had been the victim of unprovoked personal attacks in the Jew-controlled press, and some of the worst of these can be traced to Jew scribblers.  Yet on the publication of Judaism in Music in the Neue Zeitschrift fuer Musik, a wail went up from these journalistic descendants of Elijah; and several prominent Jew musicians signed and presented to the authorities of the Leipzig conservatoire of music a petition praying that Brendel (the editor who published the essay) might be dismissed from his post in the conservatoire.  These underhand tactics put the Jews out of court.  Nevertheless, Wagner’s essay was a bad mistake.  It is bad science, bad history, bad argument; it did no person, no cause, any good, and it worked a very great deal of harm.

Wagner was at his best when writing about music or about musicians he had known.  A paper on Spontini, belonging to this period (Spontini died in 1851), has a pleasant, generous note; and the account of the pompous old gentleman’s visit to Dresden a few years previous is amusingly lifelike.  The Communication to my Friends, a trifle egotistical, is still full of interest.  The article on musical criticism is not so good as it might have been.  Wagner had the utmost contempt for the ordinary press criticism of the day:  with that sort of thing, he wrote Uhlig, one could not tempt the cat from behind the stove.  He knew what criticism should not be, but when he came to what it should be his view was warped by the obsession that pure music had reached its boundaries, and the future of music was involved with the future of the music-drama.  When his prejudices were not aroused, he himself was the greatest critic who has lived:  his programmes of the Choral and Eroica Symphonies are masterpieces in their kind; and his analysis of the Iphigenia in Aulis overture can never be surpassed.  Stage-managers have found his directions for the performing of Tannhaeuser, Lohengrin and the Dutchman invaluable; they are also sometimes read by conductors, and should be read by singers.  They show how in composing his operas Wagner meant every note he put to paper:  the most minute fibres of the musical growth are alive, a living part of the organism.

III

“I shall probably never come back to Germany.”  So wrote Wagner from Paris on March 2, 1855, to his friend Wilhelm Fischer, stage-manager and chorus-master at the Dresden opera.  Wagner was then on his way to London to direct a series of Philharmonic concerts.  “It was a great piece of folly for me to come to London....”  So wrote Wagner from London to Fischer a little—­perhaps a month—­later.  It was, says Mr. J.S.  Shedlock in his admirable translation of the Letters to Dresden Friends, “an unfortunate visit.”  But was it? and, if so, in what sense?  “The public of the Philharmonic concerts is very favourably disposed towards me.”  “The orchestra has taken a great liking to me, and the public approves of me.”  And as a matter of fact Wagner had no reason to be dissatisfied with the visit, nor has Mr. Shedlock for calling it “unfortunate.”  The whole situation is summed up in another communication to Fischer, dated London, June 15, 1855—­