The man Faust was a German; but the musical part Faust seems better suited to an Italian or a Frenchman. Indeed, some say that, as a rule, the German genius excels in creation and the Italian in representation or interpretation. For my part, I am unable to judge nations in the lump, as some fine fellows do, because nations are composed of very different individuals, and I know only one to the million; but I do take on me to say that the individual Herr who executed Doctor Faustus at Homburg that night had everything to learn, except what he had to unlearn. His person was obese; his delivery of the words was mouthing, chewing, and gurgling; and he uttered the notes in tune, but without point, pathos, or passion; a steady lay-clerk from York or Durham Cathedral would have done a little better, because he would have been no colder at heart, and more exact in time, and would have sung clean; whereas this gentleman set his windpipe trembling, all through the business, as if palsy were passion. By what system of leverage such a man came to be hoisted on to such a pinnacle of song as “Faust” puzzled our English friends in front as much as it did the Anglo-Danish artist at the wing; for English girls know what is what in opera. The Marguerite had a voice of sufficient compass, and rather sweet, though thin. The part demands a better _actress_ than Patti, and this Fraulein was not half as good: she put on the painful grin of a prize-fighter who has received a staggerer, and grinned all through the part, though there is little in it to grin at. She also suffered by having to play to a Faust milked of his poetry, and self-smitten with a _tremolo_ which, as I said before, is the voice of palsy, and is not, nor ever was, nor ever will be, the voice of passion. Bless your heart, passion is a manly thing, a womanly thing, a grand thing, not a feeble, quavering, palsied, anile, senile thing. Learn that, ye trembling, quavering idiots of song! “They let me down,” whispered Ina Klosking to her faithful Ashmead. “I feel all out of tune. I shall never be able. And the audience so cold. It will be like singing in a sepulcher.” “What would you think of them, if they applauded?” said Ashmead. “I should say they were good, charitable souls, and the very audience I shall want in five minutes.” “No, no,” said Ashmead, “all you want is a discriminating audience; and this is one. Remember they have all seen Patti in Marguerite. Is it likely they would applaud this tin stick?” Ina turned the conversation with feminine quickness. “Mr. Ashmead, have you kept your promise; my name is not in the programme?” “It is not; and a great mistake too.” “I have not been announced by name in any way?” “No. But, of course, I have nursed you a bit.” “Nursed me? What is that? Oh, what have you been doing? No _charlatanerie,_ I hope.” “Nothing of the kind,” said Ashmead, stoutly; “only the regular business.”