'DEAR MR. JULIAN,--Not knowing your present rank as composer--whether
on the very brink of fame, or as yet a long way off--I cannot decide
what form of expression my earnest acknowledgments should take. Let
me simply say in one short phrase, I thank you infinitely!

'I am no musician, and my opinion on music may not be worth much: yet
I know what I like (as everybody says, but I do not use the words as a
form to cover a hopeless blank on all connected with the subject), and
this sweet air I love. You must have glided like a breeze about
me--seen into a heart not worthy of scrutiny, jotted down words that
cannot justify attention--before you could have apotheosized the song
in so exquisite a manner. My gratitude took the form of wretchedness
when, on hearing the effect of the ballad in public this evening, I
thought that I had not power to withhold a reply which might do us
both more harm than good. Then I said, "Away with all emotion--I wish
the world was drained dry of it--I will take no notice," when a lady
whispered at my elbow to the effect that of course I had expressed my
gratification to you. I ought first to have mentioned that your
creation has been played to-night to full drawing-rooms, and the
original tones cooled the artificial air like a fountain almost.

'I prophesy great things of you. Perhaps, at the time when we are
each but a row of bones in our individual graves, your genius will be
remembered, while my mere cleverness will have been long forgotten.

'But--you must allow a woman of experience to say this--the undoubted
power that you possess will do you socially no good unless you mix
with it the ingredient of ambition--a quality in which I fear you are
very deficient. It is in the hope of stimulating you to a better
opinion of yourself that I write this letter.