inquishing first of Siegmund,
and his hope in Siegmund, then of Bruennhilde)--but incidentally the
tragedy of Siegmund's life and his death, of Siegmund's loneliness and
of Bruennhilde's downfall; and at least one of the scenic effects--the
fire at the end--was thrown in to relieve the pervading gloom, and in
obedience to Wagner's acute sense of the wild beauty of the old
legend, rather than to illustrate and assist the drama. It is sheer
spectacle, but how magnificent compared with that older type of
spectacle which chiefly consisted of brass bands and ladies
insufficiently clothed! "Siegfried," on the other hand, contains no
tragedy save the destruction of a little vermin. It is the most
glorious assertion ever made of the joy and splendour and infinite
beauty to be found in life by those who possess the courage to go
through it in their own way, and have the overflowing vitality and
strength to create their own world as they go. Siegfried is the
embodiment of the divine energy that makes life worth living; and in
the scenery, as in the tale and the music of the opera, nothing is
left out that could help to give us a vivid and lasting impression of
the beauty, freshness, strangeness, and endless interest of life. Take
the first scene--the cave with the dull red forge--fires smouldering
in the black darkness, and the tools of the smith's trade scattered
about, and, seen through the mouth of the cave, all the blazing
colours of the sunlit forest; or again the second--the darkness, then
the dawn and the sunrise, and lastly the full glory of the summer day
near Fafner's hole in a mysterious haunted corner of the forest; or
the third--a far-away nook in the hills, where the spirit of the earth
slumbers everlastingly; or the final scene--the calm morning on
Bruennhilde's fell, the flames fallen, and all things transfigured and
made remote by the enchantment of lingering mists,--these scenes form
a background for the dramatic action such as no composer dreamed of
before, nor will dream of again until we cease to dwell in dusty stone
cities and learn once again to know nature and her greatest moods as
our forefathers knew them. Had Wagner not lived in Switzerland and
gone his daily walks amongst the mountains, the "Ring" might have been
written; but certainly it would have been written very differently,
and probably not half so well.

I have so often insisted on the pictorial power of Wagner's music,
that, save for one quali