Ultimately—­to be precise, three and a half weeks after getting on board—­the family reached London, all three spent with sea-sickness and want of food.  They needed and took a rest, first staying near the Tower and then in Soho.  There is nothing to relate of Wagner’s experiences during his first London visit, save the episode of his lost dog.  The late Mr. Dannreuther got the story wrong and has since been faithfully followed by biographers in saying the dog was away several days, and on his return was hugged nearly to death by his master; but in My Life Wagner says the animal was lost for only a few hours.  But as he was intensely fond of animals all his life—­he always had two or three about him—­the incident must have impressed him.  Anyhow, when he next came to London, fifteen years after, he mentioned it to Mr. Dannreuther, and also pointed out to him where he had lived and the points of interest he had seen.  But nothing of the slightest significance occurred, and soon he started for Paris by way of Boulogne.  When he reached Boulogne he stayed there a month for the sake of the sweet company of Meyerbeer—­which seems not a little funny to-day.

Wagner was only twenty-six years of age; like a rustic who has suddenly been carried out of the dullness and darkness of his village into some tawdry cafe of the town, and is dazzled and mistakes the gilt wood for solid gold, so had Wagner been filled with admiration by Meyerbeer’s brilliant shoddy.  It must be admitted that for sheer theatricalism that gentleman beat any composer who preceded him.  Bellini’s, Auber’s and Spontini’s scores are thin compared with his; even Auber’s grandest ensembles lack his sham magnificence.  Wagner’s artistic conscience had not ripened to the point at which conscience is an absolute, unfailing, unerring touchstone.  He had been impressed with Meyerbeer’s showiness and superficial sparkle:  it had not yet occurred to him to test the music with the touchstone of truth.  It is not at all hard for me to believe that he had at this time a sincere admiration for the Jewish autocrat of the opera world.  He was passing through that stage:  he had not yet passed through it; in scheming Rienzi he had started, so to speak, with an immense rush to follow Meyerbeer, and for some time the momentum acquired in that first rush kept him going.  When disillusionment came—­well, we shall see.

He was an obscure German kapellmeister, and had never been conductor in a theatre which did not suffer bankruptcy or where something worse did not occur.  Meyerbeer had certainly never heard his name, and Wagner was aware of his:  he had heard of Meyerbeer’s name, and even if he had not admired the musician he cannot at that period have been insensible to the man’s supremacy in the opera trade.  And when we add to this latter fact, the other fact, that he did admire the musician, it is easy to understand the feelings with which he approached this emperor