[Bremen, about April 28-30, 1839)
Guglielmo carissimo! ‘thy ood emtatédny edpnxa ev oig tay
érépwy, xal 7Ob pev ny enol td adtod pipa. To 82 dtxacripioy tay
TEYtE GtOUPLUIWY, xl THY adt@Y xpicty od Sovapat yiyMoxELY 7
adtevtixny 7 xopmetéveny.— ‘Eotiy yap yapts om’ épod, ef Siupt
TOHWaca ev taic eig dpac éemtocddate. 3
Since you don’t wish to criticise St. Hanor, Florida and Sturm, you
don’t deserve to get any more verses. Your assertion debilitatis.
ingenit abhorret ab usata tua veriloquentia. Meam quidem mentem ad
juvenilem Germaniam se inclinare, haud nocebit libertati; haec enim
classis scriptorum non est, ut schola romantica, demagogia, et cett, societas
clausa, sed ideas saeculi nostri, emancipationem judacorum servorumque,
constitutionalismum generalem aliasque bonas ideas in succum et san-

 My very dear Wilhelm, I found your letter amongst those of the others and its
words were sweet to me. But I cannot accept as either authentic or competent the
judgment and the sentence passed by the five students For it is an act of
kindness on my part when I enclose poems in my letters to you— Ed.

To Wilhelm Graeber, about April 28-30, 1839 443

guinem populi Teutonici intrare volunt tentantque. Quae quum ideae
haud procul sint a directione animi mei, cur me separare? Non enim est,
quod tu dicis*: surrendering oneself to a tendency, sed>: joining it;
sequitur a continuation in my room, and, in writing a polyglottic
letter, I will take now the English language,’ ma no, il mio bello
Italiano, dolce e soave, come il zefiro, con parole, somiglianti alle flori
del pit bel giardino, y el Espanol, lengua como el viento en los drboles, e
o Portuguez, como as olas da mar em riba de flores e prados, et le
Francais, comme le murmure vite d’un font, trés amusant, en de
hollandsche taal, gelijk den damp uijt eener pijp Tobak, zeer gemoedlijk*:
but our beloved German—that is all at once. ~

Like to the long, long waves of the sea is the language of
Homer;
Aeschylus into the valley hurls one rock after another.
Tongue of the Romans—thus mighty Caesar addresses the
legions,
Grasping the words that lie in profusion like angular boulders
Scattered around; from them there soars a Cyclopean building;
Whereas the new Italian tongue is graceful and charming,
Setting the poet in the middle of Earth’s most beautiful garden;
Petrarch filled cornucopias; Ariosto wove his bay-wreath.
Language of Spain: oh, hear how aloft in the leaves of the tree-top
Reigns the tremendous wind, and tremendous songs of the
ancients
Swell and resound in its roar, and the grapes that hang from the
vine-branch
Climbing the trunk of the tree, all swing to and fro in the leafage.

* Of intellectual weakness is in contradiction to your customary veracity. It will
do no harm to liberty if my mind inclines towards Young Germany, for this is not a
group of writers, like the romantic, demagogic and other schools, not a closed
society; what they want and work for, is that the ideas of our century—the
emancipation of the Jews and of the slaves, general constitutionalism and other
good ideas—shall become part of the flesh and blood of the German people. Since
these ideas are not far from the trend of my own mind, why should I hold aloof?
For it is not as you say.— Ed. :

© But no, my beautiful Italian, lovely and pure as the zephyr, with words like
flowers from the loveliest of gardens, and Spanish, a language like the wind in the
trees, and Portuguese, like the rustling of the sea on a shore of flowers and
meadows, and French, like the quick murmur of a fountain, very amusing, and

Portugal’s language-— the murmur of waves on the flower-studded
coastline,
Where in the reeds may be heard how Syrinx sighs with the
Zephyr.
Hark to the tongue of the Franks: it runs, an exuberant streamlet,
Merrily taking its course and smoothing the obstinate sandstone
Under the rip, ling flow of its chattering, garrulous wavelets.
Language of England, all this time weather-beaten and grass-grown
Monument of great giants, that the brambles covered for all that,
Round it screams and howls the storm that would topple it over.
Ah, but the German tongue, it booms like the surf of the breakers
Washing the jagged-edged coral that carries the fairest of islands;
Towards it thunder the long, long waves of the music of Homer;
There, too, crash the gigantic rocks that Aeschylus tumbled;
There you will see the Commander-in-Chief’s Cyclopean building;
There you will see the fragrant garden of beautiful flowers;
Mighty the sounds that swell from the midst of the leaves in the
tree-top;
Syrinx is heard in the reeds, and the rivulets polish the sandstone;
Many a giant building stands with the wind screaming round it:
Such is the German language, eternal and woven with wonders.

