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We of the Northern nations often think of the mock tragedies of the operatic stage as being overdrawn and untrue to the life. Such incidents and plots are often said to be exaggerated and of the blood-and-thunder "stagey" sort.

But we must remember that blood flows much more rapidly through Southern veins than through Northern, and that we, with our cold calculating way of looking at things, do not take into consideration the fiery temperament of the Southern climes that makes such plots but representative of the real passions of the Italian and Spanish nations.

The plots of the Mascagni and Leoncavallo school may not be elevating or over refined, but they undoubtedly do picture one phase of life.

This is not saying, however, that it is well to dwell on that phase, or that it has in it much that can ennoble the listener. Passion and pain and the lower emotions need not be continually served up to the opera-goer simply because the method of representing them is artistic. There is enough that is good and beautiful in the world out of which to make our operatic plots, without descending to the slime and filth of life, however artistically it may be dressed up.

But the other, the lower side, exists, not only in opera plots, but in the real life. The little incident here given, if presented on the stage, would be classed as a mere bit of melo-dramatic Italian opera; yet it is one of many such things that continually happen.

Leonardo Vinci was one of the numerous talented composers of the old school. In the midst of his successful career at Rome, he made the acquaintance of a noble Italian lady who was possessed of great beauty, and who conceived quite a passion for this distinguished musician. The admiration was mutual. All went well