fat as the average German; I like to sit in a cafe with my friends till three in the morning, discussing with fiery enthusiasm unimportant details of the performance we have lately endured; I like being hungry six times a day.  All these trifles please me, and please others.  But the majority of the crowd of visitors are not pleased by them; and what can they do in Bayreuth after the freshness of novelty is worn off?  They go to Villa Wahnfried and look for a few seconds at the spot where Wagner is buried—­as I heard it said, like a cat in a back garden; they look for a few seconds at the church; they lunch; they buy and partly read the English papers; and then?  Inevitably the intelligent reader will say, the opera in the evening.  And I, who have been to the opera in the evening, gasp and remark, Really!

Lest this ejaculation be entirely misinterpreted by the irreverent, let it be said at once that the performances are not, on the whole, very bad.  But I wish to consider whether they are of a quality and distinction sufficient to drag one all the way from England, and to compensate those who find the day dull for the dulness of the day, whether they are what Bayreuth claims them to be—­the best operatic representations in the world, the best that could possibly be given at the present time.  The circular sent out by amiable Mr. Schulz-Curtius states that, “while not guaranteeing any particular artists, the aim of Bayreuth will be to secure the best artists procurable” (or words to that effect).  Is this genuinely the aim of Bayreuth, and does Bayreuth come near enough to the mark to make some thousands of English people think they have spent their time, money, and energy well in coming here?  For my part I say Yes:  even were the representations a good deal poorer, they form, as I have said, a centre for the day; I rise in the morning with them before me, and make all my arrangements—­my lunches, discussions, and lagers—­so as to reach the theatre at four o’clock; they save me from a life without an object, and add a zest to everything I do; they correspond to the trifling errand which renders a ten-mile walk in the country an enjoyment.  But those who come here for nothing but the theatre, who do not feel the charm of the Bayreuth life, will, I am much afraid, answer No.  Had I no friends here, or did I not enjoy their company and conversation, if my stomach refused lager and I could not smoke ten-pfennig German cigars, if I were not violently hungry every two hours, I am very much afraid I should answer No.  The working of the scenic arrangements is, of course, as perfect as ever.  Of course there are one or two mistakes,—­stage machinists, after all, are built of peccable clay,—­but these occur so seldom that one can sit with a feeling of security that is not possible at Covent Garden.  In “The Valkyrie” the fire does not flare up ten minutes late; the coming of evening does not suggest an unexpected total eclipse of the sun; the