks. You see how they anticipate my wishes, how well they understand
all those little attentions of friendship, so superior to the costly
presents of the great, which are humiliating. I kissed the ribbon a
thousand times, and in every breath inhaled the remembrance of those
happy and irrevocable days which filled me with the keenest joy. Such,
Wilhelm, is our fate. I do not murmur at it: the flowers of life are but
visionary. How many pass away, and leave no trace behind—how few yield
any fruit—and the fruit itself, how rarely does it ripen! And yet there
are flowers enough! and is it not strange, my friend, that we should
suffer the little that does really ripen, to rot, decay, and perish
unenjoyed? Farewell! This is a glorious summer. I often climb into the
trees in Charlotte's orchard, and shake down the pears that hang on the
highest branches. She stands below, and catches them as they fall.