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When I left England for Italy, you said, Do write me all about Verdi, Milan, and the new Opera Othello. I have taken you at your word; only the letters, like most feminine epistles, have stretched away into limitless pages, and from a few vagabond sheets have grown into avolume. I am sure you will never again ask a woman to write to you, even from Paradise; but in the mean time, here is the result of your amiability, and, knowing that the work never would have been written without you, I dedicate it to you. I hope also that it may recall to your mind not alone a composer, a country, and a people whom you have long so professedly admired, but likewise the humble colleague who, with the world, owes you more delightful hours than any pen — not your own — could ever hope to repay.