He says explicitly this was so in the case of the Dutchman; in Tannhaeuser it is perhaps a little less obviously the case.  But even in that second of the great operas we need only read his directions for the right performing of it to see of what importance to him were the different scenes—­the hot, steaming cave of Venus, the fresh spring morning by the roadside, the great hall of song—­about which he was very particular—­the autumn woods in the last act.  In his letters to Uhlig this comes out very plainly:  for instance, he gives as his reason for cutting down the finale of the last act that it was impossible at Dresden to get a glorious sunrise, with which the work should end.  I have already laid sufficient stress on the true source of Lohengrin; in Tristan adequate and appropriate scenery is absolutely demanded to sustain the atmosphere; and here, in the Mastersingers, music and a series of pictures go together, and the pictures seem to inspire the music—­or rather, music and pictures are parts of the first inner vision.

Mediaeval Nuremberg, with its thousand gable-ends, its fragrant lime-trees and gardens, its ancient customs, its processions of the guilds and crafts, its watchman with his horn and lantern, calling the hour, its freshness and quaint loveliness by day and its sweetness on soft summer nights—­it is these Wagner employed all his superb musico-pictorial art to depict; they are the background to the purely human element of the play, and at the same time they help to express that element.  If the Mastersingers was a little less successful as a work of art we should still have to regard it as an amazing tour de force.  The opera is far too great for that term—­one at once of praise and of reproach.  The music is full of the spirit of a past world; but the feeling of that world is not got by the use of artificially archaic phrases or harmonies.  Kothner’s reading of the rules of correct minstrelsy is one of the exceptions, and the night-watchman’s crying of the hour is another; but these, as Lamb said of Coleridge’s philosophic preaching, are “only his fun.”  The melodies are often quite Weberesque in contour; the harmonies are either plain work-a-day ones or modern—­so modern that no one had used them before.  Nor it is by the sadness of the music alone that he gains his end:  some of the merriest scenes belong, by reason of the music, to mediaeval times.  By his art, the intensity of his feeling for those times, and the fidelity with which he could express every shade of feeling, he conjures up this vision out of the dead and dusty past, makes the dead and dusty past live again, takes us clean into it and keeps us there a whole evening without for a moment letting the spell be broken.  It is significant that the very title he gave his work is a peremptory warning to us of what to expect:  it is not Hans Sachs, nor Walther von Stolzing, nor even the Mastersinger,