Now about the opera briefly.  Holzbauer’s music [for the first great German operetta, “Gunther von Schwarzburg”] is very beautiful, but the poetry is not worthy of such music.  What surprises me most is, that so old a man as Holzbauer should still have so much spirit, for the opera is incredibly full of fire.  The prima donna was Madame Elisabeth Wendling, not the wife of the flute-player, but of the violinist.  She is in very delicate health; and, besides, this opera was not written for her, but for a certain Madame Danzi, who is now in England; so it does not suit her voice, and is too high for her.  Herr Raaff, in four arias of somewhere about 450 bars, sang in a manner which gave rise to the remark that his want of voice was the principal cause of his singing so badly.  When he begins an air, unless at the same moment it recurs to your mind that this is Raaff, the old but once so renowned tenor, I defy any one not to burst out laughing.  It is a fact, that in my own case I thought, if I did not know that this is the celebrated Raaff, I should be bent double from laughing, but as it is—­I only take out my handkerchief to hide a smile.  They tell me here that he never was a good actor; that people went to hear, but not to see him.  He has by no means a pleasing exterior.  In this opera he was to die, singing in a long, long, slow air; and he died laughing! and towards the end of the aria his voice failed him so entirely that it was impossible to stand it!  I was in the orchestra next Wendling the flute-player, and as he had previously criticized the song, saying it was unnatural to sing so long before dying, adding, “I do think he will never die!” I said in return, “Have a little patience; it will soon be all over with him, for I can hear he is at the last gasp!” “And I too,” said he, laughing.  The second singer, Madlle.  Strasserin, sang very well, and is an admirable actress.

There is a national stage here, which is permanent like that at Munich; German operettas are sometimes given, but the singers in them are wretched.  Yesterday I dined with the Baron and Baroness von Hagen, Oberstjagermeister here.  Three days ago I called on Herr Schmalz, a banker, to whom Herr Herzog, or rather Nocker and Schidl, had given me a letter.  I expected to have found a very civil good sort of man.  When I gave him the letter he read it through, made me a slight bow, and said nothing.  At last, after many apologies for not having sooner waited on him, I told him that I had played before the Elector.  “Really!” Altum silentium.  I said nothing, he said nothing.  At last I began again:  “I will no longer intrude on you.  I have the honor to”—­Here he interrupted me.  “If I can be of any service to you, I beg”—­ “Before I leave this I must take the liberty to ask you”—­“Not for money?” “Yes, if you will be so good as to”—­“Oh! that I can’t do; there is nothing in the letter about money.  I cannot give you any money, but anything else”—­“There is nothing else in which you can serve me—­nothing