herself as the charming, youthful Papageno, but only for an instant.  He calls after her in vain, and is about to hang himself when the genii remind him of his magic bells.  He rings and sings; his feathered mate comes to him.  Monostatos aids the Queen of Night and her companions in an assault upon the sanctuary; but a storm confounds them, and Sarastro blesses the union of Tamino and Pamina, amidst joyful hymning by the elect.

An extraordinary hodgepodge, truly, yet, taken all in all, an effective stage piece.  Goethe was so impressed with the ingenuity shown by Schikaneder in treating the device of contrast that he seriously contemplated writing a second part, the music of which was to be composed by Wranitzky, who set Gieseke’s operatic version of “Oberon.”  German critics and managers have deplored its absurdities and contradictions, but have found no way to obviate them which can be said to be generally acceptable.  The buffooneries cannot be separated from the sublimities without disrupting the piece, nor can its doggerel be turned into dignified verse.  It were best, I fancy, that managers should treat the opera, and audiences receive it, as a sort of Christmas pantomime which Mozart has glorified by his music.  The tendency of German critics has been to view it with too much seriousness.  It is difficult to avoid this while one is under the magic spell of its music, but the only way to become reconciled to it on reflection is to take it as the story of its creation shows that its creators intended it to be taken; namely, as a piece designed to suit the tastes of the uncultivated and careless masses.  This will explain the singular sacrifice of principle which Mozart made in permitting a mountebank like Schikaneder to pass judgment on his music while he was composing it, to exact that one duet should be composed over five times before he would accept it, and even to suggest melodies for some of the numbers.  Jahn would have us believe that Mozart was so concerned at the failure of the first act to win applause at the first performance that he came behind the scenes pale as death to receive comfort and encouragement from Schikaneder; I prefer to believe another story, which is to the effect that Mozart almost died with laughing when he found that the public went into ecstasies over his opera.  Certain it is that his pleasure in it was divided.  Schikaneder had told him that he might occasionally consult the taste of connoisseurs, and he did so, finding profound satisfaction in the music written for Sarastro and the priests, and doubtless also in the fine ensembles; but the enthusiasm inspired by what he knew to be concessions to the vulgar only excited his hilarity.  The beautiful in the score is amply explained by Mozart’s genius and his marvellous command of the technique of composition.  The dignity of the simple idea of a celebration of the mysteries of Isis would have been enough, without the composer’s reverence for Freemasonry and its principles, to inspire him