I wrote down these hexameters ex tempore, and I hope they'll
make the nonsense on the previous page, out of which they came,
more bearable to you. But discuss them as something extemporary.

April 29. To proceed with your letter in consistent continuation,
the weather is marvellous today so that you, posito caso aequalitatis
temporalis,* are probably and rightly cutting all your lectures today.
I wish I were with you.—I have probably already written to you
that I have been venting my wit on the Bremer Stadtbote under the

name of Theodor Hildebrand; I have given it up now with the
following letter.

Dear Bremen Courier,
Please don’t be offended
If I’ve made you the laughing-stock of town.
Remember, friend, that folk have always tended
To ridicule what’s patently unsound.
Your sunshine days have very nearly ended
In the three months that you’ve been trotting round.

To Wilhelm Graeber, about April 28-30, 1839 445

Have you been saying things you didn’t ought,
To give yourself such food for afterthought?

My poems cost little effort when I did them;

The donkey work was almost wholly done.

I took your articles and parodied them;

The subject-matter came from you alone.

Simply subtract the rhyme-schemes and the rhythm —
The image that remains is all your own.

Rage, if you like, at your respectful and

Obedient servant,

Theodor Hildebrand?

You, too, should begin to write a little, either in verse or in
prose, and then send things to the Berliner Conversationsblatt, if it
still exists, or to the Geselischafter. Later, you take it up more
seriously, write short stories, which you get printed in magazines,
then by themselves, you get a reputation, are acclaimed as a gifted,
witty narrator. I see you all again, Heuser a great composer,
Wurm writing profound studies on Goethe and the developments
of the time, Fritz becoming a famous preacher, Jonghaus composing religious poems, you writing witty short stories and critical
essays, and me—becoming the town poet of Barmen to replace
Lieutenant Simons of shabbily treated memory (in Cleve) As a
further piece of poetry for you, there is also the song on the sheet
for the Musenalmanach,” which I don’t feel like copying
out again. Perhaps I'll write another one besides. Today (April
30), because of the magnificent weather, I sat in the garden from
7 in the morning to half past 8, smoked and read the Lusiade‘
until I had to go to the office. There’s no better way of reading
than in a garden on a clear spring morning, with a pipe in your
mouth, and the rays of the sun on your back. This afternoon I'll
continue this pursuit with the Old German Tristan, and his sweet
reflections on love. Tonight I’m going to the Ratskeller? where
our Herr Pastor‘ is treating us to the Rhine wine which he has

a

See this volume, p. 26.— Ed.
© Deutscher Musenalmanach.— Ed.

© Luiz Vaz de Camões, Os Lusiadas.— Ed.
4 Beer cellar under the town hall— Ed.

° Georg Gottfried Treviranus.— Ed.

been given—in duty bound—by the new Burgomaster.* In such
stupendous weather I always get an immense longing for the
Rhine and its vineyards, but what can I do about it? Write a
couple of verses at most. I am willing to bet that W. Blank has
written telling you that [I] wrote the articles in the Telegraph” and

that’s why you were all so angry about it. The scene is in Barmen
and you can imagine what it is—I have just had a letter from
W. Blank in which he says that the article is causing a frantic uproar
in Elberfeld. Dr. Runkel attacks it’ in the Elberfelder Zeitung,
accusing me of falsehood.‘ I want to let him be given a hint that
he should point out to me just one single falsehood, which he
cannot, because everything I wrote was based on proven data
which I have from eye-witnesses and ear-witnesses. Blank sent me
the paper, which I at once dispatched to Gutzkow with the
request to go on keeping my name secret. Krummacher declared
recently in a sermon that the earth stands still and the sun rotates
around it, and the fellow dares to trumpet this to the world on
this April 21, 1839, and then he says that pietism does not lead
the world back to the Middle Ages! * It is scandalous. He should be

* J. Daniel Noltenius.— Ed.

> “Letters from Wuppertal”. See this volume, pp. 7-25.— Ed.
© See this volume, pp. 27-28.— Ed.

4 See this volume, p. 29.— Ed.

To Marie Engels, May 23, 1839 447

expelled, or one day he will yet become Pope before you know,
and then may a saffron-yellow thunderstorm strike him dead. Dios
lo sabe, God knows what will become of Wuppertal. Adios. Yours,
expecting a speedy reply or not sending any more poems,

Friedrich Engels