a noble soul, how much admirable talent, has been thereby degraded for worthless aims! How great was the name of Arndt before he, by higher command, wrote his scabby, shabby little work, in which he wags his tail like a dog, and, doggish as a Wendish dog, barks at the sun of July! The name of Stägemann had once the most honourable sound, but how deeply has he fallen since he wrote his Russian Songs! May he be forgiven by the Muse whose kiss once consecrated his lips to nobler poems! But what shall I say of Schleiermacher, the knight of the third class of the order of the Red Eagle? Once he was himself noble[1] and belonged to the first class. But not only the great, even the lesser men have been ruined. There is poor Ranke, whom the Prussian sent travelling at its expense; a fine talent—good at carving little historical figures and arranging them picturesquely—a good harmless soul, pleasing as mutton with Teltower turnips—an innocent man, whom, should I ever marry, I would choose for a family friend, and who is certainly also a Liberal; and he was lately compelled to publish in the Staats Zeitung (the State Journal) a defence of the resolutions of the Diet. Other stipendiaries, whom I will not name, have done the like, and are still all "Liberals."
- ↑ French version—"Et par lui-meme un aigle."
