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  My dear Walt Whitman,

I write you these lines from a little village two miles from Weimar, where I have visited the Tombs of Goethe and Schiller and felt all the great recollection awaken. I have had a great deal of toilsome labour this spring and now I am seeking refreshment between the pines of Thüringerwald, living among a very amiable and childlike population. The Germans dont​ don't​ understand their   deeds after all. Preussen is the iron crest of this huge and soft German body; but the body is so soft indeed, that one should think, there were no bones in it.

If the language did not impact my fancy and ideas I should have a great deal to tell you. Let these lines shortly tell you, that you have been remembered in the metropole of German geniuses, and send some lines to the old [illegible] 16 with information of your state of health.

Hoping the best I am your Danish friend Rudolf Schmidt     Rud. Schmidt July 17, '75 Ans. July 31.