It was therefore with the keenest interest that, in the midst of a holiday sojourn in Paris, in the first months of 1861, I saw an announcement promising a speedy representation of "Tannhäuser" at the now disused Opera House in the Rue Lepeletier. Nothing could have been more unexpected. That Wagner was, and had been for some time in Paris, I was well aware. That he had ventured upon producing selections from his works at a concert, not long before, I was also informed. But that he had found the means of access to the stronghold, the inner redoubt, of French lyric art, was a matter of such astonishment as to appear incredible. To begin with, it was not altogether clear why Wagner should desire to subject himself to the ordeal that would inevitably await him, if he should carry the advertised project into effect. It was in a measure explicable that, perhaps for the gratification of personal friends, he had allowed certain characteristic specimens of his music to be heard on a special occasion; but, apart from the circumstance that the reception of these detached morceaux was so extremely unflattering as to foreshadow the danger of a more definite attempt, it was difficult to believe that the composer could really wish to win the approval of a public for which he had openly and loudly proclaimed the profoundest contempt. Years before, he had, in this same Paris, passed through experiences so bitter and humiliating to a man of his disposition, that his memory of the place and its people was overcharged with acrimony, and he could hardly refer to them except in a tone of exaggerated depreciation. In addition to this, it was one of his articles of faith that the French were weighted by permanent æsthetic disabilities, and that the faculty of rising to the exalted sphere in which he moved and wrought and let loose his soul was utterly denied them by destiny. Concerning them, their audiences, their critics, their composers, he had repeatedly written in scornful mockery or fiery denunciation. It would have been vain to search for points of sympathy between the volatile and pleasure-seeking community of the gay capital, and the arrogant, unbending, and sternly conscientious master of the new school.

Granting, however, that Wagner was possessed by an unaccountable yearning to conquer this vivacious populace,—which, it presently became evident, was indeed the case, in spite of his austere affectation of indifference; granting that the reach of his ambition, or his vanity, sought to embrace all classes and degrees of men, and that he longed to stamp his imprint upon every variety of taste, the lightest as well as the severest, there remained to be considered the formidable obstacles which confronted him. To meet and overcome these, the address of a courtier, the courage of a hero, and the devotion of a martyr seemed to be required. The Parisians may not cherish long hatreds against individuals, but they are eminently capable of sudden gusts of spite, and of meeting the elaborate and systematic attacks of a censor like Wagner with a sharp guerrilla onslaught of merciless ridicule, more deadly, perhaps, than the more serious process of logical warfare. The name of the innovator was already a byword of derision. At the faintest hint of further trials of the public patience, the professional satirists took the unusual step of dropping sarcasm and persiflage, and employing angry menace. What was he to expect, even if through some superlative graciousness of fortune, the opportunity of carrying out the most daring of enterprises should be afforded him?

But, in truth, so extraordinary a result was not anticipated by anybody, excepting probably a few who lived within the inner circle of authority. Upon what could this audacious stranger found the hope of battling down the gates of the nation's academic sanctuary, doubly barred by prejudice against all but the elect, and triply barred against him by the intensest popular hostility and official opposition? When admission was impossible even to France's own children of song, except by marvels of patience and intrigue, or perhaps through devious courses of corruption, how should this rude, indecorous iconoclast from Germany find his way within? Nevertheless, it came to pass. At the first, it was reckoned little less than a miracle. In fact, it could not have happened but for the accident that France was then under imperial rule. We knew all about it in course of time; how the more or less delicate diplomacy of a feminine disciple, lofty in station and influential in secluded precincts of the Tuileries, evoked a peremptory decree in the face of which all remonstrance was silenced. L'Empéreur le voulait; and that was sufficient for all except those who were able to penetrate the corridors of the palace, and to satisfy their curiosity by the discovery that it was, as a matter of truth, Madame la Princesse who willed that His Majesty should will the accomplishment of her design. It was the oldest of old stories. A dainty and supple hand had disentangled a knot as intricate as the Phrygian king's, and swept aside impediments against which no amount of argument, eloquence, or moral force would ever have prevailed.

