Pardon me for not writing to you for so long. Now I'll tell you 
something nice. On Good Friday, the local Burgomaster, His 
Magnificence Dr. Groening, died and the election of a new one 
took place a week ago. The Right Honourable Senator Dr. J. D. 
Noltenius got the appointment and last Friday there was a big 
procession for his installation. First came the eight gentlemen 

servants, two of whom are at the service of every Burgomaster, 
each wearing short porcelain-white breeches, fine hose and bright 
red frock-coats, swords at their sides, and tricorns on their heads. 
Following them came the Burgomasters with His Magnificence 
Dr. Smidt, the shrewdest of them all and as good as King of Bremen, 
well to the fore; then Herr Dr. Duntze, who was muffled up to his 
chin in fur and who always takes a thermometer with him to the 
meetings of the Senate. Then the senators, preachers and citizens, 
some 600-800 people, perhaps more, who all went into a house or 
several houses where they ate,? that is, they were all given 
macaroons, cigars and wine, ate as much as they could hold and 
crammed their pockets full. Youngsters gathered before the doors 
and made a din, and when anyone came out they all shouted after 
him, “hét ist, hét ist!” They also did this to Alderman Hase, who 
turned round majestically and said: “I am Herr Alderman Hase.” 
Then they shouted: “Ollermann Hadse hét ist, Ollermann Hase hét 
fst!” And you can imagine how this strut of the Bremen state set 
the struts of his own body in motion in order to save himself. Last 
Saturday a new senator was elected in Dr. Noltenius’ place; Dr. 
Mohr received the honour and his tuck-in took place on Monday. 
It is the custom on these occasions that one of the new senator’s 
relatives has to drink the pig [das Schwein trinken], i. e., he has to 
drink himself under the table, which difficult task was carried out 
by Herr H. A. Heineken, a broker, to the satisfaction of all. For a 
great poet says: 

To enjoy the weariness of life with melancholy 
Is virtue and conception.* 

Marie: “But Friedrich, how can you write such stupid stuff? 
There’s neither rhyme nor reason in it.” Friedrich: “I can’t help 
it.” * I have to fill the page somehow —aha, I’ve just remembered 
something. Last Sunday I went out riding with Neviandt and 
Roth, and Neviandt brought along a little Englishman, the size of 
Anna.‘ We were hardly outside the town before the Englishman 
got hold of a whip and walloped the horse, so that it lashed out 

To Friedrich Graeber, about April 23-May 1, 1839 495 

with forelegs and hindlegs. He remains sitting on it calmly, the 
animal jumps about in all directions, but he isn’t thrown. Then he 
dismounts to pick up his whip, which he had dropped, and, oh, 
magnificent stupidity, leaves the horse all by itself, and the horse 
wastes no time to think before doing a bunk. He runs after it, 
Neviandt dismounts and goes after him, but returns unsuccessful, 
John and the horse are gone. We ride to Horn, have a drop, and 
have scarcely started back before Mr. John comes galloping up 
pleine carriére* The horse had been stopped on the way, he had 
mounted, ridden it back to the stable and got himself a new whip. 
So we turn round. Neviandt and I have rather wild horses and as 
we begin to trot a little Mr. John shoots past me at a mad gallop. 
My horse gets a fancy and goes off in high style. I twigged what it 
was up to, calmly let it run and tried to slow it down now and 
again, but when I'd just got it out of its mad rush, John shot past 
me and it was worse than ever. Waving his hat he kept shouting: 

“ec 

i horse runs better than yours, hurrah!” Finally his horse 
pulled up in front of a cart and behold, my Norma also stopped. 
If only the silly horses knew that their riders enjoy it when they 
rush off like that. I wasn’t in the least afraid and managed quite 
well. Adieu. 

Yours, 
Friedrich