Probably one reason why it was so long before Wagner achieved anything like general success outside of Germany lay in the misuse of the word “opera,” and also in the fact that his dramas were brought out in theatres intimately associated with works of less lofty aspirations. Smart ladies, mounted in diamonds, and white-waistcoated dandies, had been accustomed to listen entranced to lovely, if somewhat sugary, melodies threaded like pearls on strings of recitative, during which conversation and flirtation were not only permitted but expected. They came to hear Wagner looking for the same musical diet, and were disappointed. They expected to hear Wotan grind out barrel-organ tunes, or Brünnhilde declare with many trills that she is “vergine vezzosa.” The dignified declamation of Wagner’s heroes and heroines was lost upon them. Philistia was bored and showed it. At first they did not realize the fact that a work like the _Ring des Nibelungen_ is one comprehensive whole, of which one part separated from the rest tells no tale. They know better now; yet even to-day people go into raptures over one portion of the _Ring_ without hearing what has gone before or what is to follow. They believe that they have heard a Wagner “opera.” The great tragedy of Wotan is missed. _Lohengrin_, with its romantic and beautiful poem, took the fancy of the English public much more readily. _Tristan_ too became a favourite; but I have often wondered whether the _Meistersinger_, in spite of the noble character of the poet-shoemaker Hans Sachs, has ever quite appealed to nine-tenths of the Covent Garden audience. But at any rate Wagner has become the fashion, and it is now essential to good breeding and a reputation for culture that he should be received as The great master—always, be it understood, of “opera.” Yet for the reasons at which I have hinted I rather doubt the sincerity of the adoration which is expressed. Dr. Johnson once said, “No man is a hypocrite in his pleasures”; had Dr. Johnson seen the tiaras and the white waistcoats displaying their nobility in the boxes and stalls of Covent Garden he might have seen fit to modify his opinion. At Bayreuth things are very different: the sincerity of the audience is almost as striking as the beauty of the performance. A drama given in the Fest-Spiel house is no mere theatrical entertainment; it is more like a religious ceremony. The people standing outside the building, like a congregation in some country churchyard waiting for service to begin, are very quiet, speaking little, and that little in hushed voices, tuning themselves to the diapason of the solemn feast which is in store for them. When the doors are opened they troop in silently, and reverently take their places. There is no chatter; if speech be needed it is in a whisper. The audience—worshippers would be a better word—sit in rapt contemplation, waiting for the ceremony to begin.