No, give to me my Engelbert, my gentle Humperdinck, Whose cerebral development is void of any kink; Who represents in music, in the most enchanting light, That good old German quality, to wit _Gemüthlichkeit_. I love his gift of melody, now homely in its vein, Now rising, as befits his theme, to the celestial plane; I love the rich orchestral tide that carries you along; I love the cunning counterpoint that underpins the song. Though scientific pedagogues that golden realm have banned, He leads us back by pleasant paths to childhood's fairyland, Till, bald and grey and middle-aged, we watch with childish glee The very games we learned long since at our dead mother's knee. * * * * * There's not a bar of _Hänsel's_ part that's not exactly right; There's not a note from _Gretel_ that's not a pure delight; And having heard it lately for (I think) the fifteenth time, I know I'm talking reason though it happens to be rhyme. Then let us thank our lucky stars that in a squalid age, When horror, blood, and ugliness so many pens engage, One of our master-minstrels, by fashion unbeguiled, Keeps the unclouded vision of a tender-hearted child. The sequel is curious, for while the gentle Humperdinck signed the anti-British manifesto issued at the outbreak of the War by leading German professors, men of science and artists, the name of Strauss was conspicuously absent. And as I write Strauss, middle-aged and grey, is revisiting London and, no longer in the van of musical progress, is regarded by our emancipated critics not exactly as a "back number" but certainly as very far from being the "Mad Mullah" of music. Even before the War German operatic music had been superseded in popularity by the Russian school. In June, 1914, Moussorgsky's _Boris Godounov_ was the great feature of the season, and to this, as to Borodine's _Prince Igor_, Chaliapine, in _Punch's_ phrase, "brought that gift of the great manner, that ease and splendour of bearing, and those superb qualities of voice which, found together, give him a place apart from his kind." In the domain of light and comic opera the severance of the Gilbert and Sullivan partnership, though a personal reconciliation was effected, was final so far as collaboration was concerned. Composer and librettist both formed new or renewed old associations--Gilbert with Cellier in _The Mountebanks_, and Sullivan with Burnand in _The Chieftain_--but without repeating their old triumphs. When Sullivan died in 1900 his services to art and humanity are read aright in _Punch's_ memorial stanzas:-- In the immortal music rolled from earth He was content to claim a lowly part, Yet leaves us purer by the grace and mirth, Human, that cling about the common heart.