That echo reaches me from the summer-night of sadness and still communion, of _passion's slumber by the dead_. It is now some years ago; but never was any love so fresh to the spirit it enchanted, as is the enchantment of this sorrow, still mine own. So be it ever mine, till all shall be forever! I am in England, and again at home. Great changes have swept the earth; I know of none within myself. Through all convulsions the music whispers to me _that music is_. I ought to believe in its existence, for it is my own life and the life of the living round me. Davy is still at work, but not alone in hope,--sometimes in the midst of triumph. They tell me I shall never grow rich, but with my violin I shall never be poor. I have more than enough for everything, as far as I myself am concerned; and as for those I love, there is not one who prospers not, even by means of music. Starwood has been three years in London. His name, enfolded in another name, brought the whole force of music to his feet. It is not easy to procure lessons of the young professor, who can only afford twenty minutes to the most exacting pupil. It is still less easy to hear him play in public, for he has a will of his own, and will only play what he likes, and only what he likes to the people he likes; for he is a bit of a cynic, and does not believe, half so much as I do, that music is making way. He married his first feminine pupil,--a girl of almost fabulous beauty. I believe he gave her half-a-dozen lessons before the crisis,--not any afterwards; and I know that he was seventeen and she fifteen years of age at the time they married.[10] His whole nature is spent upon her; but she is kind enough to like me, and thus I sometimes receive an invitation, which I should accept did they reside in the moon.