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Hollander.' Among the audience you could not have helped noticing that the Teutonic element was very strongly represented. Germans

from all parts of the metropolis seemed to have turned out en masse to salute with patriotic plaudits the great composer who hailed from the fatherland. At last the curtain rose; the public in general set itself closely to attend; the ubiquitously talkative young lady in the stalls listened with bated breath to the harmonies which broke over her astounded ear; the critics settled down to their work with desperate resolution; a universal grin of delight ran round each Teutonic visage. Long before the first act was over it was manifest that Mr. Mapleson's experiment was a success, and that Richard Wagner had approved himself to an audience, which is said to be the most critical in the world. It was worth making considerable exertions to pierce your way through the heaving mass of humanity, which, on that swelteringly hot night, blocked the entrance from the theatre itself into the corridors and crushrooms of old Drury, if only to hear the criticisms that were passed in subdued tones on the performance, of which an instalment had just been witnessed, and to see the effusive manner in which German rushed to German, with much mutual wringing of hands, chattering of patriotic congratulations, mitigated by surprisingly copious compotations of the newly-introduced Vienna Bier. As for the professed critics, they shook their heads with an anxious air. You asked for their opinion on what was styled the 'music of the future,' and they prudently withheld it. The reticence of the critics on such occasions as these is wonderful; as Victor Hugo said of his enemy, the fallen Emperor, Their silence is their strength.' Well, it was Saturday evening: in the course of Sunday there would be ample time for these gentlemen to collect the opinions of the different circles of discriminating friends severally at their disposal, and thus at any rate to be able to present to their readers on the following Monday something

approximating to an intelligible view of what was at present an incomprehensible chaos of harmonies, or a blended series of dissonances. The audience left the theatre that night in a frame of admiration indeed, and fully convinced that they had been listening to the composition of a superb master; but into both that admiration and that conviction there was so much of puzzled wonderment which entered, that there was something genuinely comic in the net result of the sentiment.

This was, as has been said, the first occasion on which Wagner had ever been placed before an English public. His name had been familiar, and most persons knew that he bore the character of being the most audacious innovator who had ever burst into the region of melody. On the Continent, however, not merely his own compatriots but the French had long been intimately acquainted with his music. It had furnished for a considerable while material for general conversation, and a very catholic kind of criticism. The sensation which it had created was profound, and it seemed to pervade all classes. An historian of the middle ages tells us that on riding into a normally quiet, sleepy German town one summer evening, he was surprised to find the entire place in an uproar. On inquiry, he found that one of the inhabitants of the ultra-nominalist persuasion had been bold enough to proclaim publicly his total disbelief in the existence of Universals. This was nothing more than a defiant challenge to the opposite faction, the Realists, and the free fight which astonished our traveller was the result. The present disastrous war bas familiarized us with the fact that the British workman, if he has enough beer, will advocate his Prussian or Gallic sympathies, as the case may be, with bludgeons and with blows. Musical criticism is not likely to urge him to similar extremes of enthusiasm. Yet abroad the police have more than once had to interfere between two honest fellows clad in serge and blouse, who, in the course of a conver

sation on the merits of Wagner's music, had allowed themselves to be carried to an excess of earnestness, and to support their views by the argumentum ad bacculum. In Paris itself the public concerts are often turned into battle-fields by the intensity of sentiment which the Wagnerians and anti-Wagnerians allow themselves to manifest; fêtes converted into fights, and feasts of harmony into orgies of uproar. In Bavaria a monarch is looked upon as more than half mad on account of his enthusiasm for Herr Wagner's harmonies, and certain singers and orchestra singers as entirely so.

