gaiety; but all is homely in style—­there is not a noble person in the crowd—­and the thing is carried through by the vividly imagined music, the energy and sparkle of it, the positive splendour of the orchestration.  The various guild-choruses are full of humour, the many ridiculous things being saved from lapsing into mere horseplay and nonsense by the endless series of beautiful tunes.  This part of the business ends with a waltz which shows that Wagner might, had he chosen, have been the finest writer of dance-music in Europe, and driven the Strausses and the rest from the field.

The signal is given of the masters’ approach, and as Sachs comes on the whole crowd presses to greet him with a setting of his own song to Martin Luther.  The transition from the jollity of the dancing to the solemnity, nay, sublimity, of this chorus is managed with perfect deftness:  there is no incongruity.  It is this song that passed through Sachs’ brain when we found him absorbed in meditation at the beginning of the act.  The poem—­written by the historical Sachs—­is itself beautiful, and Wagner has made it immortal; only he at his ripest and best could combine in an opera-chorus such strength with such sweetness, combine the directness of a part-song with the free play of parts, with never a touch of formalism.  It must be held to be one of the most superb things in an opera which is as nearly perfect as ever opera is likely to be.

This over, we are gradually prepared for the ridiculous and preposterous again.  Beckmesser is to make his bid for Eva’s hand with what he supposes to be a song by Sachs; and to an accompaniment of music which, lively and graceful enough, is purposely of no very distinctive character.  The preparations are made.  By the time he mounts the heap of turf to address his audience we are ready for him.  Of course he makes a fine ass of himself.  He has not had time to memorise the poem of the song, and with extravagant fun Wagner makes him change the poetical and serious words into words of most ludicrous significance.  Walther’s melody he has not got hold of at all, and in a state of intense nervousness tries to fit the words to the burlesque tune of his previous night’s serenade.  The accents all fall in the wrong place; and as he stumbles miserably along the crowd begins to titter.  Wagner of course was parodying and satirising the pedants of his own day, especially the composers of psalms who could not set a straightforward Bible sentence without making nonsense of it.  Readers acquainted with the ordinary musical setting of a portion of the Church of England service, or the average organist’s anthem, will know what I mean:  the average organist seems to consider it a point of artistry, if not indeed of honour, to accentuate the words so as to leave the meaning as little intelligible as possible; and in many cases—­I have some before me now—­he contrives to make them nonsensical.  It was this sort of thing, perpetrated by the very men who denied him any musical