It really will soon be too bad with you; you promised to write to me immediately after your arrival in M[annheim], and now I’ve been sitting here again for three weeks, and still no letter from you. If this goes on, I shall probably have to make up my mind to write directly to Miss Jung, so that you may be somewhat compelled to prove your sisterly love to me.

I would wish you better weather than we have now—nothing but storm and rain, as in September and November. At sea the ships are sinking like flies that fall into a glass of water, and the steamship that goes to Norderney has barely been able to make it. Day before yesterday I was in Bremerhaven, and there it rained the whole morning too. I was on the ships that take the emigrants to America; in the steerage they all lie together—a large space, as wide and long as the whole ship, always six berths (that’s what they call the bedsteads) side by side, and another six above them. There they all lie, men, women and children, and you can just imagine how dreadful this stuffy space is, where often 200 people are lying, especially during the first, seasick days. The air in there is really enough to choke you. The cabin passengers have it better, however; they have more room and a very elegantly fitted out cabin. But when a storm bursts, and the waves break over the ship, they are worse off, for above the cabin is a glass skylight through which the light falls, and when a heavy sea strikes it, the glass comes tinkling down into the cabin in the most beautiful fashion, and the water after it. Usually the whole cabin is then full of water, but the bunks are so high that they stay dry. When we left again at noon, a large three-masted ship was just coming into the roads, which, like you, is called “Marie” and had come from the island of Cuba. It could not enter the harbour because of the ebb tide, and anchored in the roads. We went alongside in the steamship and fetched the captain off; but out in the roads the water already begins to throw up waves, and the ship swayed a little. Instantly all the ladies turned pale and made faces as if they were about to drown; we had dug up a couple of pretty tailor’s daughters, towards whom we were extremely gallant, and I also persuaded the geese, with the gravest face in the world, that the rolling continued all the way to Brake, which we only reached after 1½ hours. Unfortunately, it stops again right behind Bremerhaven. Three unripe hats flew into the water and have probably swum to America, likewise a whole mass of empty wine and beer bottles. Apart from that I haven’t seen much worth mentioning, except a dead cat in the Weser, which was making a journey to the United States on its own head. I accosted it, but it was rude enough not to answer me.

Here you have a hasty sketch of Bremerhaven. On the left the fort for protecting the harbour, an old brick thing that the wind will blow over one of these days, next to it the locks through which the ships are let into the harbour, which is a long, narrow canal, somewhat wider than the Wupper, behind it the town, further to the right the Geest, a kind of river, above it the church spire in the air—that is the church that is still to be built. On the right, in the distance, is Geestendorf.

The other day I met someone whose father is a Frenchman born in America, whose mother a German; he himself was born at sea and, since he lives in Mexico, speaks Spanish by nature. Now what is his fatherland?

In our office we now have a complete beer depot; under the table, behind the stove, behind the cupboard, everywhere stand beer bottles, and when the Old Man is thirsty he borrows one from us and afterwards has us refill it for him. This is now carried on quite openly; the glasses stand on the table all day and a bottle beside them. On the right in the corner stand the empty ones, on the left the full bottles, next to them my cigars. It is really true, Marie, youth is getting worse and worse, as Dr. Hantschke says; who would have dreamt of such terrible wickedness twenty, thirty years ago—drinking beer in the office?

What is most convenient for you; shall I advance the postage for our correspondence and frank my letters and also pay for yours, which you then send unfranked? If you have already written before this letter arrives, I shall not write to you again until you have written me a sensible, long letter in reply to this one.

Adieu
with true love
Your brother
Frederick
Bremen, 7 July 40

The letter has fortunately been left lying here again and thus gives me the opportunity to answer your letter which has just arrived. “I wish I could play as well as they do! If I practise very diligently, I shall get that far too.” You? Play a sonata of twenty pages? Goose that you are! The chimney would certainly be delighted. What wishes do I have for Christmas? I have lost my cigar case, and if I don’t find it again soon, could you make me a new one? Thank Ada for her greetings and return them warmly; tell her she is the first who called me amiable, and that I am not a cousin at all, but at most her most devoted cousin. – When you write again, do not address the letter to Treviranus, as then I get it later, but to F.E., Bremen, Martini No. 11. Then it will be brought to me at the office.
Farewell.

Your
Frederick
Bremen, 9th July 1840