About the time when it became known that "Tannhäuser" would be produced at the Imperial Academy of Music, it was my frequent habit to breakfast at an establishment in the Passage de l'Opéra, well known to all who were contented with modest merit and humble variety, and who found in the moderate charges a reasonable compensation for the absence of the glitter and ceremony of the great boulevard cafes. The Passage being close to the stage entrance of the Opera House, this restaurant was a common resort of the multitude of undistinguished attachés of the great theatre. Parties of bourgeois-looking choristers would congregate in one apartment, as careless in appearance to the excitements of their calling as such useful upholders of the minor operatic illusions are apt to be, the world over. Groups of dishevelled and not always tidy ballet-girls gossiped and chattered in corners, rarely captivating to view in their normal aspect, but usually guarded by the maternal watchfulness which Halévy has typified in the person of Madame Cardinal, notwithstanding the improbability of insidious advances, welcome or unwelcome, in that unpropitious quarter. Members of the orchestra ranged themselves in smaller bodies, and made themselves, as is their wont, rather more conspicuous than their co-workers in other departments, by outspoken and vigorous discussion of topics relating to their craft. As a rule, these gatherings were most numerous at noon-day, the place being, doubtless, a convenient rendezvous for social and other gratifications, preliminary to the labors of rehearsal, next door.

As I sat alone, one morning, in this unpretending cafe, I chanced to overhear part of a lively conversation upon the subject which had then become the most prominent of all,—the forthcoming performance of the obnoxious "Tannhäuser." As was generally the case, "chaff" was predominant, and the denunciations were neither novel nor brilliant enough to attract particular attention. The party engaged in debate was not, in this instance, composed of musicians, but apparently had "leanings" that way; for, after a somewhat pronounced declaration of opinion, one of them called out to an individual seated at another table, requesting confirmation of his statement. The person appealed to glanced up with a smile, and answered: "No; excuse me, I don't agree."

This was the signal for a combined demonstration, good-humored though aggressive, in which the uninitiated majority sought to impose their view upon the single expert,—which I have observed to be not an uncommon incident of haphazard controversy. But as nothing could be drawn from the solitary adversary but a renewed assertion that he "did not agree," it occurred to one of the disputants to venture a personal thrust.

"Ah, D— must not laugh with us at present. This is a delicate business. While çe monsieur (the Emperor) favors M. Wagner, the artists of the Opéra must be careful with their tongues."

The tone showed that no offence was intended, though the words were not exactly delicate. The "artist," as he had been termed, who was quite a young man, smiled again, then flushed a little, and answered:

"I have rehearsed in 'Tannhäuser' twice, gentlemen, and I do not feel at liberty to join in your mirth."

"Precisely," retorted his opponent. "My friends, the gloom of despair is upon him. No one concerned in this cursed diablérie will ever be joyous again."

All laughed, and that was the end of the colloquy.

Entering the cafe at an earlier hour than usual, a day or two after, I saw the gentleman who had dared to withstand the popular current, sitting alone. Few visitors had arrived, and I placed myself at the table nearest him, which was vacant. The barriers to conversation are very slight with most Frenchmen, and I found no difficulty in opening an intercourse which, though it was chiefly confined to our meetings in this one locality, became extremely agreeable, at least to me, and almost grew to intimacy before my departure from Paris.

Without much delay, I explained the interest I felt in the impending event, and referring to the dialogue I had overheard, expressed my pleasure at meeting a French artist free from the extreme prejudices then prevalent. I used the word "artist" because it had been applied to him by his friend, though I knew nothing of his position in the Opéra, or of his share in the work in hand.

"Well," he remarked, "I take things as I find them. It does not become me, a poor devil of a second violin, to make grimaces at a composition of which all I know is that every note in my part of it commands my respect."

My new acquaintance was not, then, of a rank that enabled him to speak with the highest authority, but perhaps the information falling within his limited range might be none the less valuable. In fact, I soon discovered that the post of second violin at the Imperial Academy was significant of no lack of intelligence or culture in the occupant. The orchestra of this establishment is selected and appointed under conditions likely to insure intellectual qualifications as well as technical skill on the part of all its members.

I asked if the impression produced upon him—which I need not say was due to broader considerations than the mere study of his own part, notwithstanding his first intimation—extended to others.

"I—think—so," he replied guardedly; "but there are unpleasant influences. Most of us have a great affection for Rossini, and an admiration for Meyerbeer; and Wagner is so indiscreet."

