From the ‘hidden Ireland’ of an ‘unreclaimed and fugitive’ musical tradition as this was perceived in the early nineteenth century to the ‘invisible art’ disclosed in a major series of concerts given at the National Concert Hall in Dublin in 2016 suggests a dispiriting trajectory. To many, it may seem that in the interim we have exchanged one ‘hidden Ireland’ for another. This is a route map, nevertheless, that is borne out by the historiography examined in this book.

Don Giovanni has finally been revived [24, 28, and 30 April], played complete, and very well received. Barroilhet no longer goes ah! In the first two performances the trio of masks was encored, as was Don Giovanni's aria in the third. There's nothing to say about that except that it's very good!

It is good indeed that Don Giovanni, having been promised so many times, has been played, as it's a masterpiece; we can also be glad about the reception it's had from the public, as the performance, although better than what it generally was in the last performances before the revival, was not absolutely beyond criticism and was noticeably inaccurate in several respects. It's easy to find examples. Mozart's orchestration and melodies have been altered. Trombones have been added in several places, with moderation, but wrongly, since it is to misunderstand the intention and thought of the composer to treat this instrument as we do now. Mozart was sparing in his use of trombones, reserving them exclusively for scenes of terror and to accompany the funereal voice of the Commendatore. In any case, my main point is to ask: Who has the right to correct such a master? What composer today is placed so high that he dares give an orchestration lesson to Mozart and treat him de haut en bas?

Barroilhet has, it's true, given up his favourite interjection, but certainly not a host of extremely irritating decorations with which he believes he is rejuvenating melodies that are a thousand times fresher than the shrivelled grace notes daily imported from Italy.

The voyages of Columbus and his successors linked the two hemispheres, and this chapter surveys the positive and negative biological, cultural, and social consequences of this “Columbian Exchange.” Among these were the spread of disease and the transfer of plants, animals, and consumer goods, along with economic changes that led to social protests, revolts, warfare, and forced migrations in an increasingly interdependent world. Religious transformations, including the Protestant and Catholic Reformations and the creation of Sikhism, were interwoven with all of these developments, as religions, too, migrated and morphed. New urban social settings and cultural institutions, such as coffee and tea houses, theatres, and salons, offered men—and sometimes women—opportunities for entertainment, sociability, consumption, and the exchange of ideas, but the increasing contacts among peoples also resulted in more rigid notions of human difference.

Berlioz's distaste for rules also shows for what he castigates as ‘formules’, patterns taken off the shelf with no thought for relevance or beauty. In contrast, he has sympathy for composers who plough their own furrow, even if their execution is imperfect. Grétry's four-act opera Zémire et Azor, on a verse libretto by Jean-François Marmontel, was premiered at the Opéra-Comique on December 16, 1771; the story is a version of ‘Beauty and the Beast’. The run reviewed by Berlioz began on 29 June.

Attempts to restore old compositions to the repertoire of the Opéra- Comique, like the one I’m reviewing today, have so far been successful. Current audiences have never shown a lack of respect for those of the early years of the century by reacting against works that were well received by the previous generation. That's because these works, true masterpieces in some respects, demonstrate expressive qualities unaffected by time: forms change, proportions grow, artistic means become more numerous and powerful, and this necessarily produces a more or less obvious difference between the musical products of varying epochs. This difference does not always work to the advantage of new pieces, especially when it comes to comparing them with some past master whose style is free of formulas. What we call musically ‘old’ in the negative sense of the word seems old only because of formulas. This is regularly proved by experience. Several times I’ve showed first-rate musicians an aria from Gluck's Telemaco (an Italian opera he wrote long before his French ones) without revealing the composer's name; and there's not one of them who didn't take this aria for a fine excerpt from some modern opera he didn't know.