Helgoland, July 1, 1830

I myself am already tired of this guerilla warfare and long for quiet, at least for a condition in which I can give myself without restraint to my natural inclinations, my dreamy manner, my imaginings and broodings. What an irony of fate that I, who so gladly lie down on the cushions of a still, contemplative emotional life, that I of all people should have been destined to whip my poor fellow Germans out of their comfortable ease and hound them into movement! I, who like best to spend my time contemplating passing clouds, figuring out metrical word magic, listening for the secrets of the elemental spirits, and immersing myself in the wondrous world of old folk tales, I had to edit political annals, expound the interests of the times, arouse revolutionary desires, ignite passions, tweak the nose of the poor German Michel so that he might wake from his deep giant's sleep. To be sure, I was only able to induce a gentle sneeze from this snoring giant, by no means an awakening. And even if I tugged vigorously at his pillow, he only put it back with his drowsy hand. Once out of desperation I wanted to set fire to his nightcap, but it was so damp from the sweat of thought that it only slightly smoldered, and Michel smiled in his slumber.

I am tired and thirst for quiet. I, too, will get myself a German nightcap and pull it over my ears. If I only knew where I could lay my head down now.