They fail in the culture of the tone, which is not to be learned from books or by one’s self, but only from verbal communication.  To learn to produce a clear tone, with a light, free, natural attack; to understand how to draw forth the sound with the use of no unnecessary breath, and to cause the sound to strike against the roof of the mouth above the upper row of teeth; to improve the pronunciation; to adjust the registers,—­these, with many other things, may seem very easy; but to teach them all in the shortest time, without wearing out the voice and without falling into errors; to persevere in teaching to the end, even if the pupil already sings correctly; to know what is still wanting and how it is to be attained,—­all these one must acquire by long and constant experience.

When Schroeder-Devrient came from Vienna to Dresden, a young but already celebrated singer, though at that time wanting in the proper foundation for singing, she was not a little surprised when Miksch called her attention to this deficiency.  She devoted herself thoroughly to the primary formation of the tone under the instruction of Miksch, and must still remember the old master, and his extraordinary practice in this particular.  Miksch learned it from Caselli, a pupil of Bernacchi.  He had just sung as a young tenor, with great applause, in a concert, and introduced himself to Caselli, who was present, expecting to receive his approbation; but the latter, instead of commending, assured him frankly that his mode of singing was false, and that with such misuse his voice would succumb within a year, unless he adopted a correct culture of tone.  After much hard struggle, the young Miksch renounced all further public applause, and studied the formation of tone assiduously and perseveringly with Caselli, after having previously allowed his over-strained voice a time for rest.

If a singing-teacher has, by chance, met with a docile pupil, possessed of a voice of unusual beauty, it frequently happens that the studies are not pursued with sufficient perseverance; and, perhaps, are continued only for a few weeks or months, instead of allowing a year or more, according to circumstances.  Richard Wagner agrees with me, when he says, “Why, then, write operas to be sung, when we no longer have either male or female singers?”

* * * * *

Since modern progress has come to regard “the three trifles” as belonging entirely to the past, and in their place has proclaimed, “Boldness, Spirit, Power,” two evil spirits have had rule:  they go hand in hand, ruin the voice, wound the cultivated ear, and provide for us—­only empty opera houses.  One of these evils has been frequently alluded to by me.  It is “the expenditure of a great deal too much breath.”  The finest voices are obliged to practise with full breath until they shriek, and the result is mere sobbing, and the heavy drawing of the breath, just at the time when the tone should still be heard.  Even if every thing else could be right, in such a culture of the tone, which must very shortly relax the muscles of the voice, that one thing, in itself, would be sufficient to destroy all promise of success.