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.