My speedy reply has no good foreboding, my dear friend. When anything is to be done in this country, it wants fourteen months’ maturing—after that there is hope. The inclosed letter, which, however, you are entreated not to leave in the hand of your lady friend, explains all. I was listened to in my words and letters kindly and promisingly. This morning, however, the drawings—those beautiful drawings—were sent back. The underlined word in the accompanying note might give some hope; but I like better to give myself up to illusions than to nourish them in others, and the firmness with which Beuth, who alone has to decide in the matter, sticks to his will, bars all prospects. That I have done my best in the matter, as you yourself have desired it, does not require further words—this should be a sort of _historical faith_ with you. Please send me a word of comfort about my dear Varnhagen—the only brilliant star in the literary world of our country—_that_ country in which, as the bishop _with the drawn sword_ says, even the _most eminent talents_, as such, ought to have no distinction whatever! I do not wonder that such things are spoken out, but what depresses me is the vileness of the society in which we are here living, and which is not even aroused by such contemptible assertions. May both of you preserve your nobler selves. A. HT. 10. HUMBOLDT TO VARNHAGEN. BERLIN, _3d of Feby., 1833_. I am eternally grateful and affected by your noble letter. Grace and euphony of language should always be joined to purity of character and gracefulness of manners.