TO HIS MOTHER.
Dear Mother,—At last I have a chance of thanking you for your dear letter. You know how much your lines rejoice me, and I hope you do not find writing troublesome, for your hand is as small and clear and classical at the end as at the beginning, and as it always was; so I beg you, let me have the joy of seeing it often; you know how grateful I am. You take me home so completely; I am there while I read your letter, enjoying the summer in our garden, visit the exhibition, tease Ganz about his satisfaction at an invitation from Metternich, and almost renew my flirtations with the fair Russian ladies. These flittings home are better than ever these last weeks, during which I have been absorbed in thunderings and disputations about Düsseldorf, art, the rising glory of the Rhineland, and other new marvels. This place has brought me into a fearful state of heat and confusion, and things go harder than in my busiest time in London. When I set to work in the morning there comes a pull at the bell at every bar; a procession of singers with grievances to assail me, or incompetent singers whom I have to instruct, or else they are
