You, my dearest Varnhagen, who are not afraid of grief, but who trace its phases through the depths of sentiment, you should receive at this sorrowful time a few words expressing the love which both brothers feel for you. The release has not yet come. I left him last night at 11 o’clock, and I hasten to him again. The day, yesterday, was less distressing. A half lethargic condition, frequent, though not restless, slumber, and after each waking, words of love, of comfort; but always the clearness of the great intellect, which penetrates and distinguishes everything and examines its own condition. The voice was very feeble, hoarse, and thin, like a child’s—leeches were therefore applied to the throat. Full consciousness! “Think often of me,” he said the day before yesterday, “but always with cheerfulness! I was very happy; and this day also was a beautiful one for me; for ‘Love is above all.’ I will soon be with mother, and will have an insight into a higher order of things.” I have no shadow of hope. I never thought my old eyes had so many tears! It has lasted near eight days.^[11]