details of various things that I felt I knew all there was to know about the capital of Great Britain.  I had not the smallest intention of going to the Italian opera, possibly because I imagined the prices to be too ruinous.  We thoroughly explored all the principal streets, often tiring ourselves out; we shuddered through a ghastly London Sunday, and wound up with a train trip (our very first) to Gravesend Park, in the company of the captain of the Thetis.  On the 20th of August we crossed over to France by steamer, arriving the same evening at Boulogne-sur-mer, where we took leave of the sea with the fervent desire never to go on it again.

We were both of us secretly convinced that we should meet with disappointments in Paris, and it was partly on that account that we decided to spend a few weeks at or near Boulogne.  It was, in any case, too early in the season to find the various important people whom I proposed to see, in town; on the other hand, it seemed to me a most fortunate circumstance that Meyerbeer should happen to be at Boulogne.  Also, I had the instrumentation of part of the second act of Rienzi to finish, and was bent on having at least half of the work ready to show on my arrival in the costly French capital.  We therefore set out to find less expensive accommodation in the country round Boulogne.  Beginning with the immediate neighbourhood, our search ended in our taking two practically unfurnished rooms in the detached house of a rural wine merchant’s, situated on the main road to Paris at half an hour’s distance from Boulogne.  We next provided scanty but adequate furniture, and in bringing our wits to bear upon this matter Minna particularly distinguished herself.  Besides a bed and two chairs, we dug up a table, which, after I had cleared away my Rienzi papers, served for our meals, which we had to prepare at our own fireside.

While we were here I made my first call on Meyerbeer.  I had often read in the papers of his proverbial amiability, and bore him no ill-will for not replying to my letter.  My favourable opinion was soon to be confirmed, however, by his kind reception of me.  The impression he made was good in every respect, particularly as regards his appearance.  The years had not yet given his features the flabby look which sooner or later mars most Jewish faces, and the fine formation of his brow round about the eyes gave him an expression of countenance that inspired confidence.  He did not seem in the least inclined to depreciate my intention of trying my luck in Paris as a composer of opera; he allowed me to read him my libretto for Rienzi, and really listened up to the end of the third act.  He kept the two acts that were complete, saying that he wished to look them over, and assured me, when I again called on him, of his whole-hearted interest in my work.  Be this as it may, it annoyed me somewhat that he should again and again fall back on praising my minute handwriting, an accomplishment he considered especially