165.
HUMBOLDT TO VARNHAGEN.
BERLIN, _July 31st, 1854_.
Alas! no! I was in error thinking that the monument for Weimar was
definitely bought, only that the enlargement of it, desired by our
excellent lady friend, was given up. In the circles with which I am
acquainted we cannot hope for an active participation. The expression,
“Is not art itself a vestment?” is fine and felicitous.
Most gratefully yours,
A. V. HUMBOLDT.
Monday, waiting for the train to leave.
In the United States there has, it is true, arisen a great love for me,
but the whole there presents to my mind the sad spectacle of liberty
reduced to a mere mechanism in the element of utility, exercising little
ennobling or elevating influence upon mind and soul, which, after all,
should be the aim of political liberty. Hence indifference on the
subject of slavery. But the United States are a Cartesian vortex,
carrying everything with them, grading everything to the level of
monotony.
166.
VARNHAGEN TO HUMBOLDT.
BERLIN, _January 8th, 1855_.
I have to thank your Excellency most heartily that, in dispensing
bounties, you always think with favor also of me! No one shall surpass
me in anxiety to receive, in estimation of the gift, and in gratitude
for the noble donor! This preface, at once temperate in form, rich in
substance, and elegiac in tone, is the worthiest and most lasting
monument of the prince,[74] of whom I hear on every side accounts which
make one mourn his loss in the prime of life. I shall try to procure his
work which is so highly recommended by your Excellency.
The gloomy cover of mist which veils the light of day, corresponds with
the sentiments by which I at least feel myself weighed down. I have not
succeeded in becoming cheerful for some days.
With the warmest wishes for you, in faithful reverence and most grateful
submission, immutably
Your Excellency’s most obedient,
VARNHAGEN VON ENSE.
167.
HUMBOLDT TO VARNHAGEN.
BERLIN, _April 26th, 1855_.
REVERED FRIEND—A strange missionary experiment, enveloped in a somewhat
idyllic ghost story, political and religious, in a style of singular
“finish” and bombast, which I cannot refrain from showing to you. I take
it to be the work of a male author.
The saturnalia of despotism and of flatteries, the wanton festival of
_oblivion_ (as if there was no history of 1813 and ’14), is now played
out among the free insular people, a kind of monkey comedy. There is
only this consolation which uplifts my spirit, that out of all this
something will arise, which both parties do not at all intend. That is,
_le principe_, which outlives us all. I am so cruel as to include you
too. To my brother, Wilhelm, the Kassel book seems to have done good up
there. In old attachment and reverence,
Your faithful
A. HUMBOLDT.