72.
HUMBOLDT TO VARNHAGEN.
Tuesday, June 27th, 1843.
I am afraid, my dear friend, that you might come to Tegel next Thursday and find nobody at home. Buelow will take leave of the King to-night and expects to start to-morrow—Wednesday—for Schlangenbad. His wife and two oldest daughters are going with him. I write this in view of the impossibility of my embracing you before your departure. The torchlight procession at Düsseldorf could shed light on many a thing. I enclose the little speech for you, as you like to preserve everything concerning your friends.
Yours,
A. Ht.
73.
HUMBOLDT TO VARNHAGEN.
Sans Souci, August 27th, 1843.
How could I be, my dear friend, otherwise than alive to the duty of thanking you at once for your precious gift, and for the affectionate souvenir of one whose life is gradually vanishing? I know nothing more graceful in composition, in sympathy of conception, in elegance of language, and in appropriate scenic surroundings, than your “Lebensbilder,” which serve at the same time as correct commentaries upon all the valuable literature of our time. How generous you are when you mention me, and even my most insignificant words! I have often followed you through the three volumes, over those beaten, but still delightful paths; but nothing pleases me more in this “sylva sylvarum” than your dignified and just remarks on the historical blunder as to the “truly Germanic” distinction of political classes, ii., p. 256–272.
You will observe that my political “ire” is still the same; that I am always very much attached to this life, having learned from you that, according to Kant’s doctrine, there is not much to boast of after our dissolution. “The budding twig starting up in the regions of northern empires” (I am satirical now) has been but poorly acclimated; and I have little time to spare, having already waited fifty-three years.... The Germans will yet have to write many more books on liberty.
The card-playing man—ii., p. 157—will again cause some excitement in the environs of my “hill.” I believe I have discovered some “moderation,” which, however, one does not like to mention. The words, “that miserable fellow,” are no longer heard. You see how much I love to read your writings—and not through fear.