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La musique ou plutôt le tintamarre de Wagner-such is the profane expression by which the compositions of the great master were designated by the mob of Paris. In the case of 'Der Fliegende Hollander,' the operatic critics of London were somewhat puzzled how to deliver themselves, and the result of this hesitation was a charming variety of contradictory opinions. We are very far from pretending to be competent to pronounce an opinion perfectly satisfactory or exhaustive on the subject; but it is not difficult to discern the chief elements of the revolution which Wagner is creating, or endeavouring to create in the musical world. Operas in general, and certain Italian operas in particular, consist of little more than a series of airs and songs strung together by any convenient machinery which may come most readily to hand. Wagner, on the other hand, aims at the entire abolition of the air, the duet, and trio, as so many separate and severable pieces of music, seeking to blend the whole opera into one long continuous strain of harmony. The generally received opinion of the functions and final end of all operas, is, that they are nothing more than concerts, for which the drama is the merest pretext. It is this idea which Wagner pronounces to be based on a fallacy, and founded on an utter misconception musical art, that the great operatic innovator is especially bitter in combating. The several elements of an opera, the scenic, the poetic,

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and the musical, should be in perfect equality and fusion.

Scientific criticism of the principles of musical art in general, or of Wagner's music in particular, is not our purpose. There is quite enough to interest and amuse in the life and character, sayings and doings, of the man without any forced efforts at instruction. That the belief in Wagner which his partisans entertain is enormous, has been already said. He is regarded by them as little less than divine, and he has certainly achieved an influence over them which is, to say the least of it, extraordinary. The stories which are related of the great man through the length and breadth of Germany are sufficiently entertaining, and probably sufficiently little known to bear repetition here. Richard Wagner is scarcely more than a middle-aged man, having been born at Leipsic in 1813. Unlike many great musical composers, he is possessed of high literary powers and very varied literary knowledge-endowments for which he is probably indebted to the fact that he was educated at Dresden when that University was in the zenith of its renown, and could boast of a staff of professors not to be surpassed in Europe. His genius was emphatically precocious. He is said at one time to have contemplated the enforcement of certain metaphysical tenets by operatic effects; and there is still extant the rough musical score of the harmony with which he proposed to illustrate the episode of Aristous and his bees in the Georgics. Victor Hugo, with that glaring disregard of actual facts which is characteristic of all his magnificent abstractions and splendid generalization, has declared that in the development of the world's poetry there are three stages of progress-first comes the lyric, then the epic or historic, then the dramatic. As a rule of general application, there is no truth in this dogma; the Psalms of David were penned long after the book of Genesis, and Homer was dead and buried before Anacreon twanged his lyre. In the case, however, of

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Wagner, Hugo's theory would accidentally prove correct, for his earliest efforts were on the lyric stage. In 1835, when its composer was only twenty-two years of age, the Novice of Palermo' was produced. Unlike most first pieces of young and ambitious authors, who, though they fail at first, are destined afterwards to prove distinguished, it was a success. Henceforth, farewell to literature as a career. must be confessed that Wagner was somewhat indebted for his success in starting to good fortune. There was an opening in Europe for an entirely novel species of music, provided that music was brilliant. Wagner saw the opportunity, and prognosticating a career took advantage of his opportunity. He was appointed musical director of the Theatre Royal, Dresden, and it was while he held this post that the opera which has introduced him to the English—' Der Fliegende Hollander'-was composed and put upon the stage. A magnificent, comprehensive, and unlimited ambition has been the distinguishing mark of Wagner's career. Не wished to be great, and he realized the truth that the greatest man is he who can influence his fellowmen in the greatest number of ways. From the successes which he had already achieved in music, he knew what he could do with the instrumentality of harmony. But this was not enough, and there is reason to believe that Wagner at this period of his life looked forward to combining the triumphs of the statesman with those of the musician. However this may be, he identified himself at an early period very closely with the interests of the liberal party in Germany, and rendered them, on more occasions than one, assistance of the most material kind. His presence was at last considered dangerous to the state. During the general political tempest of 1848, which found an echo even in Saxony, the feeling against Wagner was so strong that he was compelled to seek refuge in Switzerland. It was in the course of this period of what was practically poli

tical exile, that he allowed literature again to attract his attention, and wrote and published several books which considerably augmented his fame- The Theatre in Zurich,' Art and the Revolution,' "The Art of the Future,' 'The Opera and the Drama,' and, we believe, a whole host of minor pamphlets. Subsequently he went to Munich. In 1855 he undertook the direction of the concerts given by the London Philharmonic Society. To his native Saxony he has never returned. Most of his days have been passed in Switzerland or in Bavaria, whose king, 'the fairy prince,' is his intimate and admirer.