This was in reference to the German composer's biting sarcasms upon the two idols of Parisian musical society,— both of them aliens, by the by, but accepted as citizens of the French artistic nationality, in consequence of their approved willingness to conform to French traditions and methods. Not only had the new comer violently assailed, in his "Quatre Poèmes d'Opéra" and other brochures, these cherished and still living favorites, but he had injudiciously caused the essays to be republished in Paris, a few months before,—with what particular purpose, it is difficult to conjecture.

I met my orchestral sympathizer often, and took much satisfaction in discovering that he was able, with a few words, to dispose of many malicious reports which began to be freely circulated. One of these, repeated with fantastic emphasis by almost every journal in the city, related to an alleged quarrel between Wagner and Hain'l,—the latter being the thoroughly accomplished chef d'orchestre of the Opéra,—on account of the composer's desire to conduct the rehearsals and assume exclusive control of the entire production. The knights of the press were fierce in repelling this pretended invasion of prerogative. The custom of all recorded time, they declared, forbade interference with any of the sacred rights of the omnipotent chef. This was an absurdity, for the omnipotent chef frequently cedes his functions to masters ambitious of that especial distinction, as has more recently been apparent in the cases of Verdi and Gounod; but there are periods when well-devised absurdities have a more penetrating effect upon the French mind than the most substantial facts. On this point, I was glad to make direct inquiry.

"I have not heard of any quarrel," said my informant.

"But the story is in all the newspapers."

"True, I have heard it talked about outside. What I meant was, that I had heard nothing of it in the Opéra."

"Indeed; perhaps, then, it is not authentic, at all."

"I should doubt it. Hain'l and Wagner do not seem over cordial, but,—well, I will tell you what I have observed. I have been ill, and did not assist at the first rehearsals; and I thought I should perhaps be excluded, throughout. As it happened, the overture had not been taken up until the day of my return,—it is now a fortnight. Well, we were all fired by it. Many grew cool again, afterward, but for the moment there was but one thought. Hain'l himself was much struck. Wagner, who, I believe, had been wandering about the parterre, came upon the stage near the end, as if expecting us to proceed with the first act. But, although the overture had gone to a marvel, Hain'l turned back and ordered us to repeat,—not a very common thing with us at a first rehearsal, when all had passed with so little need of correction. To Wagner, who stood waiting, he said simply, 'Pardon, we have plenty of time.' Wagner looked a little surprised, but also gratified. In the middle of this repetition, the chef turned, and without stopping, silently beckoned a violin from the extreme outer edge to a place nearer the centre. The equilibrium was not nice enough to Hain'l's ear. That is a sort of thing that often occurs, but Wagner noticed it, and nodded a hasty recognition. After the overture, he leaned over the rampe, and said something, of which I caught the words, 'Good, good; and since you perceive it, do you not think'—'Precisely,' interrupted Hain'l; 'you shall see, I will arrange it.' Wagner said no more, but at the end of the rehearsal, just before separating, the chef asked us to wait. 'We will add two to the second violins, he said, 'the first can spare them; eh, M. Wagner, will that do?' Wagner bowed. Hain'l spoke briefly in an undertone to our leader, and then, aloud,— 'So, very well. M. and M. perhaps I shall ask you to oblige me by transferring your strength to the seconds; that is, if I cannot make room for more enlargements. I need not tell you why it is desirable. May I count upon you? ' 'Willingly, willingly,'—the response was immediate. And I cannot give you a better illustration of how the orchestra regard the music. It is not for every score that you will find a first violin ready to give up his own, and take what is nominally a subordinate place. Moreover, it is not likely that such a thing would happen if the composer and the chef were at cross purposes. I must say, however, that Hain'l has always fixed ideas about placing his instruments, and particularly about balancing the strings."

