Manchester, 14 December 1866 
Dear Moor, 

You just would not believe how overrun I am at present by all 
manner of folk. Young men recommended by customers, seeking 

4 the first volume of Capital 

positions here; agents, or such as would like to be so; then this 
week my most likeable nephew Blank* as well, who has established 
himself in London—and so it goes on continuously, and you will 
realise how difficult it is thereby to find the time to write. Then, 
from time to time, I also get someone arriving on the doorstep 
like the writer of the enclosed letter** and putting a pistol to my 
breast. When I read the letter, I knew at once who had sent this 
sterling fellow to plague me—it was good old Dr Rode, as the said 
sterling fellow indeed confirmed when he came up to my office. 
This shameless Rode is taking some weird liberties in my regard. 
First, he makes the silliest kind of trouble between myself and 
Klings after the latter called here,’ and then he even goes so far as 
to send people like that to plague me, referring them to me as 
cashier for the whole émigré community. If the fellow attempts 
anything else of that kind with me, he may be sure of a warm 
response. Why cannot he leave me be, I do not know him at all? 

The Prussian swine are certainly behaving quite splendidly. I 
would indeed not have imagined them to be quite so stupid, but it 
is really impossible to imagine them stupid enough. That is all to 
the good. Things are on the move again now, and the revolution 
will come all the sooner for it, and this time heads are bound to 
roll, as you yourself say. 

They are locking up the office, and I must close, too. Enclosed 
two five-pound-notes: 

I/S 38969 and I/S 62239, Manchester, 26 January 1866. 

That is as much as I can risk sending until I know how I stand, 
and I cannot check on it until the books are made up. 

Kindest regards to your wife and children. 

Your 
F. E.