Hollander I had produced an unrivalled masterpiece.  Moreover, the acquaintance he had made with this work had awakened in him a new and unforeseen hope for the future of German art; and that it would be a great pity if I yielded to any sense of discouragement as the result of the unworthy reception accorded to it by the Berlin public.  My hair began to stand on end.  One of Hoffmann’s fantastic creations had entered bodily into my life.  I could find nothing to say, except to inquire the name of my visitor, at which he seemed surprised, as I had talked with him the day before at Mendelssohn’s house.  He said that my conversation and manner had created such an impression upon him there, and had filled him with such sudden regret at not having sufficiently overcome his dislike for opera in general, to be present at the first performance, that he had at once resolved not to miss the second.  His name, he added, was Professor Werder.  That was no use to me, I said, he must write his name down.  Getting paper and ink, he did as I desired, and we parted.  I flung myself unconsciously on the bed for a deep and invigorating sleep.  Next morning I was fresh and well.  I paid a farewell call on Schroeder-Devrient, who promised me to do all she could for the Fliegender Hollander as soon as possible, drew my fee of a hundred ducats, and set off for home.  On my way through Leipzig I utilised my ducats for the repayment of sundry advances made me by my relatives during the earlier and poverty-stricken period of my sojourn in Dresden, and then continued my journey, to recuperate among my books and meditate upon the deep impression made on me by Werder’s midnight visit.

Before the end of this winter I received a genuine invitation to Hamburg for the performance of Rienzi.  The enterprising director, Herr Cornet, through whom it came, confessed that he had many difficulties to contend against in the management of his theatre, and was in need of a great success.  This, after the reception with which it had met in Dresden, he thought he could secure by the production of Rienzi.  I accordingly betook myself thither in the month of March.  The journey at that time was not an easy one, as after Hanover one had to proceed by mail-coach, and the crossing of the Elbe, which was full of floating ice, was a risky business.  Owing to a great fire that had recently broken out, the town of Hamburg was in process of being rebuilt, and there were still many wide spaces encumbered with ruins.  Cold weather and an ever-gloomy sky make my recollections of my somewhat prolonged sojourn in this town anything but agreeable.  I was tormented to such an extent by having to rehearse with bad material, fit only for the poorest theatrical trumpery, that, worn out and exposed to constant colds, I spent most of my leisure time in the solitude of my inn chamber.  My earlier experiences of ill-arranged and badly managed theatres came back to me afresh.  I was particularly depressed when I realised that I had made