tic truth, and symphonic beauty
and cohesion. The flood sweeps on, undisturbed in its flow by the
entry of the other deities, or by the introduction of themes full of
significance in the light of their after development. But another fact
must not go unnoticed. There is in the _Rhinegold_ little of the
spring freshness of the _Valkyrie_. The melody associated with
Freia's apples is supremely beautiful; but it is a mere short phrase,
several times repeated, and the mass of music in which it is embedded
smells more of the study and the lamp than of the mountains and the
woods. The Froh theme, too, is a trifle flat: it does not effervesce
or sparkle: the "dewy splendour" of the _Valkyrie_ music is not on it.
This is not to be hypercritical: it is to compare, as one must, a
great achievement with an achievement in all respects very much,
immeasurably, greater. Had we only the _Rhinegold_, with all its
plentiful lack of inspiration and its theatricality, it would rank
very high; but Wagner himself in the _Valkyrie_ set the standard by
which inevitably it must be judged.

When Wotan and Loge descend to the Nibelung's cave to steal the
treasure Wagner frankly lets himself loose. Here we have the
hobgoblins of the Teutonic imagination and the rude, boisterous,
humorous Wotan of the Scandinavian imagination--the Odin who tried to
drink the sea dry and laughed to find he could not. As the
once-celebrated Sir Augustus Harris declared, "This is pantomime."
Perhaps the scene is unduly protracted, but the music goes on merrily
enough. The renewed altercation with the Giants calls for little
remark. When, however, the Giants demand the Ring and Wotan calls up
Erda, the wisdom of the earth, a passage occurs which, though more or
less of an irrelevant interpolation, gives Wagner a chance of putting
forth his strength. Erda rises to most mysterious music, counsels
Wotan to surrender the Ring, and sinks down again to her sleep; and
one forgets the irrelevancy in the thrill of this vision of the Mother
Earth, the spirit that sleeps amongst the everlasting hills. Finally
the composer gets his great chance, and shows that, like Handel and
his own Donner, he "could strike like a thunderbolt." The gods are all
disheartened; mists have gathered; Donner--our old friend Thor--raises
his hammer and smashes something; there is a flash of lightning and a
peal of thunder; the mists and clouds clear away; and we see there the
rainbow bridge over which