As the Easter holidays began after the second concert, thereby involving a long pause, I asked my friend’s advice as to whether it would not be more sensible to give up the whole thing—­this conductorship of the Philharmonic concerts which I had so soon discovered to be a foolish and fruitless undertaking—­and go quietly back to Zurich.  Prager assured me that the execution of this resolve would in no wise be regarded as a reflection on the situation, but simply as a deplorable piece of rudeness on my part, and that the principal sufferers would be my friends.  This decided me, and I stayed—­without, it is true, any hope of giving a fresh impetus to musical life in London.  The only stimulating incident occurred on the occasion of the seventh concert, which was the evening chosen by the Queen for her annual visit to these functions.  She expressed a wish through her husband, Prince Albert, to hear the Tannhauser Overture.  The presence of the court certainly lent a pleasing air of ceremony to the evening, and I had, too, the pleasure of a fairly animated conversation with Queen Victoria and her Consort in response to their command.  The question arose of putting my operas on the stage, and Prince Albert objected that Italian singers would never be able to interpret my music.  I was amused when the Queen met this objection by saying that, after all, a great many Italian singers were really Germans.  All this made a good impression and, it was obvious, served as a demonstration in my favour, without, however, influencing the real situation to any appreciable extent.  The leading papers still announced, as before, that every concert I conducted was a fiasco.  Ferdinand Hiller actually thought himself justified in proclaiming, for the consolation of his friends, that my day in London was coming to an end, and that my banishment was practically a certainty.  This was on the occasion of the Rhenish Musical Festival, which was held at that time.  As a set-off against this I reaped great satisfaction from a scene which took place at the close of the eighth and last concert which I conducted—­one of those strange scenes which now and again result from the long-suppressed emotion of those concerned.  The members of the orchestra had at once realised, after my successes, the advisability of avoiding any expression of sympathy with me if they wished to keep in good odour with their real though unacknowledged chief, Mr. Costa, and save themselves from a possible speedy dismissal at his hands.  This was the explanation given me when the signs of appreciation, which I had become accustomed to receive from the players in the course of our work together, suddenly ceased.  Now, however, at the end of the series their suppressed feelings burst forth, and they crowded round me on all sides with deafening cheers, while the audience, who usually left the hall noisily before the end, likewise formed up in enthusiastic groups and surrounded me, cheering warmly and pressing my hand.  Thus both players and listeners combined to make my farewell a scene of cordiality which could hardly be surpassed.