From Vienna, under date of December 10th, 1835, he wrote thus to her:
"My dear Mother,—You express a wish that it may not be long before I am restored to you. You cannot wish this more sincerely than I do. For, to speak truth, I am weary with this wandering, and sigh for the sincere and tranquil joys of home. I hope, with the pleasure and instruction I have received from my journeyings, to entertain you during some long and friendly winter evenings, when we shall be cosily seated together in that snug little room of yours by a good coal-fire. How happy we shall be, dear mother! Then shall I see in those dark and expressive eyes of yours some occasional symptoms of doubt at my strange narrations, which, of course, I shall render both clear and probable by an abundance of testimony. Thus shall our evenings pass with calm reflection on my 'travel's history,' and you shall banish all regrets that I have stayed away from you so long. It will be a melancholy pleasure to contemplate the relics of our poor Lorman. Time, time, how fleeting and momentary is man's existence when compared with thy eternal march!"
In another letter to her during this same absence, he says, "Mother, do you sometimes wish to see your wandering boy and take him to your arms again? Why do I ask such a question? I know you do. Though all the world should forget me, I shall still be cherished in your heart; and your love is worth to me all the admiration of the world besides."
At a later time he wrote, "Beloved mother, it has been so long since I have heard from you, that I grow anxious to know that you are well and in the tranquil enjoyment of the blessings of this life. If ever any one deserved life's peaceful evening,—do not think I flatter,—that person is yourself. When I reflect upon the trials of poverty you have endured, how, under the most trying afflictions, you have sustained yourself with such becoming dignity, I cannot withhold the unfeigned homage which prompts me to say that I am as proud of you, who gave me birth, as you can ever have been of me in the choicest hours of my existence."
And in the latest year of her life he wrote, "Dearly beloved mother, is there not something I can send you which will give you pleasure? Anything in the world which it is in my power to obtain you have only to ask for in order to receive. You know I cannot experience a keener happiness than in gratifying any desire of yours, to whom I owe everything."
In the diary he kept during his first visit to Europe, this quotation from Lavater was copied, with the appended verses: "'I require nothing of thee,' said a mother to her innocent son, when bidding him farewell, 'but that you bring me back your present countenance.'
"'What shall I bring thee, mother mine?
What shall I bring to thee?
Shall I bring thee jewels that shine
In the depths of the shadowy sea?'