The mere fact that King Louis II. has won this popular appellation may give us some notice of the nature of the man. Of all sufferers from what has been spoken of as the 'Wagnerian fever,' the monarch of Bavaria has assuredly experienced it in its severest form. His education and training may certainly be considered to have predisposed him to it in no small degree. Given a temperament to the highest degree romantic and poetical, suffered in early childhood to indulge to the utmost each one of its most fanciful whims, to choose its own intellectual food, and its own imaginative recreations, and we shall scarcely be surprised at any result that may ensue. When this young and princely dreamer was called to the throne, it is not wonderful that he should have seen an opportunity rather for the unbridled gratification of each fantasy and humour than for the display of administrative power or executive skill. To music he had always been madly attached, and to the delights of music, instead of to the cares of state, he determined wholly to surrender himself. How far the various stories which are related touching the Fairy Prince are actually true, it is impossible to say, but the mere facts which would give colour and plausibility to the fictions, supposing them to be such, must be of a very exceptional character.

The king was one of the earliest

of Wagner's admirers. He was enraptured with the music; he decided that he must know the composer; Wagner was brought to his majesty, and his majesty went into ecstacies over the composer as well as over his music. The friend

ship and intimacy which at present exist between the two, certainly form one of the most curious leagues on record. When he was first called to the throne it was the utmost pang to King Louis II. even partially to abandon his devotion to the art of music. Even now, whatever hours he can steal from public affairs are wholly absorbed by his favourite pursuit. State papers may want to be signed, ministers may knock at his door, but ere the monarch will attend either to state papers or ministers, he will drink his fill of ecstatic harmonies. Whether or not the Bavarian sovereign is a believer in the divine right of kings, he is certainly a believer in the divine right of Wagner. He does homage to him himself, and exacts from all those round the deepest measure of respect towards the God-made master.' There are times-and they are not infrequent -- when King Louis will disappear altogether from palace, parliament, and each 'cold formality of court.' But his ministers know where to look for him. They search, and lo their sovereign is found playing and singing in the company of Wagner near some murmuring waterfall or in the shadowy seclusion of some woodland work. Only a few years since, so runs the story-and there is no reason to disbelieve it-the royal signature was imperatively essential to a certain document, on which hinged a state transaction of the profoundest importance. As usual, the king was invisible. At last, the ministers were obliged to make their way vi et armis to the private apartments of their monarch. The king had locked himself up with Wagner, and the ministers standing outside the door could hear the noise of instruments and the sound of voices. Axe and crowbar had at last to be applied, and the ministers were at last in the

royal presence. The sight was sufficiently startling. There, in full theatrical costume, stood King Louis II., singing a leading part in one of Wagner's operas, utterly unconscious of the quest that was being made. The wheel of Ixion stood still under the influence of the melodies of Orpheus, but the Bavarian courtiers refused to remain stationary or to ignore their business under the influence of the melodies of their sovereign.

To scenic effect his majesty, as the true disciple of the Wagnerian school, attaches the utmost importance, and upon all points of scenic effect he is accordingly fanatical. But it is not enough for him that at the Grand Opera at Munich everything is planned and executed upon a scale of colossal splendour. The decorations of the stage, as well as its poetic accompaniments, are introduced into the every-day life of the king. In Wagner's opera of Tannhäuser,' certain scenes were gorgeously illuminated by a most perfectly contrived artificial moon. With the effect of this the monarch was so enraptured that he straightway incontinently ordered a similar moon of exactly identical construction to be provided in his own sleeping apartment for himself, ready for immediate use whenever required. Unlike the spoilt child, his Majesty did not cry for the moon in vain, and the order was immediately executed. Thus, whenever the veritable planet failed, through neglect of duty, to pour her silver rays upon the couch of Louis II., a lime-light transparency, outrivalling in shape and splendour the veritable original Diana, is at once ignited. It is well to know that the effect is said to be 'entirely satisfactory.'

