On Saturday night I went to a superb concert given for the benefit of the wounded. The royal orchestra played, and as it was in the Sing-Akademie, where the acoustic is very remarkable, the orchestral performance seemed phenomenal. Generally, this orchestra plays in the opera house, which is so much larger that the effect is not so great. The last thing they played was the "Ritt der Walküren," by Wagner. It was the first time it was given in Berlin, and it is a wonderful composition. It represents the ride of the Walküre-maidens into Valhalla, and when you hear it it seems as if you could really see the spectral horses with their ghostly riders. It produces the most unearthly effect at the end, and one feels as if one had suddenly stepped into Pandemonium. I was perfectly enchanted with it, and everybody was excited. The "bravos" resounded all over the house. Tausig played Chopin's E minor concerto in his own glorious style. He did his very best, and when he got through not only the whole orchestra was applauding him, but even the conductor was rapping his desk with his bâton like mad. I thought to myself it was a proud position where a man could excite enthusiasm in the hearts of these old and tried musicians. As a specimen of his virtuosity, what do you say to the little feat of playing the running passage at the end, two pages long, and which was written for both hands in unison, in octaves instead of single notes?—Gigantic! << less