iron appearance of real misfortune! and I feel like so many reproaches
the reminiscences of all complaints and covetous wishes, over which I
have so often forgotten how much blessing God gives us, and how much
danger surrounds us without touching us. We are not to attach ourselves
to this world, and not regard it as our home. Another twenty, or in
happiest case thirty years, and we are both of us beyond the cares of
this life, and our children have reached our present standpoint, and
find with astonishment that the freshly begun life is already going down
hill. It would not be worth while to dress and undress if it were over
with that.

Do you still remember these words of a fellow-traveler from Stolpemuende?
The thought that death is the transition to another life will certainly
do little to alleviate your grief; for you might think that your beloved
son might have been a true and dear companion to you during the time you
are still living in this world, and would have continued, by God's
blessing, the memory of you here. The circle of those whom we love
contracts itself and receives no increase till we have grandchildren. At
our time of life we form no fresh bonds which are capable of replacing
those that die off. Let us therefore keep the closer together in love
until death separates us from one another, as it now separates your son
from us. Who knows how soon? Won't you come with Malle to Stolpmuende,
and stay quietly with us for a few weeks or days? At all events I shall
come to you at Kroechlendorf, or wherever else you are, in three or four
weeks. I greet my dearest Malle with all my heart. May God give her, as
well as you, strength to bear and patiently submit.

TO HIS WIFE

BIARRITZ, August 4th, 1862.

I am afraid I have caused some confusion in our correspondence, as I
induced you to write too soon to places where I have not yet arrived. It
will be better for you to address your letters to Paris, just as though
I were there; the embassy then sends them after me, and I can more
quickly send word there if I alter my route. Yesterday evening I
returned from St. Sebastian to Bayonne, where I slept, and am now
sitting here in a corner-room of the Hotel de l'Europe, with charming
view on the blue sea, which drives its white foam through the curious
cliffs against the lighthouse. I have a bad conscience for seeing so
many beautiful things without you. If one could transport you here
through the air, I would go