very short time, but it is not long when it covers the whole period of
the inception, development, and what certainly looks like the
decadence, of an important branch of man's artistic industry. The art
of painting has taken at least twice as long to develop; yet the three
centuries from Monteverde to Debussy cover as great a distance as that
which separates Cimabue from Degas. In operatic history, revolutions,
which in other arts have not been accomplished in several generations,
have got themselves completed, and indeed almost forgotten, in the
course of a few years. Twenty-five years ago, for example, Wagner's
maturer works were regarded, by the more charitable of those who did
not admire them, as intelligible only to the few enthusiasts who had
devoted years of study to the unravelling of their mysteries; the
world in general looked askance at the 'Wagnerians', as they were
called, and professed to consider the shyly-confessed admiration of
the amateurs as a mere affectation. In that time we have seen the
tables turned, and now there is no more certain way for a manager to
secure a full house than by announcing one of these very works. An
even shorter period covers the latest Italian renaissance of music,
the feverish excitement into which the public was thrown by one of its
most blatant productions, and the collapse of a set of composers who
were at one time hailed as regenerators of their country's art.

But though artistic conditions in opera change quickly and continually,
though reputations are made and lost in a few years, and the real
reformers of music themselves alter their style and methods so radically
that the earlier compositions of a Gluck, a Wagner, or a Verdi present
scarcely any point of resemblance to those later masterpieces by which
each of these is immortalised, yet the attitude of audiences towards
opera in general changes curiously little from century to century; and
plenty of modern parallels might be found, in London and elsewhere, to