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the deliberate process of learning to like it--then he would have his sure

       reward; for when he had learned to like it he would hunger for it and never be able to get enough of it. She said that six hours of Wagner was by no means too much. She said that this composer had made a complete revolution in music and was burying the old masters one by one. And

       she said that Wagner's operas differed from all others in one notable respect, and that was that they were not merely spotted with music here

       and there, but were ALL music, from the first strain to the last. This

       surprised me. I said I had attended one of his insurrections, and found hardly ANY music in it except the Wedding Chorus. She said "Lohengrin" was noisier than Wagner's other operas, but that if I would keep on

       going to see it I would find by and by that it was all music, and

       therefore would then enjoy it. I COULD have said, "But would you advise a person to deliberately practice having a toothache in the pit of his stomach for a couple of years in order that he might then come to enjoy it?" But I reserved that remark.

       This lady was full of the praises of the head-tenor who had performed in a Wagner opera the night before, and went on to enlarge upon his old and prodigious fame, and how many honors had been lavished upon him by the princely houses of Germany. Here was another surprise. I had attended

       that very opera, in the person of my agent, and had made close and

       accurate observations. So I said:

       "Why, madam, MY experience warrants me in stating that that tenor's

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       voice is not a voice at all, but only a shriek--the shriek of a hyena."

       "That is very true," she said; "he cannot sing now; it is already many years that he has lost his voice, but in other times he sang, yes,

       divinely! So whenever he comes now, you shall see, yes, that the theater

       will not hold the people. JAWOHL BEI GOTT! his voice is WUNDERSCHOEN in that past time."

       I said she was discovering to me a kindly trait in the Germans which was worth emulating. I said that over the water we were not quite so generous; that with us, when a singer had lost his voice and a jumper had lost his legs, these parties ceased to draw. I said I had been to

       the opera in Hanover, once, and in Mannheim once, and in Munich (through my authorized agent) once, and this large experience had nearly persuaded me that the Germans PREFERRED singers who couldn't sing. This was not such a very extravagant speech, either, for that burly Mannheim

       tenor's praises had been the talk of all Heidelberg for a week before

       his performance took place--yet his voice was like the distressing noise which a nail makes when you screech it across a window-pane. I said so to Heidelberg friends the next day, and they said, in the calmest and simplest way, that that was very true, but that in earlier times his

       voice HAD been wonderfully fine. And the tenor in Hanover was just

       another example of this sort. The English-speaking German gentleman who went with me to the opera there was brimming with enthusiasm over that tenor. He said:

       "ACH GOTT! a great man! You shall see him. He is so celebrate in all

       Germany--and he has a pension, yes, from the government. He not obliged

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       to sing now, only twice every year; but if he not sing twice each year they take him his pension away."

       Very well, we went. When the renowned old tenor appeared, I got a nudge

       and an excited whisper:

       "Now you see him!"

       But the "celebrate" was an astonishing disappointment to me. If he

       had been behind a screen I should have supposed they were performing a surgical operation on him. I looked at my friend--to my great surprise

       he seemed intoxicated with pleasure, his eyes were dancing with eager delight. When the curtain at last fell, he burst into the stormiest

       applause, and kept it up--as did the whole house--until the afflictive

       tenor had come three times before the curtain to make his bow. While the

       glowing enthusiast was swabbing the perspiration from his face, I said:

       "I don't mean the least harm, but really, now, do you think he can sing?"

       "Him? NO! GOTT IM HIMMEL, ABER, how he has been able to sing twenty-five

       years ago?" [Then pensively.] "ACH, no, NOW he not sing any more, he only cry. When he think he sing, now, he not sing at all, no, he only

       make like a cat which is unwell."

       Where and how did we get the idea that the Germans are a stolid, phlegmatic race? In truth, they are widely removed from that. They are warm-hearted, emotional, impulsive, enthusiastic, their tears come at

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       the mildest touch, and it is not hard to move them to laughter. They are the very children of impulse. We are cold and self-contained, compared

       to the Germans. They hug and kiss and cry and shout and dance and sing; and where we use one loving, petting expression, they pour out a score. Their language is full of endearing diminutives; nothing that they love escapes the application of a petting diminutive--neither the house, nor

       the dog, nor the horse, nor the grandmother, nor any other creature, animate or inanimate.

       In the theaters at Hanover, Hamburg, and Mannheim, they had a wise custom. The moment the curtain went up, the light in the body of the house went down. The audience sat in the cool gloom of a deep twilight, which greatly enhanced the glowing splendors of the stage. It saved gas, too, and people were not sweated to death.

       When I saw "King Lear" played, nobody was allowed to see a scene shifted; if there was nothing to be done but slide a forest out of the way and expose a temple beyond, one did not see that forest split itself

       in the middle and go shrieking away, with the accompanying disenchanting spectacle of the hands and heels of the impelling impulse--no, the

       curtain was always dropped for an instant--one heard not the least movement behind it--but when it went up, the next instant, the forest was gone. Even when the stage was being entirely reset, one heard no noise. During the whole time that "King Lear" was playing the curtain was never down two minutes at any one time. The orchestra played until

       the curtain was ready to go up for the first time, then they departed

       for the evening. Where the stage waits never reach two minutes there is

       no occasion for music. I had never seen this two-minute business between acts but once before, and that was when the "Shaughraun" was played at

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       Wallack's.

       I was at a concert in Munich one night, the people were streaming in, the clock-hand pointed to seven, the music struck up, and instantly

       all movement in the body of the house ceased--nobody was standing, or walking up the aisles, or fumbling with a seat, the stream of incomers had suddenly dried up at its source. I listened undisturbed to a piece

       of music that was fifteen minutes long--always expecting some tardy

       ticket-holders to come crowding past my knees, and being continuously and pleasantly disappointed--but when the last note was struck, here came the stream again. You see, they had made those late comers wait in the comfortable waiting-parlor from the time the music had begun until it was ended.

       It was the first time I had ever seen this sort of criminals denied the privilege of destroying the comfort of a house full of their betters. Some of these were pretty fine birds, but no matter, they had to tarry outside in the long parlor under the inspection of a double rank of liveried footmen and waiting-maids who supported the two walls with

       their backs and held the wraps and traps of their masters and mistresses on

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