I have never forgotten this incident, and I have seemed later to see in this sudden movement of anger, which roused my young conscience to indignation in so singular a manner, a sort of presentiment, --something which premonished me that one day I should become a passionate admirer of this artist, whose name I now heard for the first time. It seems evident that, at the moment when a new genius reveals itself, a little group of chosen mortals springs to life, called to form about him a devoted company to defend him, to console him for all but universal hatred, to sustain him in his agonies, all the while upholding the divinity of his inspirations. It was doubtless my vocation to become a disciple of this new hero, to understand and believe in him, for I was influenced by no one. One day chance placed in my hands the score of the Flying Dutchman. My music teacher, who hired music at Flaxland's, had taken this volume, among others, without knowing its contents, and left it with me until the next lesson, as it was inconveniently burdensome. I had profited little by my lessons, and was a most indifferent pianist; notwithstanding which, after having deciphered in the most incomplete and crude manner this unknown score, I was entirely overcome, and in spite of my numberless mistakes, the grandeur and meaning of this music were revealed to me by a sort of intuition. I could not be persuaded to leave the piano; I became infatuated, and my friends tried in vain to get the score out of my hands. From this moment Richard Wagner had one more faithful disciple. When, in 1868, I wrote several articles upon his works, I had still a very imperfect knowledge of them from more or less satisfactory executions upon the piano and desultory fragments heard at the popular concerts. I was much alarmed at my own audacity, after having addressed these articles to Wagner, then at Lucerne, accompanied by a letter, begging him to aid me kindly with his advice for their correction and completion. I hoped and waited for an answer with extreme anxiety: would it come? I could not believe it, and yet I could think of nothing else. I could hardly sleep, and as each morning passed, and the messenger brought nothing, my heart filled with anguish. One day, however, I spied the Lucerne postmark upon an envelope addressed in an unknown hand, which I immediately recognized as remarkable.