“_May 1852._--You speak of the expenses of our concerts; they are enormous. Every impresario in London expected to lose this year. In fact Beale, in the programme of the last concert, actually told the public that the _Choral Symphony_ rehearsals had swallowed more than a third of the subscription. “However, it has had a miraculous effect, and my success as conductor was great also; indeed, it was such an event in the musical world that people greatly doubted whether we should carry it through.” * * * * * “_June 1852._--I leave to-morrow. How I shall regret my glorious chorus and orchestra! Those beautiful women’s voices! “If only you had been here to hear our second performance of the _Choral Symphony_. The effect in that enormous Exeter Hall was most imposing. “Paris once more! where I must forget these melodious joys in my daily task of critic--the only one left me in my precious native land! “A naïf Birmingham amateur was heard the other day regretting that I had not been engaged for the Birmingham Festival. ‘For I hear,’ said he, ‘that Berlioz really is better than Costa!!!’<span class="lftspc">”</span> _To_ LOUIS BERLIOZ. “1852.--You say you are going mad! You must actually _be_ mad to write me such letters in the midst of the strenuous fatigue of my present life. “In your last letter from Havana you say you will arrive home with a hundred francs. Now you say you owe forty. Now remember! I shall take no notice in future of the nonsense you talk. “You chose your own profession--a hard one, I grant you, but the hardest part is over. Only five more months, and you will be in port for six months studying, after which you will be able to earn your own living. “I am putting aside money for your expenses during those six months. I can do no more. “What is this about torn shirts? Six weeks in Havana, and all your clothes ruined! At that rate you will want dozens of shirts every five months. You must be laughing at me. “Please weigh your language in writing to me. I do not like your present style. Life is not strewn with roses, and I can give you no career but _that which you yourself chose_. It is too late to alter now.” _To_ J. D’ORTIGUE. “_January 1854._--Yes, dear d’Ortigue, you are right. It is my ungovernable passion for Art that is the cause of all my trouble, all my real suffering. Forgive me for letting you read between the lines. I knew it would hurt you, and yet I could not hold back the words that burnt me, although I might have known that your opinions on Art would be in accord with your religious feelings. “You know that I love the beautiful and the true, but I have another love quite as ardent--the love of love.