| Author(s) | Friedrich Engels |
|---|---|
| Written | 24 September 1852 |
To Marx in London
[Manchester,] 24 September 1852
Dear Marx,
Encl. I return the envelope of the letter received from you today; an attempt, incidentally abortive, seems to have been made to break it open.
The translation[1] and Massol's letter went off yesterday evening by the 2nd post.
Cluss' description of Kinkel and Co.'s reception by the German Yankees is really nice. The chaps in the Alleghenies are the very spit of those in the Black Forest and the Taunus.
I haven't read the revelations in the German papers[2] —in fact, yesterday was the first time in some while that I saw a German paper.
The crapauds[3] are in clover.[4] The workers would appear après tout[5] to have become utterly bourgeoisified as a result of the present PROSPERITY and the prospect of la gloire de l'empire.[6] They will have to be severely chastened by crises if they are to be good for anything again soon. Should the next crisis be a mild one, Bonaparte will be able to weather it. But it looks as though it is going to be damned serious. No crisis is worse than when over-speculation develops slowly in the sphere of production, so that its results take as many years to mature as they would months on the stock and commodity exchanges. And it was not just the COMMON SENSE of Old England that was buried along with old Wellington, but OLD ENGLAND herself, in the person of her sole surviving representative. All that remains are SPORTING CHARACTERS without a suite,[7] like Derby, and Jewish swindlers like Disraeli—who are caricatures of the old Tories in exactly the same way as is Monsieur Bonaparte of his uncle.[8] There'll be a merry dance here when the crisis comes, and one can only hope that it will last long enough to develop into a chronic condition with acute periods, as it did in 1837/42. From what is known of him, by the way, old Wellington would have been a truly formidable military leader in case of insurrection—the fellow studied diligently, read all the military treatises with the utmost zeal and was pretty well-versed in his subject. Nor would he have balked at extreme means.
From what you tell me, the Cologne trial threatens to be terribly ennuyant.[9] Unhappy Heinrich,[10] with his defence 'on principle'! He will demand that his 30 sheets be read in court and, if he gets his way, will be perdu.[11] The jury will never forgive him for having bored them so. The prosecution, by the way, seems to be out of luck. For Haupt is off to Brazil, the anonymous journeyman tailor has similarly vanished and seems unlike to reappear, and now the police official[12] because of whose illness the whole affair was adjourned in July, must needs go and die on them. But what will such good fortune be worth if Heinrich elucidates the thing from the philosophical standpoint?
So the gallant Schurz is carping at Kossuth for preaching the gospel of action, after he and Co. have for years eked out a bare living from this same gospel! IT IS ALL VERY WELL to try and settle Kossuth's hash because he takes the lion's share, but it's really very stupid to write things of that sort when the whole world knows better. That Kossuth will commit some folly seems most probable; what has le malheureux[13] got after all but battered saddles, outranged muskets, companies drilled by Sigel, and Klapka and Garibaldi? (The latter commands the Italo-Hungarian fleet in the Pacific Ocean to wit one merchantman plying between Lima and Canton under the Peruvian flag.) Your F. E.