ethereal white draperies, I was much excited at reflecting that in two
hours' time I might be handing this lovely maiden the mustard, and it
seemed hardly credible that the resplendent Lohengrin would so soon
abandon his swan in favour of the homely goose that was awaiting him at
the Spiegelbergs', although the latter would enjoy the advantage of
being roasted.

I was on the tip-toe of expectation until the singers arrived. Fraulein
Scheuerlein, the soprano, was fat, fair, and forty, all of them perhaps
on the liberal side. As she burst into the room, the first words I
heard from the romantic Elsa, whom I had last seen sobbing over her
matrimonial difficulties, were: "Dear Frau Spiegelberg, my..." (Elsa
here used a blunt dissyllable to indicate her receptacle for food) "is
hanging positively crooked with hunger. Quick! For the love of Heaven,
some bread and butter and sausage, or I shall faint;" so the first
words the heroine of the evening addressed to me were somewhat blurred
owing to her mouth being full of sausage, which destroyed most of the
glamour of the situation. Hedwig Scheuerlein was a big, jolly, cheery
South-German, and she was a consummate artist in spite of her large
appetite, as was the tenor Schrotter too. Schrotter was a fair-bearded
giant, who was certainly well equipped physically for playing "heroic"
parts. He had one of those penetrating virile German tenor voices that
appeal to me. These good-natured artists would sing us anything we
wanted, but it was from them that I first got an inkling of those petty
jealousies that are such a disagreeable feature of the theatrical world
in every country. Buxom Scheuerlein was a very good sort, and I used to
feel immensely elated at receiving in my stall a friendly nod over the
footlights from Isolde, Aida, Marguerite, or Lucia, as the case might
be.

I wonder why none of Meyerbeer's operas are ever given in London. The
"books," being by Scribe, are all very dramatic, and lend themselves to
great spectacular display; Meyerbeer's music is always melodious, and
has a certain obvious character about it that would appeal to an
average London audience. This is particularly true with regard to the
Prophete. The Coronation scene can be made as gorgeous as a Drury Lane
pantomime, and the finale of the opera is thrilling, though the three
Anabaptists are frankly terrible bores. As given at Brunswick, in the
last scene the Prophet, John of Leyden, is discovered at supp