sea the _Dutchman_ is inconceivable.
The _Dutchman_, the whole of the _Ring_ and the _Mastersingers of
Nuremberg_ are all operas in which the scenic environment is the
inspiration. Depend upon it, ere the ship had freed the Sound, and got
into the comparative safety of the open North Sea, the _Dutchman_
legend had formed itself in his mind ready for dramatic treatment.

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