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Frequently，when Peer sat at the piano，theresounded tones in it that stirred within his breast andhead.The tones rose into melodies，which now and thencarried words along with them;they could not be separat-ed from the melodies.Thus several little poems that wererhythmic and full of feeling came into being.They weresung in a subdued voice.It was as if they，shy and afraidof being heard，were gliding along in loneliness.
Everything passes，like the wind that blows;
There is nothing lasting here.
From your cheek will fade the rose，
As well as smile and tear.
Why be burdened with pain and grief?
Away with your trouble and sorrow，
For everything goes，fades like the leaf;
Time and man pass with the morrow.
All vanishes，everything goes，
Your youth，your hope，and your friend，
Everything passes，like the wind that blows
Never to return，only to end!
"Where did you get that song and melody?"askedthe singing master，who by chance saw the words and mu-sic written down.
"It came of itself，that and all these.They will nev-er fly farther into the world."
"A downcast spirit sets out flowers，too，"said thesinging master，"but a downcast spirit dares not give ad-vice.Now we must set sail and steer toward your next de-but.What do you say to Hamlet，the melancholy youngPrince of Denmark?"
"I know Shakespeare's tragedy，"said Peer，"butnot yet Thomas'opera."
"The opera should be called Ophelia，"said thesinging master.In the tragedy，Shakespeare has made theQueen tell us of Ophelia's death，and this has become thehigh light in the musical rendering.One sees before hiseyes，and feels in the tones，what before we could learnonly from the narrative of the Queen.
There is a willow grows aslant a brook，
That shows his hoar leaves in the glassy stream;
There with fantastic garlands did she come
Of crow-flowers，nettles，daisies，and long purples
That liberal shepherds give a grosser name，
But our cold maids do dead men's fingers call them：
There，on the pendent boughs her coronet weeds
Clambering to hang，an envious sliver broke;
When down her weedy trophies and herself
Fell in the weeping brook.Her clothes spread wide，
And，mermaid-like，awhile they bore her up：
Which time she chanted snatches of old tunes，
As one incapable of her own distress…
The opera brings all this before our eyes.We seeOphelia;she comes out playing，dancing，singing the oldballad about the mermaid who entices men down beneaththe river，and while she sings and plucks the flowers thesame tones are heard from the depths of the stream;theysound in the voices of the chorus alluringly from the deepwater;she listens;she laughs;she draws near the brink;she holds onto the overhanging willow and stoops to pluck the white water lilies;gently she glides out onto them and，singing，reclines on their broad leaves;she swings withthem and is carried by the stream out into the deep，where，like the broken flower，she sinks in the moonlìght，with the mermaid's melody welling forth about her.
In this great scene it is as if Hamlet，his mother，hisuncle，and the dead，avenging king were created only tomake the frame for this exquisite picture.We do not getShakespeare's Hamlet，just as in the opera Faust we donot get Goethe's Faust.The speculative is no material formusic.It is the love element in both these tragedies thatelevates them to musical poems.
The opera of Hamlet was presented on the stage.Theactress who had Ophelia's part was admirable，and thedeath scene was very effective，while Hamlet himself re-ceived sympathetic greatness on this evening，a fullness ofcharacter that grew with each scene in which he appeared.Furthermore，people were astonished at the extent of thesinger's voice，at the freshness shown in the high as wellas in the deep tones，and that he，with an equal brilliancyof power，could sing Hamlet and Ceorge Brown.