London, June 21st, 1842.

Dear Mother,

Your letter of yesterday was most charming, and gave us so much pleasure,[54] that I must thank you for it in detail to-day; I could scarcely do so as I wished for the previous one, containing quite a kaleidoscope of events in Berlin, which through the glasses of your description assumed constant novel and pleasing forms. If I could write half as well, you should receive to-day the most charming letter, for we are daily seeing the most beautiful and splendid objects; but I am somewhat fatigued by the incessant bustle of this last week, and for two days past I have been chiefly lying on the sofa reading ‘Wilhelm Meister,’ and strolling through the fields with Klingemann in the evening, to try to restore myself.

So if the tone of this letter is rather languid and weary, it accurately paints my feelings. I have really been urged to do too much. Lately, when playing the organ in Christ Church, Newgate Street, I almost thought, for a few moments, I must have been suffocated, so great was the crowd and pressure round my seat at the organ; and two days afterwards I played in Exeter Hall before three thousand people, who shouted hurrahs and waved their handkerchiefs, and stamped with their feet till the hall resounded with the uproar; at the moment I felt no bad effects from this, but next morning my head was confused and stupefied. Add to this the pretty and most charming Queen Victoria, who looks so youthful, and is so gently courteous and gracious, who speaks such good German and who knows all my music so well; the four books of songs without words and those with words, and the symphony, and the “Hymn of Praise.” Yesterday evening I was sent for by the Queen, who was almost alone with Prince Albert, and who seated herself near the piano and made me play to her; first seven of the “songs without words,” then the serenade, two impromptus on “Rule Britannia,” LÜtzow’s “Wilde Jagd,” and “Gaudeamus igitur.” The latter was somewhat difficult, but remonstrance was out of the question, and as they gave the themes, of course it was my duty to play them. Then the splendid grand gallery in Buckingham Palace where they drank tea, and where two boars by Paul Potter are hanging, and a good many other pictures which pleased me well. I must tell you that my A minor symphony has had great success with the people here, who one and all receive us with a degree of amiability and kindness which exceeds all I have ever yet seen in the way of hospitality, though this sometimes makes me feel my head quite bewildered and strange, and I am obliged to collect my thoughts in order not to lose all self-possession.

June 22nd.—To-day, however, I can continue my letter in a more cheerful spirit; I have slept away my weary mood, and feel again quite fresh and well. Yesterday evening I played my concerto in D minor, and directed my “Hebrides” in the Philharmonic, where I was received like an old friend, and where they played with a degree of enthusiasm which caused me more pleasure than I can describe. The people make such a fuss with me this time that I feel really quite abashed; I believe they clapped their hands and stamped for at least ten minutes after the concerto, and insisted on the “Hebrides” being repeated. The directors are to give a dinner at Greenwich next week, and we are to sail down the Thames in corpore and to make speeches. They talk of bringing out ‘Antigone’ at Covent Garden as soon as they can procure a tolerable translation. Lately I went to a concert in Exeter Hall where I had nothing whatever to do, and was sauntering in quite coolly with Klingemann,—in the middle of the first part, and an audience of about three thousand present,—when just as I came in at the door, such a clamour, and clapping, and shouting, and standing up ensued, that I had no idea at first that I was concerned in it; but I discovered it was so. On reaching my place, I found Sir Robert Peel and Lord Wharncliffe close to me, who continued to applaud with the rest till I made my bow and thanked them. I was immensely proud of my popularity in Peel’s presence. When I left the concert they gave me another hurrah.

Oh! how splendidly Mrs. Butler, at Chorley’s, lately read aloud Shakespeare’s ‘Antony and Cleopatra;’ we have always been on the most friendly terms since our acquaintance twelve years ago, when she was Miss Fanny Kemble; and she gave this reading in honour of me, and quite too beautiful it was; and Lady Morgan was there, and Winterhalter, and Mrs. Jameson, and Duprez, who afterwards sang a French Romance of a starving old beggar, and another of a young man losing his reason, with the refrain, “Le vent qui vient À travers la montagne me rendra fou!” “Sweet!” said the ladies; and Benedict, and Moscheles, and the Grotes—who can enumerate them all! This evening at seven o’clock we dine with Bunsen, and as we do not know what to do with our evening afterwards, we shall probably drive to Charles Kemble’s about eleven o’clock and be among his early guests; the late ones will not arrive till after midnight. We have too such invariably bright and beautiful weather. One day lately we saw first in the morning the Tower, then the Katharine Docks, then the Tunnel, and ate fish at Blackwall, had luncheon at Greenwich, and home by Peckham; we travelled on foot, in a carriage, on a railway, in a boat, and in a steamboat. The day after to-morrow we intend to go to Manchester for a couple of days, and next week be on our way back to Frankfort. I have given up the musical festival at the Hague, though they pressed me very hard to go there for my “Hymn of Praise.” I wish to have nothing to do with music during the next few weeks.

I have still a vast deal to say to Fanny about the Bridgewater Collection, where pictures and sketches by Hensel are hanging up, and Sutherland House, and Grosvenor House, etc. etc.; and to Rebecca, about the meeting of scientific men at Manchester, to which I was invited, but unfortunately I could not go to greet Whewell. Jacoby and Enke were also there; I alone was absent.

But I must conclude. May we soon have a happy meeting, dearest Mother, and dearest Brother and Sisters.—Your

Felix.