and are at the same time the least
understood.

"Aida" and "Carmen" belong here--as do many which are left
out--because of their beauty and musical splendour. Few, instead of
many, operas have been written about in this book, because it seemed
better to give a complete idea of several than a superficial sketch of
many.

The beginnings of opera--music-drama--are unknown; but Sulpitius, an
Italian, declared that opera was heard in Italy as early as 1490. The
Greeks, of course, accompanied their tragedies with music long before
that time, but that would not imply "opera" as we understand it.
However, modern opera is doubtless merely the development of that
manner of presenting drama.

After the opera, came the ballet, and that belonged distinctively to
France. Before 1681 there were no women dancers in the ballet--only
males. All ballets of shepherdesses and nymphs and dryads were
represented by men and boys; but at last, the ladies of the court of
France took to the ballet for their own amusement, and thus women
dancers became the fashion.

Even the most heroic or touching stories must lose much of their
dignity when made into opera, since in that case the "music's the
thing," and not the "play." For this reason it has seemed necessary to
tell the stories of such operas as "Il Trovatore," with all their
bombastic trimmings complete, in order to be faithful in showing them
as they really are. On the other hand, it has been necessary to try to
treat "Pinafore" in Gilbert's rollicking fashion.

Opera is the most superficial thing in the world, even if it appears
the most beautiful to the senses, if not to the intelligence. We go to
opera not specially to understand the story, but to hear music and to
see beautiful scenic effects. It is necessary, however, to know enough
of the story to appreciate the cause of the movement upon the stage,
and without some acquaintance of it beforehand one gets but a very
imperfect knowledge of an opera story from hearing it once.

A very great deal is said of music-motif and music-illustration, and
it has been demonstrated again and again that this is largely the
effort of the ultra-artistic to discover what is not there. At best,
music is a "concord of sweet sounds"--heroic, tender, exciting, etc.;
but the elemental passions and emotions are almost all it can define,
or even suggest. Certain music is called "characteristic"--anvil
choruses, for example, where hammers or triangles or