I had looked forward with great eagerness to the prospect of being present on the opening night of "Tannhäuser," and endeavored to arrange my stay so as to include the date semi-officially announced. But the administration of the French Opéra is less constrained by its promises than, perhaps, that of any other theatre in Europe, and delay succeeded delay, until continual postponement seemed the only certain thing about the business. Of course, the newspapers had their own charming versions of the causes of these interruptions. There was internecine strife in every department of the Academy. The several leading singers, from the prima donna downward, excepting those brought from Germany by the composer, had despairingly thrown up rôles which no French artist could undertake with equanimity. [Coming straight to fact, every important vocalist in the cast was of foreign birth, if not of foreign training.] Wagner's imported tenor, we were assured, had grossly insulted the regular attachés of the institution, necessitating the exchange of mortal defiance. Wagner had attempted to override the commands of the principal personage in the empire, as a consequence of which the reddest republicans about town became ludicrously loyal for a week. In the face of the common enemy it was deemed politic to unite, and to forget the gulf between democracy and despotism. It would not have been altogether surprising to hear the Marseillaise called for at the Opéra. But as a rule the enmity took the form of envenomed raillery. The singers were falling into a decline. The chorus was so reduced as to endanger the proper representation of the ordinary repertory. No strings could be kept unbroken on the violins, and the wind instruments were all twisted out of shape by the extraordinary sounds they were called upon to produce. The walls of the house were shaken and the stability of the structure imperilled by the infernal crash and clatter which daily resounded within them. It is to be hoped that the sensitive composer was left in ignorance of these malignant signs and tokens; or that, if confronted by them, they at least served to admonish him in some degree of the wrath to come.

It was a painful disappointment to discover that my chances of witnessing the production were rapidly slipping away. The utmost hostility that Paris could concentrate would not prevent the performance from being careful and painstaking in all respects, and in many, brilliant. I could have hoped to listen and enjoy, though others might condemn. Vain expectation! I did not know of what Paris was capable. As it happened, the long postponement was wholly to my advantage. Luck never served me a better turn, for nobody heard a single scene on the first public night, whereas the expedient to which I was driven enabled me to attend not only one, but three of what I may believe to have been as thorough and excellent representations of "Tannhäuser" as any theatre has ever afforded.

The idea of consulting my friend of the orchestra as to the possibility of witnessing one of the rehearsals had occurred to me, but I dismissed it as soon as I learned from him how rigid was the discipline, and how strict the enforcement of rules in the institution where he filled an undistinguished position. What I did do was to get from him the address of Wagner; and then, as a last resort, I wrote a note to the master, frankly stating my case—saying what I wanted, why I wanted it, explaining the trifling claims I might possibly have upon his indulgence, and mentioning the manner in which I could manifest my appreciation of his courtesy, if he saw fit to accede to my request. No doubt it was a rash experiment. If I had been ten years older, I should certainly not have attempted it, but youth and the confidence of enthusiasm helped me through. I wrote in English, fearing the inferences that might be drawn from such imperfect German as I could command, and assuming that my own language would be more likely, first, to attract attention, and next, to enlist sympathy, than that which was in those days chiefly familiar to the composer as the vehicle for manifestations of virulent animosity. The instinct which thus guided me was probably a fortunate one. I do not think, however, that I had courage to reveal what I had done, even to intimate friends. In America, nothing would be more natural than such a proceeding. The application would have been quite in the ordinary course, and its success almost a foregone conclusion. But it needed only a short observation of European usages to learn that the ways of the old world were not our ways, and that what might lie fairly within the lines of order in the United States would be regarded there as a monstrous invasion of the proprieties.

Three or four days passed, and no response was given to my appeal. I began philosophically to set before myself the arguments against the likelihood that any attention would be paid to it, until I accidentally heard it stated that Wagner was not residing at the place to which my missive had been sent. Anxious to assure myself on this head, I called one afternoon at the designated number in Rue d'Aumale, simply to discover if I had been at first properly advised as to the direction. A slow-witted concièrge was so little inclined to supply information, vouchsafing only a half intelligible reference to the second floor, that I was compelled to enter and search for myself. Arriving at the indicated elevation, I put myself in communication with a doorkeeper of the most good-natured appearance, but who proved incapable of speaking or understanding more than half a dozen French sentences. To my inquiry if M. Wagner dwelt there, I could get no other answer than a demand for my card, which he would not vary, although I tried to explain that I did not wish to see anybody, but only to ascertain if that was M. Wagner's abode. As he would be content with nothing short of the card, I hesitatingly confided it to him, and was at once relieved and re-embarrassed when a business-like young man appeared and, happily in French, asked my errand. Once again I protested that I had no further errand than to learn if this were M. Wagner's veritable address, as I was in doubt about the delivery of a letter to him.

"This is the address," said he; "I will see if your letter has arrived."