All this sounds extravagant and improbable enough, but it is simply rationalistic when compared with other instances and achievements, actual or fictitious, of the Fairy Prince. No doubt the mythical overlies the real; but when we have made all due deductions on this score we get a surprising substratum of what there is every reason to suppose to be truth. Amongst other anec

dotes that are currently related and universally accepted of this marvellous monarch, it is said that he conceived not long since the idea of ascending real mountains in the same fashion that in the scenes of a pantomime fairies and elves are represented as hovering in mid air over imaginary summits, canvas rocks, and oil-painted grottoes. On or near the top of a certain hill, close to the royal palace, stands a fantastically-decorated cottage, whither Louis II. is in the habit of betaking himself for peace, quiet, and solitude when he is over-dazzled with the garish splendour of the world, or when he has suffered himself to be overburthened with the desperate anxieties of state. Pondering one afternoon in this tranquil retreat he became possessed with the idea that to mount to it after the fashion of ordinary mortals, by the stern route of pedestrianism, was altogether unworthy of the dignity of a king, much more of the chosen associate of Wagner. He had seen on the stage the celestially facile manner in which the angels of air are wafted through the heavens. Why not emulate their sublime example?

A stage mechanist of great repute was immediately summoned and consulted. Could he suggest any plan by which his Majesty could transport himself aloft as cherubim and seraphim? or, failing that, might he not be shot up the mountain on the same principle that the clown is shot down the trap-door in a pantomime at the most appropriate moment? The story is an excellent one in its way; but it fails in one particular-the mechanist pronounced himself entirely unable to devise the desired means of locomotion.

It would be possible to multiply in endless succession such anecdotes as these. We will content ourselves with one or two more. When Wagner was occupying a certain particular residence in the neighbourhood of the palace, the king frequently found it convenient to cross a lake. An ordinary ferryboat or even a gilded gondola, it occurred to him, was decidedly

commonplace. There was no doubt that it would be very much more poetical to transport himself across the waters in the same way that theatrical Neptune conveyed himself across the muslin billows of the opera stage. King Louis at once called for a cockle-shell chariot and sea-horses to match. It was a sufficiently easy matter to construct the former, and a little ingenuity served to provide the latter. The only objection was that anything like spontaneous action was found an impossibility. A pair of steeds, manufactured of cork, were provided, drawn along by ropes, which men walking along the shore dragged.

Nero fiddled while Rome was on fire. Given the company of Wag ner, and there is not the slightest doubt that King Louis of Bavaria would suffer every brick in Munich to be consumed while he sang. Heliogabalus fed his favourite charger out of a golden manger on gilded oats; it is a fact that Wagner's royal friend is in the habit of having his horse led into his dining-room, stationing him at the right hand, and feeding him from his own plate. It may seem difficult to credit these stories; yet they are nothing more than what are currently reported and believed by the subjects of his eccentric majesty. In view of these factsand facts they are-it will scarcely be considered wonderful that the Bavarians are, as a rule, becoming somewhat dissatisfied with their abstracted and inattentive monarch. Still the personal popularity of the king is considerable: his youth is extreme, and these two facts are accepted as an adequate excuse for an unlimited amount of monarchical folly. It is also perhaps somewhat of a fortunate accident that the Bavarians happen to entertain a special enthusiasm towards the royal family. It was the father of the present king, who, among other demonstrations of an analogous character, received the strangest and most probably the strongest proof of devotion that was ever given to a sovereign. The particular regiment of the Grenadier Guards known as Des Deux Ponts

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