Whereupon, in great discomfort, I reiterated my innocence of any design to intrude or to demand a reply, desiring merely to satisfy myself that there had been no error in transmission. He nevertheless insisted, and after absenting himself a moment, returned with a companion,—a short, middle-aged man, whose countenance struck me in the dim light of the corridor as of a peculiarly mild, not to say patient and tender cast, and whose profile gave me the suddenest quaint suggestion of the famous mountain outline in Franconia, New Hampshire. He looked attentively at me,—possibly, I afterward thought, to determine whether my petition had been genuine or not, for I learned that tickets had been in great demand, and that all sorts of devices had been employed to procure them, sometimes with dishonest views. While he gazed, I made a last effort with my thrice urged disavowal of intention to intrude, but stopped, more confused than ever when the new comer began to say, in a low and gentle voice:

"You are very welcome. You will please to excuse the failure to answer you, but we have been so much occupied. so much pressed. A note (billet) will reach you this evening."

I uttered some vague words of acknowledgment, to which he rejoined:

"There is no reason. Only you will excuse the omission to answer before. You will certainly receive a billet this evening."

I went away, not much questioning that I had spoken with Wagner, yet not altogether sure, for neither his appearance nor his manner of expressing himself corresponded with the harsh and tempestuous disposition generally ascribed to him. But the promise was fulfilled. The billet followed me home almost immediately;—a ticket of admission to the Opera for the following Sunday evening, accompanied by the composer's card. The ticket was similar to those issued for regular performances, and the hour of commencement was marked upon it. I received it with intense gratification, and indeed it was not long before I learned it was much more of a favor than I could have reasonably expected to obtain.

On the appointed evening, as I approached the familiar edifice in Rue Lepeletier, which I expected to find enveloped in the customary obscurity of an "off" night, I was astonished to see it illuminated quite as profusely as on ordinary public occasions. Fearing that a change had been made in the arrangements, I looked around the vestibule for some hint or warning, and noticed that the operation of ticket-selling was not in progress, and that the windows for that purpose were all closed. But the formalities of admission were preserved, and the passages within were under control of the usual corps of old ladies, best known to foreigners as footstool fiends. All this was strange enough, but the culmination came when the door to the stalls was thrown open and I entered the auditorium. The house was filled in every visible part, —absolutely overflowing,—and with one of the most "showy" audiences I ever saw united there. It differed from the assemblage of an important first representation only in the circumstance that it was already gathered and seated before the time of beginning. Never before had I seen the Opéra thus crowded at so early an hour. Most of the ladies in the lower tiers of boxes were in full dress. I was bewildered,—as I fancy anybody would have been, as ignorant as myself of the Parisian system of managing "private rehearsals," and accustomed to regard the preparatory labors of a theatre as surrounded by impenetrable mystery. The fact is, although I did not then realize it, that no work is considered ready for production at this thorough-going institution, unless the last dozen or so of rehearsals are sufficiently perfect to stand the test of critical scrutiny on the broadest scale; and the practice of permitting the élite of influence and position to be present on these occasions is not without advantages, in spite of certain inconveniences caused by too great an extension of the privilege. For my own part, I think there is much more to be said against than on behalf of it; but I ought to remember it leniently, for without it I should never have heard "Tannhäuser" in Paris, nor, at that period, would any other living soul.

It is not my purpose to speak too minutely of the performance. That it was finished, exact, and characterized by a degree of delicacy which I am compelled to believe could not have been rivalled, at that period, in any German theatre, those who can recall the productions of the Opéra in those days will be willing to credit. The orchestral support was superb. I have never elsewhere heard the quick movement of the overture played with equal spirit and energy. Under the firm guidance of M. Hain'l, the unified body of fourscore musicians, each one an undisputed master of his instrument, dashed through the imagery of witchcraft, seductive magic, knightly intrepidity, the storms of passion, and the wildness of despair, like a demoniac whirlwind. And thus it swayed that vast, and presumably intelligent, mass of listeners, who, not being "on guard," as it were, and knowing themselves free to follow their true impulses, unhindered by the fear of popular odium, broke forth into acclamations which seemed the presage of an almost certain victory for the composer in the near future. Nor can I recollect an instance when the fine march,—which needs a severity of treatment without which it degenerates into a swinging laziness fatal to dignity,—has resounded with nobler or more chivalrous expression. The chorus was not always what could be desired, but even these subordinate participants, probably most liable of all to demoralization from without, appeared to have been lifted to an approximate sense of their share in a demonstration of deeper meaning and more liberal promise than any of those in which they were habitually engaged. As to the principal vocalists, the sincerity and earnestness of their co-operation seemed to defy the most censorious scrutiny. I have heard and read many accusations of alleged treachery among them on the opening night, but I distrust the accuracy of charges based upon anything that took place upon the stage on that turbulent occasion. Throughout the evening of which I am now speaking, they were all that the author's most fastidious disciple could have desired. They were not all artists of the highest rank, but there were none without just pretensions to respectability of reputation and attainment, while some were qualified for the most honorable degree in their vocation. And their loyalty and honesty of endeavor were unswerving from beginning to end.

It was with much pleasure that I discovered, in the group of vocalists, the excellent baritone, Morelli. I had known him well, for several years, in America, where he had been a valuable member of almost every opera troupe since his arrival in the country with Madame La Grange. His name had been plainly before my eyes on the Paris programmes, but I had not thought of identifying my old acquaintance of the Italian stage with this favorite exponent of the French lyric drama. Had I been aware of his presence, the difficulty of ingress to the house would never have existed; but perhaps it had fallen out for the best. At any rate, if the easier and more usual path had been opened to me, I should not have been brought into personal contact with Wagner, nor would the material for this shadowy sketch of him ever have been collected.

During the intervals between the acts,—longer, even, at rehearsals than those which strain the patience on public nights, —I roamed about the building or lounged in the foyer, for a time indifferent to the buzz of conversation, but gradually attracted by the curious unanimity of disrespect with which the new work was alluded to. There was no necessity for listening. Every one spoke freely and unrestrainedly, and with a loudness which indicated an eagerness to intensify the general sentiment of hostility, and to bring about a species of tacit combination for offensive purposes. The spell which had, at periods, held a large proportion of the assemblage captive, was easily exorcised. Indeed, it must be admitted that it was only with exceptional parts of the opera that the auditors permitted themselves to be interested. To these few morceaux I heard no especial reference; but the condemnation was applied with a liberality as comprehensive as it was indiscriminate. Of reflecting criticism there was hardly a word. Sweeping abuse was more effective, as well as more convenient. Occasionally I passed small clusters of celebrities who had been pointed out to me, at odd times, as the monitors, or perhaps the manufacturers, of popular taste,—the autocratic feuilletonists of the press. Their tone was more subdued, but it was evident that they took delight in the manifestations of popular temper, which, it might be, they credited themselves with having mainly provoked. Among these gentlemen I descried an acquaintance—my only one, at that date, in Paris journalism,—M. V—, then a political writer for the Constitutionnel; later and at present, I believe, an art reviewer for numerous publications. We exchanged salutations, and in the course of a short conversation which followed, I begged him to give me an explanation of the unvarying and apparently blind and unreasoning antagonism displayed on all sides.

"Why," he said, "this is Paris, and that (indicating the stage) is Wagner.

"This is not the whole of Paris."

"No, and 'Tannhäuser' is not the whole of Wagner, unhappily."

"I wonder if it is all alike."

"The music of Wagner? Probably. If you mean Paris, certainly, on this question."

"As these people are admitted by courtesy," I said, "I should imagine a sense of obligation would restrain them; at least, while they remain in the house."

"Oh, I assure you the obligation is the other way. Think of their complacency in sitting through four hours of this savagery."

"Ah, it sounds like complacency; listen, M. V ."

"At all events," he answered laughing, "they are harmonious, and in that they set M. Wagner a good example."

"It seems to me like the harmony of a conspiracy."

"Oh, that is too strong; we are not so bad as that."

"Yes, a safe conspiracy;—a whole city against one stranger. Tell me, M. V , is this really a foretaste of what is to happen on the first night?"

"Well, the Opéra is not in my province, now; you should ask Fiorentino."

"I do not know M. Fiorentino."

"Take it less seriously, M. H you are not a friend of M. Wagner, I presume."

"I am not sure that I ever saw him."

"Well, I will tell you the truth; what you behold here, now, is the most perfect calm, the sweetest serenity, an angelic repose, compared with what is in preparation for next month. The fact that this evening's visitors come by invitation does keep them within certain bounds. Moreover, it is a very superior gathering, an audience too polite to overstep good feeling. Yes, you may smile; but wait till you see how it will be when the public has bought the right to assert its opinion,— when the place is thronged with a host of merry fellows who come with something to say, and whom the devil could not stop from saying it. Oh, the performance will be on this side of the curtain, not on the other, on that night. A thousand voices, all singing the same song. Not much chance for M. Wagner's mediæval heroes, I apprehend."